A Portrait of Marguerite Page 11

  The corners of my mouth sagged down. “Phooey,” I grumbled.

  Charlie looked up and tilted his head until his eyes disappeared behind long furry tufts. I bent down, pushed the hair back, then scratched his head. Since Rob left, the dog seemed to sleep more and hadn’t demanded a walk in days. Rain and wind had ruled the skies for most of the week, but nasty weather usually didn’t keep him inside. I wondered if dogs got depressed like people. Did Charlie miss Rob as much as I did, or was the dog picking up on my frame of mind?

  The phone rang, and I answered it to hear Susan’s twang. “Hello, there,” she said. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Tell me all about your dates with Tim, of course. Why didn’t you let me know?”

  I wound the cord around my finger, something I used to nag at Rob for doing.

  “I didn’t get much out of my husband,” she continued. “So, how did it go?”

  “Fine.” How much did I want to tell Susan? Most likely she would repeat every word I said to Bob, who would pass it on to Tim.

  “You sound like one of my kids. Come on, Marguerite, don’t keep me in suspense.”

  As I unwound my finger, I recounted the movie and football game, including the score and big plays, describing Tim as good-looking and a gentleman. I omitted the questionable good-night kiss and my reservations about our lack of chemistry, on my part anyway.

  “Do you like him as much as I said you would? Isn’t he a sweetheart?”

  “He’s very nice.”

  “I knew you two would hit it off. Isn’t it amazing he’s still single?”

  I tried to think of a diplomatic way to ask why that was. I wasn’t sure I swallowed Tim’s account of his nervous fiancée. Sure, men got cold feet all the time, but I hadn’t heard of many women calling off their weddings.

  “Guess he hasn’t met the right woman yet,” she said. “Men have internal clocks too, and he told Bob he’s ready to settle down. I knew it would all work out.”

  I yawned loudly enough for her to hear.

  “Okay, I’ll let you go. You can thank me later. Why don’t we have lunch this week so you can fill me in?”

  “The lunch part sounds good, but there’s not much more to tell.” The interrogation was over, and I was glad I hadn’t revealed too much. Usually, I couldn’t keep my blabbering mouth shut and later regretted spouting off too much personal information to my well-meaning friends. They always pounced like cats after a ball of twine, trying to help me or fix me or solve my dilemmas. Susan was probably bragging to Bob right now about her matchmaking skills. Yet I had to admit, Tim was everything she said he was, and more.

  On my way to bed, I passed Rob’s room and lingered at his doorway. I’d complained for years that I needed space for a home office and this bedroom would work perfectly. But it occurred to me Henry would tell me to convert it into a studio instead, and erect an easel against the far wall to give me plenty of room to step back to view my canvas.

  That wouldn’t work. I would have to move everything when Rob came home for Christmas, then again in the summer. The room would smell of paint, and I’d probably get it on the rug. What was I thinking? I couldn’t even draw for twenty minutes a day, let alone finish a whole painting.

  Finally ready for bed, I tugged back the covers, slid between the cold sheets, and rubbed my feet together for warmth. Then I opened Unearthing Your Childhood Dreams at the bookmark.

  The author suggested recording the answers to various questions in a journal. “List twenty-five things you liked to do as a child. Describe your favorite color, fairy tale, and song at age six. What common thread did they hold?”

  The drills seemed like too much work, but I grabbed a small notepad and a pen, and started writing.

  I lifted the whistling kettle off the burner, then poured boiling water over two tea bags resting at the bottom of my prewarmed Blue Willow pot, the way Mom taught me. I placed it on the tray next to the creamer and a china teacup, usually reserved for company.

  I had Laurie to thank for this small act of self-indulgence. As I set the timer for four minutes to steep the tea, I remembered her describing an article in a magazine that stated women should pamper themselves more rather than lavishing all their attention on others, who rarely appreciated the fuss and sometimes even resented it. The article suggested getting a massage and a facial, or spending a week in a spa “because you deserve it.”

  I envisioned Laurie flitting about town getting pedicures and having her hair styled at the most expensive salons in town. She had asked me to join her, but I rarely allowed myself such extravagancies. A facial and a massage sounded fun, but as a single mother I’d always looked after Rob’s needs. I was stingy with myself and would stay that way until he got through college. Or maybe forever.

  The tea bags needed two more minutes. I stared at the treasured teapot, which had somehow remained in one piece for more than fifty years of family use. To fill the time, I brought out my sketchpad and with a pencil outlined the pot, cup, and creamer. Next, I drew the pot’s intricate design, but something looked wrong. Lifting the pencil from the page, I considered how to best depict a busy pattern on a shiny surface.

  I decided color might help. I trotted to the basement and located an old set of pastel crayons. With broken stubs of white and blue, I filled in areas of my drawing and did my best to capture the sparkle of the teapot’s surface and its old-fashioned pattern. Still, the picture lacked something, and I wasn’t sure what. Then I recalled Henry telling the class, during an exercise, to let our eyes drink in the information. I breathed deeply, relaxed my vision, and noticed the shaded edge of the teapot, which was farthest from the window, now looked hard. The other side appeared so soft and transparent it almost vanished, the way the horizon melds into the sky. The white parts now ranged from buttermilk to light lavender.

  I added more color, layer upon layer. A few minutes later, I admired my finished product from across the room. The creamer looked a bit lopsided. I grabbed the white crayon, then dropped it back into the box. Remembering how I’d ruined my cloud drawing, I resisted the tantalizing urge to fix anything. Just to be safe, I wrapped a rubber band around the pastel crayon box to keep the lid tightly shut.

  Like a wave folding over on itself, more than an hour had elapsed. The timer must have gone off, but I hadn’t heard its beeping. Nor had I poured the tea, which would now be lukewarm and taste bitter because the tea bags had been left in so long.

  My mind started plotting the rest of my day; I felt a ripple of guilt for still being home. At eleven o’clock in the morning, I knew Lois would be poised at her desk and impatiently tapping her foot, with an offer for the Henricks’ old house in hand. Lois had worked her magic again. How did that woman manage to sell so much?

  I left the tea tray on the kitchen counter and hurried to work. As I strode through the front door of the office, I waved hello to Stephanie, the receptionist who’d worked there as long as I, then made a beeline for Lois’s desk.

  “Have a seat,” Lois said, pointing an index finger at the chair across from her. “You’re going to love these buyers.” Holding reading glasses to her eyes, she looked over the papers for several minutes.

  She finally folded her glasses and tossed them into a desk drawer. “Here’s the Troutmans’ offer, which seems doable.” She passed the documents to me. “They might budge a little, but asking for too many concessions might scare them away. You know how old people are.”

  I nodded. Just like buyer’s remorse, sellers sometimes had second thoughts: Was this the ideal time to list their house? Should they have held out for a higher price? Did they really want to move?

  While I reviewed the offer, Lois boasted about how she had sold the Troutmans’ family home the previous week. “They need a one-level home now because of Mr. Troutman’s arthritis, so the Henricks’ little house is perfect.” She drummed her fingers on the desk, her acrylic nails clicking. “They’ll want to remodel the kitchen, of course.
”

  The Henricks’ kitchen, with its knotty-pine cupboards, tiled backsplash and gingham curtains, far outshined mine. I hadn’t considered it outdated but supposed it paled in comparison to Lois’s. I heard she lived in a six-bedroom mansion in exclusive Windermere.

  “Isn’t it funny?” She glanced at her bejeweled fingers and diamond-studded Rolex. “People are either wanting a bigger home or downscaling. I’m glad they haven’t figured out how to make the trade without us, or we’d be out of a job.” She paused, her lips pressing flat. “I can’t imagine moving into a smaller home even when the kids leave, can you?”

  Not wanting to stir up the water, I shook my head in agreement, when in truth the longer I lived alone, the more sense it made.

  Lois grabbed the edge of her desk and pulled her chair closer. “Say, that was great the way you took my open house, then sold it. I have so much going on right now, I can barely do my clients justice. Maybe we could go partners on some listings.” She nudged one of several framed photographs occupying the corner of her desk closer to me. “Walt and I rarely get away on weekends anymore because I’m always so miserably busy.”

  “I wish I had your problems.” I stared at the picture of Lois and her sun-tanned husband in a Hawaiian shirt posing before a tropical sunset. With Walt slaving away in an operating room removing appendixes and gallstones for several thousand dollars a whack, Lois certainly didn’t need to work. She must like it.

  “We could try working as a team, co-list a few houses and see how it goes,” Lois said, her voice bright again. “You’d be doing me a favor.”

  “Really? That would be great.”

  “Fabulous.” She shook my hand with a grip so firm it pinched my knuckles. “Let’s go close this deal, partner.”

  I was glad I didn’t have to face the Henricks alone. I sank into the cushy leather passenger seat of Lois’s Mercedes and enjoyed being chauffeured by a woman who knew her way around town better than any cab driver.

  Ten minutes after I followed her into Wayne and Sherry’s living room, the couple had agreed to the lower price. Listening to Lois negotiate the deal, I felt as though I were attending the professional sales training class I should have taken years ago. My admiration for the woman grew, and I tried to memorize her polite but firm phrases for future use.

  When signatures had dried, and it was time to take the paperwork back to the Troutmans, my stomach began twisting with worry. I dreaded what I called the falling dominos effect. If the Troutmans balked and changed their minds, Wayne and Sherry wouldn’t sell their house and couldn’t purchase a new one. The whole deal would be off, and all my labor would wash down the drain in a single splash.

  “You’re really amazing,” I told Lois as we strolled out to her car under her Burberry plaid umbrella.

  “You’re not so bad yourself. I’ve heard you speaking to clients in the office. You sound very professional.” She unlocked the doors with a remote, and we both got in.

  “We’ll complement each other,” she said. She headed us back to the office by making a U-turn, cutting down a side street, then taking a shortcut that knocked several minutes off the trip. “You’re more the stay-by-the-phone type, which drives me nuts. I like to be out blazing new trails, putting deals together.”

  “I guess you’re right, I am more comfortable talking on the phone than speaking face-to-face.” You see, for me it was easier to hear the word no through a piece of plastic. I would be happier manning the office or holding Lois’s open houses, where people wandered in by themselves or were escorted by another agent.

  Lois pulled up alongside my car. “Tootles,” she said.

  “Good night, and thanks again.”

  The moment I was out and had closed the car door, she spun away. Part of me disliked this type of woman: affected and condescending. But so what? Lois was exactly what I needed.

  The next morning, as I ambled to the corner for my Moms’ walk, dusty clouds lingered high in the sky. It was a welcome respite from the stormy weather that had plagued Seattle, making even the most die-hard Northwesterners cantankerous.

  The last to arrive, Susan opened the back of her minivan and her Labrador retriever galumphed out. With much commotion, she fastened on its leash and headed our direction. Charlie marched forward to reacquaint himself with the boisterous dog, causing Susan to trot toward us to avoid being yanked off her feet.

  “I just remembered why I usually leave this beast at home,” she said, jerking on the leash without results.

  After a few moments of sizing each other up, Charlie, in spite of his diminutive stature, claimed the right of top dog with a lift of his leg and a dig into the grass. This done, he lost interest in the Lab and allowed me and the others to start down the street toward the lake.

  Erika walked on my left. “How’s it going with Tim?” she asked. “You should bring him over for Jonathan and me to inspect.”

  I’d often appreciated Erika’s dinner invitations. Not all married women encouraged single girlfriends to hang around. “Maybe we should wait a few weeks to see if Tim and I are still dating.”

  “Are you two going out together this weekend?” Susan piped in.

  I felt embarrassed for no reason. “He called a couple of days ago to ask me out tomorrow night.”

  “Sounds serious,” Erika said. I could remember her using those words every time I went out on a second or third date. Then again, maybe this time she was right.

  “I’m just getting to know him,” I said. “But he is nice. And he’s cute.”

  “He’s more than cute,” Susan said, sounding peeved. Her dog tugged on the leash as a Russian wolfhound paced by, but Susan held her ground. “He’s a gorgeous hunk. And he’s never been married, so there’s no nasty ex-wife lurking in the shadows.” Of course I, myself, was an ex-wife, but I took no offense.

  “Better grab this one, Marguerite,” Erika said. “Sounds like a real catch.”

  “On the other hand, don’t rush into anything,” Laurie advised in a big-sisterly tone as she maneuvered her way between Erika and me. “I still picture you with someone extraordinary. A man of mystery.”

  “I’ve had enough uncertainty to last me a lifetime.” I picked up the speed. “A boring old banker sounds pretty good right now.”

  “One more piece of advice.” Susan’s hand landed on my forearm to slow me down. “Remember, no man is perfect.”

  “You can say that again,” Laurie said, and we all laughed.

  Determined to get out of the spotlight, I asked Susan how her son Brandon was doing with his classes. For the next forty minutes, we shared stories and bragged about our college students.

  I knew it was ridiculous, but I almost choked with loneliness each time I spoke Rob’s name. How I missed him. Just any young man to the rest of the world, he would always be my boy, the one out of millions who filled me with delight.

  I pulled my mail out of the slot next to the front door to find an invitation to Candy Hooper’s opening night for her newest show of paintings. On the bottom of the postcard, Candy had written, “Marguerite, please come,” in bold script. There was no way for me to squirm out of going.

  One of Candy’s abstract paintings adorned the front of the card. I rotated it several times trying to figure out which end was the top, but couldn’t tell. She’d veered away from the traditional into a world of what looked to be unrecognizable garishly tinted shapes and blobs. But her large-scale paintings were attractive enough to end up in attorneys’ offices and hotel lobbies. Nice enough to land her one-artist shows at the top galleries.

  For the most part, she and I had gotten along like sisters. There had been only a few tense moments during our long friendship. The worst was in our freshman year of college when I set my eyes on Phil, with whom Candy had a nonreciprocal crush. In the end she agreed Phil and I were a better match and insisted girlfriends were more important than men. “I’ve prayed about it,” Candy had said. “Now it’s time to let it go.” I often wished I ha
d lost that battle and seen those two get hitched instead. But then I wouldn’t have had Rob. I couldn’t win.

  As I brought the postcard and other pieces of mail into the kitchen, I remembered the time spent with her at our church high-school youth group, something we rarely spoke of anymore. Candy had quit asking me about my faith and about my painting years ago, but she still seemed interested in my work life and always asked about Rob. We got together every other month or so, usually at her invitation. She had a husband and three kids, but had barely skipped a beat in her career as an artist. Her home was often in disarray, with piles of unfolded laundry on the couch and dirty dishes in the sink that seemed to go unnoticed by the happy household. I usually insisted we meet somewhere else, away from the mess. Away from the painting.

  When I promised at our last luncheon to attend Candy’s opening, she’d mentioned she was experimenting with a new technique and wanted my opinion. What for? I had no clue what was hot in the art world anymore or what the public might fancy.

  As I affixed the postcard to the refrigerator with a magnet, I decided I would pop into the gallery and cruise around the room at light speed. Then, blaming my departure on an early morning meeting, I would come right home.

  I’d forgotten how Pioneer Square percolated with activity on Thursday nights. I drove past the gallery and around the block twice looking for a parking space. I finally paid too much money to park at a crowded lot and walked several blocks. Inside the gallery intense lights bounced off high white walls and a frenzied jazz tape played in the background. I scanned the long room and saw only a few people gazing at the paintings.

  Then I heard my name being called and saw Candy clapping across the room atop sandals with two-inch soles. She hugged me and kissed the air next to my cheek.

  “You made it. I’m glad you’re early,” she said. Long-legged Candy looked as skinny as ever, and her midback-length hair lay parted down the middle exactly as it had twenty years ago. Only cobwebs of fine lines around her eyes divulged her age.