Page 111 of Theo of Golden

I was farther along as an artist.

She was much farther along as a work of art.

Before she and I met, I had begun to be acclaimed among the critics, taken seriously, and publicized and honored as an up-and-coming artist. It happened quickly and unexpectedly, long before I was ready to handle so much attention. I will not trouble you with the story of my regrettable ascendancy other than to say that I was never more cursed than when I bowed down to the enslaving idol of fame.

The higher I rose in prominence — so quickly, so visibly — the farther the girl fell behind. I know now she had no desire to follow me, no interest in the “supremely interesting man” — one critic’s description — that I had become.

We were both committed to pursue ideals of beauty and truth in our vocation.

Or so we both said.

Her commitment was sincere, real, and unshakable. Mine, at the first whisper of fame and celebrity, quivered and fell. Being the self-obsessed young man that I was, I would have been very pleased if every spotlight in the universe had been fixed on me. My arrogance, though disguised, must have been an ugly, hideous presence to one of her sensitive, selfless heart.

The girl from Golden continued to draw and paint, working harder and harder to improve her skills, and more and more happily it seemed, even without the notice of others. There was love in her art, in the motive, in the pursuit, and in the final result. It was a love that allowed her to be content with the little, the nameless, the unremembered.

At some point, her refusal to be impressed by my greatness became a sore spot, but only in me. I grew resentful. She grew weary. She never ceased to love me — she adored me — but I wanted more; I wanted her to worship me. She would never have dreamt of such a thing. Doing so, I now realize, would have required her not to love me. She was too substantial for such a blasphemy. She was anchored to something immovable. I was adrift on fickle waves of ambition.

And then, out of the blue, without warning, she was gone.

The last time we were together, we shared a night at our favorite place beside the sea. She sat quietly as I went on and on about my great success, my great plans, my rising star. How I must have grieved her. We had a meal for the gods and music and romance. We slept that night to the sound of the Mediterranean. When she cried at the beauty of it, I was not alarmed. Her eyes were often tearful at such moments.

I know now, though, she was telling me goodbye.

A week later, without a word, she left. It was the last time I ever saw her, though her face has been in my mind ever since.

When I learned that she had returned to her home in Golden, I wrote, desperate to hear from her. I was certain she would return to me. And why wouldn’t she? Who would not want to walk in the shadow of the meteoric Zila?

This was long before all the ways that we communicate now. I was hostage somewhat to the slow movement of handwritten letters across the ocean. I wrote to her and then waited and waited for a reply.

Her silence was maddening.

When my patience was exhausted, I began making plans to visit her — unannounced — in Golden.

My agent, in an effort to be protective of my interests, hired a consultant in Golden, a Mr. Ponder, to learn more about the girl and her family before I traveled there.

He reported to me that, not long after returning home from Madrid, she had eloped with an old boyfriend. And also that she was the mother of a little boy.

I was stunned, crushed, angry. How could it be? I had so many questions. What should I do?

At the urging of my agent, who saw my very career in jeopardy, I canceled my trip, threw myself into my work, and tried to put her out of my mind.

I never could.

I never have.

To this day, I don’t believe I ever finished a painting or drawing without hoping she would see it.

Hers, above all others, was the only applause I ever really wanted.

And she (along with my dear Tita), she alone has remained the love of my life.

When I first saw Minnette’s portrait at the Chalice, and then met her in person at the very first bestowal, I saw again the eyes of the girl from Golden.

Minette’s grandmother. Gammy.

Your mother.

For several years, I wondered about the little boy. Could he possibly be my son? Would she not want me to know?