A Thorn in the Bush Read Online Free

morning.”
    The girl displayed a decidedly un-Spanish directness when she spoke English, Mrs. Ross thought. She wondered if there might not be an inherent straightness to the language, said: “He strikes me as a very boorish person.”
    “I heard what he said to you,” said Paulita. “But I’m sure he means no harm. It is merely …” she shrugged. “… that he is so concerned about his work. Artists, you know.” She glanced down, plucked at a tuft in the robe over her legs.
    “Perhaps he doesn’t mean any harm,” said Mrs. Ross. “But I still think he’s boorish. Did he ask you if he could paint your portrait?”
    “No. We have not spoken.” Paulita looked up, bent towards Mrs. Ross, dark eyes glistening. “But you have seen the portrait! Is it a good likeness?”
    How like a Latin woman! thought Mrs. Ross. “Quite a passable likeness,” she admitted.
    “I knew it!” Paulita sat back. “He takes so much time with everything—mixing the paints, testing. She giggled. “Did you see how he dripped paint all over his hands?”
    “Don’t you think it’s rude to paint your picture without asking permission?” countered Mrs. Ross.
    It was as though Paulita had not heard. “And is he not a handsome young man?” she asked. “So fierce in the eyes!”
    “To be sure,” murmured Mrs. Ross. A mosquito whined above her left wrist. She slapped it, recoiled at the stinging in her sunburn. That damnable young man! It was obvious that Paulita would never complain. Mrs. Ross realized that she would have to take the matter up with Don Jaime herself.
    But what can I tell him? she wondered.
    Paulita drew in a deep breath that filled her red blouse with nubile bust line. “I wish I could see the painting,” she sighed.
    A pang touched Mrs. Ross. The girl had so few pleasures, and this painting obviously intrigued her. She still talked of the photographer who had taken her portrait in color for the magazine Revista Nacional.
    But the photographer, being Mexican, had asked permission. Mrs. Ross hardened her heart. There’s inherent tragedy in this situation , she told herself. This poor girl is being led to dream foolish things. And here she is … deformed, and without …
    Abruptly, Mrs. Ross saw how to present the problem to Don Jaime.
    I will see him tomorrow! she thought.
    ***

Chapter 4
    In his parlor, Don Jaime turned away from the copper puddle of sun reflection the lake, brushed the fly from his hair, cleared his throat.
    Mrs. Ross stirred out of her reverie, glanced at her jeweled lapel watch. Less than a minute had passed.
    “Emma, my dearest friend,” said Don Jaime in his lisping Spanish, “it is that you fear the young man will do harm to Paulita, no?”
    “Precisely.”
    “But you cannot be certain of this thing.”
    “Who would take a chance in such a matter?” demanded Mrs. Ross.
    Don Jaime pursed his lips, pinched in his cheeks. He looked more than ever like the figure of the crucifix. “But, of course. However, I would very much like to see this painting.”
    Mrs. Ross stiffened. She had learned to be wary of Don Jaime’s digressions when coming to a point.
    “A natural desire, no?” asked Don Jaime.
    “What do you propose?” asked Mrs. Ross.
    “I will use all of the tact of which I am capable,” said Don Jaime. “I will be the soul and heart of discretion. We will be together, the artist and I, with the painting before us. What could be more natural than to lead the conversation around to Paulita’s tragic condition?”
    “God preserve us!” blurted Mrs. Ross. “That’s the very thing you mustn’t do!”
    “But why not?”
    “I told you what the other artist did when he learned of the girl’s deformity!” (Mrs. Ross had altered the story of Gertie slightly, then realized that possibly the girl had been deformed—although not in a physical sense.)
    Don Jaime’s brows contracted in a puzzled frown. He thought: It is possible that the young man does not know about