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Show 207 he was imploring. "Leah, Leah, Leah!" It only seemed that the painting he had groped and stumbled for so many years to paint, to put a frame around, now framed, now painted, now composed, lived only in its figures, in its lines and colors, shaped without him. There was Hunt's work. But here was Hunt -- off somewhere in a room webbed with lightning. Hunt knew his work. But his work gave no answering recognition. All Hunt could touch were basketballs thrown on roofs, and the ignorance of passion. "It was really enriching!" Leah told Hunt when he called her in Aspen early the next morning. "So many ideas! I can't wait to talk to you. And I met the best people! I made the best friends! And Todd's been horseback with his friend Michael and Michael's dad for three days. He stinks! But he's happier than a clam -- and he wants a horse. I said I'd talk to you. How are you? How's Pop? Is Sean just a totally older, totally different person? How's the fishing? I love you. How're the rooms? I should get into the Lake about two or two-thirty. Don't come pick me up. Let me rent my own car. I feel affluent. I'm excited." "I can tell, " Hunt said. And he laughed aloud. "You sound reborn!" "Are you managing?" Leah asked. "Yes; I'm the manager," Hunt said. "I make the bookings, arrange the meals, clean the fish - for my father and my son." "Well, that's certainly as it should be," Leah said. "Hate to see your talents get wasted." "We got a little wasted last night, I think," Hunt said; "bottle of |