A Portrait of Marguerite Page 12

  “Come tell me what you think of this new one before too many people come in. Then all I’ll want is unrealistic praise.”

  She led me to the middle of the nearest wall and spun around so the tails of her tunic swung out. “It’s quite different from the landscapes I’ve been doing. See, I added more texture and scrubbed some of the color out.” She watched my eyes for a reaction.

  “I like it,” I said, stepping back a few feet to see the large painting more clearly. I wanted to give her a definitive opinion, but couldn’t muster up a creative answer. “Very nice,” I said. Wondering what the turquoise blue and chartreuse rectangular shapes represented, I read the title card on the wall. Savage Land and Still Water. Next to the title a red dot indicated it had been purchased. “Wow, sold already. How wonderful.” I was always startled anyone could afford to spend five thousand dollars for a painting. “Who bought it?”

  “Some woman came in this afternoon saying she didn’t know much about art, but the colors matched her living room.” Candy’s sweet giggle reminded me of the girl I knew in high school.

  Assessing her piece again, she chewed her thumbnail. “I’m pretty happy with the result.”

  “So am I.” I wanted to give her positive feedback. “Beautiful colors.” Which was true.

  “I know it’s not your cup of tea. You always stuck to realism.”

  “Yeah, realism in art, but unrealistic in every other part of my life.”

  She giggled again. Then her gaze darted across the room. “Don’t look now, but your ex-husband just walked in.”

  I was afraid I might see him; this was his territory. “Thanks for the warning.” Maybe if I was lucky, he wouldn’t notice me.

  “I’d better start circulating,” Candy said. “I’ll check back in a few minutes, okay?”

  “Sure, go mingle. I’ll look at your paintings.”

  A moment later I heard Phil say, “Hey, Margo.” I looked over my shoulder to find him and Henry standing close by.

  “Hello,” I said, then glanced back at the painting as though I were enrapt with its magnificence.

  “Hank and I were out for a bite to eat,” Phil said, stepping between me and the painting. “I talked him into coming down to check out the Thursday night scene. Darla’s meeting me here. Have you run into her?”

  I put on a syrupy smile. “No, not yet.”

  Henry, at my side, asked, “What brings you here?” He sounded like a teacher addressing his student.

  “The artist,” I said. “Candy Hooper and I have been friends since high school. Her paintings are great, don’t you think?”

  He eyeballed the room, then moved closer and spoke in my ear. “Not a thing wrong with them, but I’ll bet you could do as well, if not better.”

  Those were the last words I expected to hear. “I doubt that very much.” I scrutinized the painting again. He might be right about Candy’s work. Maybe she didn’t produce masterpieces—the kind future generations would acclaim. But was he right about my potential? No way. Then it occurred to me he was reciting catch-phrases of encouragement, as he did with all his students.

  I heard Phil say, “Hi, sugar,” then noticed Darla slinking our way. She sidled up next to him and slipped her arm under his.

  “Hi, sweetie.” She snuggled against him like a cat marking its territory. Then she whispered something into his ear that caused a snuffle of laughter and a shake of his head.

  Looking for an engagement ring, I tried to see her left hand, but it was tucked under Phil’s arm and not visible. I said hello, but she didn’t answer. I was sure she heard me, but decided to let it go. I had nothing to say to her and didn’t feel like being the brunt of her snide remarks.

  Dipping her chin, Darla gazed up at Henry. “Hello, there,” she said. “We still need to get you together with you-know-who.”

  Henry gave her a strained look, one I couldn’t decipher. “Hello, Darla.”

  When Phil introduced Candy to Darla, her glossy smile widened. “I’m delighted to meet you,” she said, her voice gushing. “Your paintings are fantastic.”

  “Thank you,” Candy said. “I can never hear that too often.”

  “I want to be just like Candy when I grow up,” Phil said. His arm curved around Darla’s petite waist, and he pulled her close. “Ms. Hooper’s getting to be the big fish in the little pond around here. I hear she sells every canvas as soon as the paint’s dry.”

  Candy beamed with pleasure as she discounted Phil’s praise. “Phil, you’re making my head swell.” Then she and Darla fell together in rapid conversation, as if knowing Phil automatically made them old friends.

  “I absolutely adore this one,” Darla said of the painting nearest us. She blinked up at Phil. “Sweetie, don’t you think I need something like this in the shop?” Darla turned to Candy to describe her boutique, located several blocks away.

  “Darla’s Choice is your store?” Candy’s voice trembled as if she were asking the Queen of England if she really lived in Buckingham Palace. “I love that place. You have the most beautiful clothes in town. Tell me what days you work, and I’ll be sure to come in when you’re there.”

  I watched Darla in her body-hugging sweater and knit pants that draped her rear and legs seductively. No wonder Phil couldn’t resist her. Yet when her left hand finally came into view, I could see she wasn’t wearing a ring.

  “I just got in a fabulous new line that would look stunning on you,” Darla told Candy. “They’re a little pricey, but you won’t run into yourself every time you turn around.”

  “I’d love to see it,” Candy said. “I’ll come in tomorrow.”

  “Good, I’ll look forward to seeing you. Maybe we can grab a cup of coffee too.”

  “Okay.”

  “Hank, old man.” Phil’s voice drowned out the women. “Darla needs me to help her move some display cases at the shop. I’d better run over there right now. Hey, Margo.” He tapped my shoulder like a little kid trying to get his mother’s attention. “Could you give this professor of yours a ride home? You two live pretty close to each other. You don’t mind, do you?” He waited for my response, an expectant smile on his face.

  “I guess I could,” I said.

  “Perfect. I’d better get this over with.” He slid his arm back around Darla’s waist and planted his hand on her hip. “Sugar, let’s get out of here.”

  Darla suddenly gaped at me, as if discovering my presence for the first time. A look of disdain soured her face. She muttered several words under her breath, then turned away.

  Phil saluted Henry. “See ya, buddy.”

  In less than a minute, Phil and Darla said their farewells and left me staring at the door.

  I wandered to the next painting, which was so similar to the last that I had to glance back to make sure I’d moved.

  My temples began to pound, drowning out the recorded trumpet that was galloping up and down the scales. Seeing Darla and Phil shouldn’t hurt, but it did. I hated them both. I hoped Lois hadn’t told Darla to include me in her quest for a condominium. I would rather starve than earn a commission from her. And now I was stuck driving Henry home. Normally I was pretty quick with a comeback, but what would I say to him in the car?

  I inched around the gallery, which was filling with more people. I heard complimentary remarks about the show, people using words like avant-garde and sophisticated. The red dots, the words of praise, the respect Candy had earned: Everything rattled me.

  From midway across the room, Henry strolled over and stood next to me. I traveled at a snail’s speed, hoping he would get impatient and leave. But he stayed close by until I’d finished inspecting the last painting.

  “What did you think?” he asked.

  “I love her stuff.” I wondered if he could tell I was stretching the truth. “Did you know we roomed together in college? I’m so proud of Candy.” That was a fact. I admired my friend even if I didn’t understand her art. As I read the painting’s title my mind whizzed back to t
he figure drawing class she and I had taken together. I remembered glancing at Candy’s work and seeing a drawing that looked like it had been executed by a child—stiff and out of proportion.

  “Back then, I thought I had all the talent,” I said. “But she never gave up, the way I did. Now look at her.”

  “Your life’s not over yet. I saw real ability in the drawings you did in class. Have you been sketching?”

  “I did one the other day I liked.”

  “Bring it to class on Monday, and we’ll talk about it.”

  “Okay.” He would probably forget all about this conversation by then, I thought. And why would it be a big deal? I told myself to relax as I reexamined the last painting. Henry may be my teacher, but that didn’t make his opinion the final word.

  “Look, about the ride,” he said. “If it’s too much of an inconvenience, I’ll hop in a cab.”

  “No, it’s all right, I don’t have to be anywhere.” I felt foolish for not being more cordial. “Phil said you live near me.”

  “Well, you know Phil and his imagination.”

  “Yes, I do.” All too well, I thought. He made up the plot as he went along.

  “He mentioned you live over by Green Lake, and I’m way up on Capitol Hill.”

  It would add fifteen minutes to my drive, but I said, “It’s fine, I’m glad to help.” It wasn’t as if I was needed elsewhere.

  Out on the sidewalk the evening breeze crept up the sleeves of my jacket. I rubbed my forearms, then shoved my hands in my pockets. Henry and I waited for the light to change, then crossed the street. Three people approaching from the other direction forced me to walk close to him. My arm bumped against his in an awkward way. I only wanted to get this chore over with.

  I led him to my car and crawled into the passenger side to remove the clutter off the seat. “There you go,” I said, tossing the last paper into the back. When I reached my own door, he’d already gotten in and unlocked it. The instant I started the engine, oldies music blared out of the radio speakers, making us both jump, then laugh. I switched off the radio as quickly as I could.

  “Sorry,” I said. No need for the heater. Warmth was radiating up my neck to my cheeks.

  I headed east, passing under the freeway, then driving north on a quiet avenue. For several minutes neither of us spoke. I considered asking Henry questions about my drawings and whether he really thought I had talent. I figured now was the ideal opportunity, but I was too nervous. What if he didn’t give me the answers I was seeking?

  “You and Phil seem to get along pretty well,” he said.

  I slapped the turn indicator as I thought of all the times I wanted to strangle Phil. And tonight would be added to the long list.

  “We’ve found a way to coexist, for our child’s sake. When we fought, it only hurt Rob.” I glanced over to see Henry looking at me.

  “I’ve met Rob several times. A fine young man. And he’s off at college?”

  “Yes.” My fingers began to throb, and I realized I was gripping the steering wheel. I loosened my hold. “The truth is, things haven’t been going well for me since he left,” I said with staggered words. “I’ve been bumping around aimlessly.” Now, why had I told him that?

  “I’m sorry.”

  I fiddled with a button on the dashboard. “I shouldn’t have bothered you with this.”

  “It’s all right, I’ve been there myself. There was a time when I didn’t think I’d ever laugh again. Here, take a left at the light.”

  A hollow gap of silence followed. I glanced over to see his head pushed back against the headrest, his eyes closed.

  He cleared his throat. “One day I was the happiest man alive. I had a loving wife and two beautiful daughters.” His words sliced the air like a blade. “The next day, I was sitting in an oncologist’s office looking at my wife’s mammogram and biopsy results, talking about radiation and chemotherapy.”

  I took the corner slowly, as if an injured person were on board. No one in my immediate family or close circle of friends had been diagnosed with breast cancer, for which I was grateful. Of the three women I knew who’d had it—a coworker, one of my mother’s friends, and a neighbor—only my neighbor was still living. A woman about my age, she and I’d sometimes stopped to chat as we walked our dogs or when she was out front gardening, and she’d appeared to be in excellent health. Five years ago, I recalled, I didn’t see her for weeks. When she reappeared, she was wearing a turbanlike hat, which I imagined was covering a bald skull. “I have breast cancer. I found it myself,” she’d said proudly. “It was only the size of a pea under my armpit, but it felt different. I could tell it didn’t belong there.” Every time after, when I saw her and asked how she felt, I wondered if her ticking bomb had spread to the rest of her body.

  Henry spoke again, snagging my thoughts back to the present. “Six months later, my wife died, and I was a single parent.” He rubbed his eyes, then dragged one hand through his hair. “At first, I was so consumed with the pain I couldn’t function. But I had to keep going. I had two young girls depending on me.” He pointed at the stop sign. “Take a right.”

  He inhaled, holding his breath for several seconds before expelling it. “I didn’t pick up a paintbrush for over a year. Slow down, it’s that house with the porch light on.”

  My front tire scuffed the curb as I rolled to a stop. I left the engine running and set the transmission in park. I didn’t know what to say. If we were good friends, I would have cried for him, consoled him, told him how much I ached for his unfair loss. But I hardly knew the man. And he’d given me the keep-away signal since we met. He might as well have been wearing barbed wire.

  “Say, do you want to come in?” he asked, catching me off guard.

  “I’d better let you get some sleep,” I said, unable to see his shadowed face clearly. “It’s pretty late.”

  He opened his door a few inches. “Please, I can’t send you off into the night on that depressing note. Come on.”

  “Okay, just for a minute.” I followed him up cement steps, then wooden ones, to a porch. He opened the door, then flicked on the inside lights with one sweep of his hand.

  Slipping into the kitchen, he said, “Want something to drink? I’m going to make some herbal tea, but there’s pop and apple cider too.”

  “No, thanks, I’m fine.” For several minutes I surveyed the light-taupe walls and sleek, modern furniture in textured eggshell whites and beiges. On the walls hung a collection of paintings and drawings, none done by Henry’s hand. Native American and Asian sculptures stood on pedestals and custom-built shelves. It was nothing like my home or any other I’d seen before.

  I situated myself on an armchair. “Is it always this neat?” I said. It sure didn’t look like the typical man’s home.

  He sputtered into laughter as he entered the room carrying a tray with two earthenware mugs and a rustic handmade teapot. “One person doesn’t make much of a mess.” He set the tray on the coffee table. “I made a full pot of tea in case you change your mind.”

  He relaxed onto the couch and stretched out one arm. He looked at ease, the master of his domain. “Sorry I got going on that morbid subject in the car,” he said. “My point is that I did go on with my life. My two girls needed a sane, functioning father. For a while I drowned in my own self-pity. But eventually, in spite of myself, I began to experience small glimpses of joy. Finally, I started painting again. This time, though, I had something important to say.”

  He poured tea and handed me a mug. “Candy’s work is pleasant enough, but when I look at a piece of art I want to learn something new—either about its creator or about life.” He paused to sip his steamy drink. Then, looking into my eyes, he said, “You strike me as a person who has a story to share.”

  “Me? I’ve barely said two words to you since we’ve met.”

  “Sometimes those who speak the least have the most to say.”

  Despite his transparency while describing his wife’s death, I
had no intention of revealing my idiosyncrasies to him. I’d already said too much. I swigged a quick mouthful of tea, tasting a blend of orange and cinnamon.

  “I’d better get home,” I said, standing.

  He got to his feet and made it to the door ahead of me. His hand resting on the doorknob, he turned to speak. “If you’re free Saturday evening, come by my studio anytime after seven. I’m having a get-together. I mentioned it before class the other night, but I don’t remember if you were there.”

  “I must not have been. But I can’t come, I have a date that night.” In truth, Tim and I had plans for Friday, not Saturday.

  “You’re both welcome.”

  I couldn’t see Tim shooting the breeze with a bunch of artist types. I was glad he wasn’t part of that frivolous world; that was one of the reasons I liked him.

  “I’m not sure he’s interested in art,” I said. “He’s a banker.”

  “Plenty of people will be there who aren’t artists. I invited several gallery owners and those sorts, but I also know businessmen.” The corners of his mouth quirked up as he opened the door. “A banker or two would round things out.”

  Tim arrived exactly on time. My attempts to switch our date to Saturday hadn’t worked. “I’m going over to help my folks,” he’d said on the phone earlier. “You’re welcome to join us for dinner.” I wasn’t ready to meet his parents, although I felt flattered by the invitation. I couldn’t remember the last time a man had welcomed me into his inner sanctum.

  As Tim spread open the entertainment section of the paper, then recited the list of movies playing, my mind drifted. I’d slept restlessly the night before, shredded images of Henry burrowing through my mind. Losing his wife had devastated him. And his poor children must have been heartsick growing up without a mother. I’d envisioned Henry helpless, watching the person he loved the most in the world slowly wither to nothing. Had he held her at the last moment? Did he still stretch out his hand in the middle of the night longing to feel her warm skin?