A Portrait of Marguerite Read online

  A PORTRAIT OF MARGUERITE

  Published by David C Cook

  4050 Lee Vance View

  Colorado Springs, CO 80918 U.S.A.

  David C Cook Distribution Canada

  55 Woodslee Avenue, Paris, Ontario, Canada N3L 3E5

  David C Cook U.K., Kingsway Communications

  Eastbourne, East Sussex BN23 6NT, England

  David C Cook and the graphic circle C logo

  are registered trademarks of Cook Communications.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without written permission from the publisher.

  The website addresses recommended throughout this book are offered as a resource to you. These websites are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement on the part of David C Cook, nor do we vouch for their content.

  This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

  LCCN 2005938002

  ISBN 978-1-58919-056-6

  eISBN 978-0-7814-0724-3

  © 2011 Kate Lloyd

  The Team: John Blase, Amy Kiechlin, Sarah Schultz, Jack Campbell, Karen Athen

  Cover Design: Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc.

  Cover Illustration: Dan Thornberg

  First Edition 2006

  Dedicated with love to my husband, Noel

  I would like to thank my sons, Bryan Redecker and Chris Lloyd, for their patience while I pursued my creative dreams. Thank you, Chris, for helping me many times with my writing. Thank you dear sister, Margaret Coppock, and friend and realtor, Nancy House, for your encouragement and for proofing my manuscript, and Waverly Fitzgerald, my first critique group leader, for your wisdom and guidance. Thank you to my agent, Les Stobbe, and Jeff Dunn at RiverOak.

  Contents

  Dedicated with love to my husband, Noel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Reader’s Guide

  About the Author

  “This was a mistake,” I said, peering down the hall of the art building at a display of framed watercolors and a bulletin board smothered with notices of upcoming events.

  “Why?” Laurie asked.

  I tried to untangle my thoughts, but found no explanation to give my friend. “Because it’s bad luck to return to the scene of a crime.”

  “Marguerite, you haven’t done anything wrong.” She nudged me forward. “Come on. We’re going to be late.”

  As I led the way into the shadowy stairwell, memories poured over me. Back in college I’d waltzed up these stairs with my paint box in one hand and a stretched canvas in the other. And in the painting studio I’d found my lover, Phil.

  With Laurie on my heels, I reached the second floor and shoved open the door. I inhaled the smell of turpentine and oil paint, what used to be a sweet perfume. But tonight the biting odor assaulted my nostrils. Moving forward, I spotted our room, number 213. I slowed my pace and tried to settle my jagged breath, but a tornado of anxiety whirled through my chest, as if I were about to topple off a cliff.

  Laurie swished past me and breezed through the classroom’s doorway. Watching her angular silhouette disappear, I stood for a moment in disbelief. Why had I let her bamboozle me into taking this class? This was the last place on earth I wanted to be.

  Get a grip, I told myself. There was no reason to come unglued. I could fake it through one evening; I was a master at camouflaging my emotions. Not even my parents or best friends knew the real me. And that was how it needed to stay.

  I straightened my spine and widened my shoulders—the way I did when tackling a difficult real-estate client—and followed Laurie into the room where ten people sat at low worktables set up in a semicircle.

  She and I found vacant seats off to the left just as a man standing at the front of the room said, “Good evening. I’m Professor Marsh, your instructor for this session of Beginning Drawing.”

  He wasn’t what I expected. Judging by his thick peppered hair, he was probably fifty, about ten years older than I. He seemed muscular under his collared shirt, as though he worked out with weights. No wedding ring, I couldn’t help but notice, and not bad looking. But I’d vowed to steer clear of artists. Once was enough.

  Professor Marsh scanned the students, and his gaze settled on the woman in the seat next to me. “Please, call me Henry,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting.

  Behind him stood a chalkboard. On its greenish surface in a bold, slanted hand were written the words: Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up. Pablo Picasso.

  “Tonight, we’ll review some drawing basics.” Henry’s baritone voice rang with easy confidence. “We’ll explore how our eyes perceive the three-dimensional world, then translate those images onto a two-dimensional surface.”

  As he spoke about drawing techniques, I surveyed the still life arranged on the table next to him: a dented brass kettle, a stack of weathered textbooks, three mason jars, and a hideous-looking orange lamp with a crooked shade. Had he brought this mishmash from home? I grimaced as I imagined what the inside of this guy’s house looked like. Probably a typical artist’s hovel, I thought, remembering my ex-husband Phil’s apartment the last time I’d seen it. His place was a pigsty, and it stunk of cigarette smoke and stale beer.

  Henry adjusted the lampshade, then stood back. “Regard these objects as geometric shapes: cubes, cones, and prisms. Nothing more than solid shapes sitting on top of other solid shapes.” His face brimmed with enthusiasm as he gave instructions on cross-hatching and blending methods used to create the illusion of shade. “Now let’s get to work.”

  I watched my classmates sharpen their pencils and spread out their drawing paper. At least I wasn’t the oldest person there. More than half of the students in the class were what my eighteen-year-old son would call middle-aged, meaning over thirty.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Henry standing at the far end of the desks chatting with a young redheaded woman. Our professor probably relished the attention of pretty, naive students, I thought, and maybe even took advantage of their eagerness to please, if you catch my drift.

  He moved to the next student and stopped to make a suggestion. I admonished myself to get busy and at least appear to be participating. Slipping my new notebook out of its bag, I opened the pad to the first page and stared at the gaping white surface. When it was time for Henry to view my work, what would I show him? I couldn’t remember how to draw anymore. It had been twenty years.

  My slacks pinched me around the waist, and I felt cool dampness gathering under my armpits. The desire to jump up and escape seized me—almost lifting me off my chair. But I couldn’t leave; Laurie was my ride home. Anyway, I wasn’t the type to skitter away with her tail between her legs. I
was my father’s daughter, the eldest child, a single mother who had made it on her own.

  Quite honestly, it required all my willpower to force my attention back to the blank page. Focusing my eyes on the kettle’s wooden handle, I pressed my pencil tip to the center of the paper and started drawing. What an odd sensation, almost as if the pencil had a mind of its own. I quickly filled in the dark area and was soon working on the spout.

  I looked up to see Henry wandering down the line of students observing their work. Laurie, her eyes sparkling from behind frosted bangs, giggled when he came by her desk.

  “I haven’t drawn since grade school,” she said, one shoulder lifting into a coy shrug.

  “You’re doing fine,” he said. “Have fun, and don’t worry about making a finished product.” He stepped behind me. My shoulders hunched and my hand gripped my pencil as he glanced at my work. I held my breath and braced myself for his critique, but instead of addressing me he said hello to the older woman on my other side.

  “Emily McBride, I’m honored to have you in my class.”

  Emily’s beautifully wrinkled face bloomed. “When I saw your name in the Extension School catalog last week, I couldn’t resist,” she said. Her silver hair was combed back into a loose bun and secured by two wooden picks. “And I’ve missed you. We haven’t seen you at church for a while.”

  “I’ve been trying something new. Smaller fits me better right now.”

  “That’s fine, dear. Just know you’re missed.”

  “Thank you.” He patted the back of her speckled hand, then strolled to the front of the class.

  So, he’s religious, I thought, which told me a truckload about him, and none of it good.

  Laurie leaned over to me and bumped elbows. “This is fabulous, don’t you think?” she said. “I’ve already learned so much.”

  I managed a smile. “I’m glad you’re having fun.” At least one of us was.

  “Good work, everyone,” Henry said. “That first forty-five minutes flew by.” He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up, revealing a splotch of yellow ocher paint on one forearm. “We’ve explored how the eye perceives objects as solid masses. Now let’s look at the same grouping as nothing but lines. Extending one arm, use your index finger as a pointer and visually define the contour of each item on the table.” He demonstrated with his hand as he spoke. “Take that finger around the edges and through the shapes.”

  I don’t know if I was being obstinate, or maybe grumpy, but his instructions annoyed me. I kept my hands in my lap as the other students, their arms reaching out like children playing Simon Says, followed his directions.

  “Continue studying the contours,” he said, “and without looking down at your paper use a pencil to record what you see. Let your eyes tell you where to move your hand.”

  The others turned the pages of their notebooks. The rustling of paper prickled my eardrums, and my stomach clenched into a fist. Once more, it took Herculean strength to position my pencil on a new piece of paper, then I fastened my gaze to the still life and began outlining a jar. A moment later, much to my surprise, my pencil glided across the paper in a flowing line and captured the curve of the lamp.

  Just as I was beginning to enjoy myself, I noticed Henry walking my way. I tried to look as though I were concentrating on my work and paying no attention to him. Again, he paused for a moment, glanced at my paper, and said nothing.

  Was my drawing so awful it didn’t warrant a comment? My throat tightened around a growing lump, but I swallowed it down and told myself I didn’t need his approval. I was a grown woman, for goodness sake. Who cared what he thought?

  “You’re all doing beautifully,” he said, striding to the front of the room. But I didn’t feel included in his gratuitous compliment. If he thought I was doing well, he would have spoken to me directly.

  He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Let’s take a short break. I brought a thermos of decaf, and there’s a pop machine down the hall for those who’ve heard how bad my coffee is.”

  The sound of chair legs scraping the floor and voices chattering filled the room. I watched most of the class stretch to their feet, then straggle over to the thermos and Styrofoam cups.

  “I love our teacher, don’t you?” Laurie said, gushing like a teenager experiencing her first crush. “What a wise man.”

  I looked at her crude drawing—a jumble of squiggly lines—and felt a wave of fondness for my dear friend of eighteen years. “It looks like you’re doing great,” I said.

  “I figure I can only improve.”

  While the other students mingled and inspected each other’s sketches, Laurie and I talked about our kids.

  “Day after tomorrow my Rob’s off to college.” I raked a hand through my shoulder-length hair and found a snarl. “It’s hard to believe. Like the end of an era.” Rob’s choosing to attend school down in California had seemed like a good idea last spring, but not anymore. I couldn’t imagine how I would fill the long expanses of my days without my only child close by.

  “Are we even old enough to have children in college?” Laurie asked.

  I coughed a laugh. “I’m afraid so.”

  “I can’t believe I’m turning forty in six months.”

  “Welcome to the club.” Not that sliding into another decade had hit me that hard. I liked to think I’d grown wiser. Although looking back now, it was plain to see I hadn’t.

  “Never mind. I’ve decided to stay thirty-nine for a few more years,” she said, a grin fanning across her face.

  I heard footsteps behind us, then recognized my ex-husband’s voice saying, “Let me introduce you to the mother of my child.”

  He sounded like an elephant trumpeting in my ears, and my first impulse was to dive under my desk for cover. But I figured I was imagining things. Phil here? Impossible.

  I inhaled a whiff of spicy aftershave, his favorite brand, then felt a pat on my shoulder, making me flinch. I turned around to find his baby blue eyes gazing into mine. Against all logic, a warm breeze buzzed through my chest as I examined his handsome face crowned by curly blond hair. I hadn’t seen him for more than a year, but he hadn’t aged one bit, which struck me as profoundly unfair.

  I clenched my jaw and waited for this momentary attraction to Phil to pass. It always did. I reminded myself that he’d given me nothing but grief. And if I hadn’t threatened to sue him two years ago, he never would have paid me the back child support.

  Henry, several inches taller than Phil, stood at his side. “Hank, meet Marguerite Carr, my ex-wife,” Phil said, as if he were introducing his two best friends.

  “Margo,” he said to me, “do you remember my talking about Hank Marsh? We go way back—shared studio space and did several shows together.” His hand moved to Henry’s shoulder. “You’re in for a treat. This man’s talented.”

  If I wasn’t mistaken, Henry was avoiding making eye contact with me. I flushed with annoyance. “Nice to meet you,” I said, and noticed his vision finally taking me in.

  He replied, “Good evening,” then pivoted his head to speak to Laurie, who said something about how much she was enjoying the class.

  “This is just like old times finding you here,” Phil said, smoothing his jaw line with his fingertips.

  I got to my feet. “I wouldn’t go that far.” I looked him over and saw that a dusting of white plaster sprinkled the front of his ragged jeans and T-shirt. I sniffed the air for alcohol. He appeared to be sober. And I couldn’t even detect a hint of cigarette smoke.

  I crossed my arms and said, “I’m still not comfortable with you driving Rob to school.”

  “I thought we had this all settled. I’m the one with the passenger van, and you’re the one who has a hard time taking a day off from work.”

  “Are you going to show up?”

  “Of course.” He raised his right hand as if being sworn in. “I’ll be there. I promise.”

  I knew better than to believe what he said. I arched an eyebrow
the way my father did to show disapproval. “See that you are.” I couldn’t stand having Rob disappointed again by his flaky father.

  “I’m helping a buddy do some casting tonight and need to get back to work.” He turned to Henry, and the two men began discussing a gallery opening as they strolled toward the door.

  “I haven’t seen Phil in years,” Laurie said. She watched him shake Henry’s hand, then leave. “He looks different somehow. Better.”

  I frowned as a thousand agonizing memories coursed through my brain. When we were married, I’d seen Phil crawl into the bathroom, hang his head in the toilet and vomit his insides out, and then get up and chug down another beer. I’d smelled marijuana and cheap perfume on his clothes after a night of partying with his buddies. And in the dead of the night, I’d felt his hot breath caress my ear, then heard him murmur another woman’s name.

  “Not that I’m suggesting you two—” Laurie added.

  “Don’t worry,” I snapped. “I know way too much about Philip Carr to ever be sucked in again.”

  I watched Laurie zoom in on the display of best-sellers planted inside the doorway of Seattle’s biggest Barnes and Noble.

  “There it is.” She scooped up a hardbound book with the title Unearthing Your Childhood Dreams printed across its jacket and handed it to me. I turned it over to examine the photo of the author, a woman in her early thirties with short permed hair and a pixie face.

  “Are you sure this is good?” I asked. I didn’t have extra money to waste on books I didn’t need.

  “I saw her on Oprah. She sounded fabulous.” Laurie grabbed another copy and hugged it to her breast. “Let’s both buy one. Please. Then I’ll have someone to talk to about it.”

  As we headed to the cash register, I silently tallied my collection of self-help books. Most of the two dozen or so pertained to child rearing, a subject quickly becoming obsolete. I gave the cashier my money, careful to slip the receipt in the book in case I decided to return it.

  Moments later, Laurie and I climbed the stairs to the café on the mezzanine. Up ahead I could hear an espresso machine blast, then sputter. On the final step, I felt exhaustion blanket me like a lead apron. I scanned the room, which overlooked the rest of the store, to see that only three of the dozen or so tables were occupied. I bought a single nonfat latte and plopped down at the nearest empty table.