Where the Summer Ends - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,9

anything to him, aside from a few tasteful reproductions dutifully purchased to fill wall space.

A woman’s portrait, nothing more. Curiously blurred, as if the oils were somewhat translucent. Was it unfinished—or was it an attempt at impressionism? She wore a simple green frock—a light summer outfit stylish in the ’20s. Her auburn hair was cut in the short bob popular then. Almost in keeping with the latest styles, but for an indefinable air that proclaimed an older period.

It was a lonely picture. She stood against a background of dark pines, cold and lonely about her. There was a delicacy about her and, illogically, an impression of strength. The face was difficult, its mood seeming altered at each glance. Indefinable. Sensuous mouth—did it smile, or was there sorrow? Perhaps half open in anticipation of a kiss—or a cry? The eyes—soft blue, or did they glow? Did they express longing, pain? Or were they hungry eyes, eyes alight with triumph? Lonely eyes. Lonely face. A lonely picture. A song, long forgotten, came to his mind.

In the pines, in the pines,

Where the sun never shines.

And I shiver when the wind blows cold...

He did shiver then. Sun falling, the mountain wind blew cold through the pines. How long had he been staring at the portrait?

Struck with a chill beyond that of the wind, Gerry cradled his find in cautious hands and started back up the dusty bank.

Janet was in a cheerful mood for a change. Not even a complaint about being ignored most of the afternoon. “Well, let’s see what goodies you’ve brought up from the basement,” she laughed, and glanced at the picture, “Oh, there’s Twiggy! Gerry, how camp! Look—an original piece of nostalgia!”

He frowned, suddenly offended by her gaiety. In view of the profound impression the picture had made, laughter seemed irreverent. “I thought it was kind of nice myself. Thought I’d hang it up, maybe. Can’t you just feel the loneliness of it?”

She gave him a hopeless look. “Oh, wow, you’re serious. Hang that old thing up? Gerry, you’re kidding. Look how silly she looks.” He glanced at her prefaded bell-bottoms and tank top. “Maybe that will look silly in a few years too.”

“Hmmm? I thought you liked these?” She inspected herself in faint concern, wondering if she had gotten too thin. No, Gerry was just being pettish.

“Well, let me take a good look at your treasure.” She studied the picture with a professional attitude. On Tuesday afternoons she had taken art lessons along with several of her friends. “The artist is really just too romantic. See—no expression, no depth to his subject. Pale girl against dark woods—it’s corny. Too much background for a portrait, and that dress dates it too severely to be idealized—not even a good landscape. His greens are overused and too obvious. His light is all wrong, and there’s certainly no imagination with all those dark colors. Is it supposed to be night or day?”

Gerry bit his lip in annoyance. Snotty little dilettante. He wished he knew enough about art to tear apart her prattling criticism.

“This is pretty typical of the sort of maudlin trash they turned out in the ’20s. Probably some amateur on vacation here did it of his girlfriend, and she had enough taste to leave it behind. Let’s see—it’s signed here on the corner, E. Pittman... 1951. 1951? That’s funny...” she finished awkwardly.

Gerry’s mustache twitched sarcastically. “And when did they make you valedictorian of your art class? That gossip session where bored housewives can splash on gobs of paint and call it a subtle interplay of neo-garbage.”

That stung. “Oh, stop sulking. So I insulted your male ego because I don’t care for your little Twiggy-of-the-woods.”

“Because you’re too damned insensitive to get into the mood of this painting!” Why had she gotten him so riled over an old picture? “Because you don’t feel the...” Damn! How do art critics choose their phrases! “Because you’re jealous over a portrait of a beautiful woman!” What the hell sense did that make?

“You’re not hanging that piece of junk up here!” Now she was mad at him. Her lips made a white line across her blonde face.

“No! No, I’m not! Not where you can sneer at her! I’ll hang her up downstairs!”

“Way downstairs, I hope!” she shouted after him, close to tears now. And things had been going so well...

Dinner had been awkward. Both sheepish but sulking, apologies meant but left unspoken, quarrels ignored but not forgotten. He left her fiddling with the portable TV afterward, making the