A Portrait of Marguerite Page 13

  “Here’s a good one,” Tim said. “But we need to boogie to make it on time.” He stood, tromping on Charlie’s foot. The dog growled and moved out of his way. “Sorry, pooch. You’re so little I didn’t see you.”

  “He does get underfoot sometimes.”

  “You can teach him not to. My parents’ beagle behaves perfectly. I’ll get you the name of the obedience school.”

  “That’s okay.” I leaned down to pat Charlie’s whiskered face. “He’s too old to change his ways.”

  “No, it’s never too late. You just have to be consistent with the discipline.”

  I couldn’t help wondering if a man who’d never reared children knew what consistent discipline meant. Anyway, I liked Charlie the way he was. But I decided to play it safe and keep my thoughts to myself.

  Twenty minutes later Tim sped us into the parking lot of the Oak Tree Cinemas. He circled around looking for a place where his car doors wouldn’t get dinged and finally parked in a corner spot at the far end of the lot.

  “You’re going to love this show,” he said, then hopped out and jogged around the car to open my door. “Let’s hurry. We don’t want to miss the previews.”

  The fast-paced action film was the kind I usually avoided. Even as I watched hair-raising car chases and hand-to-hand combat, I found my thoughts reverting to Henry. His melancholy face appeared in the flashing darkness. I asked myself why I’d fled his house so quickly. I should have stayed longer, taken time to examine each work of art. I could have explored the smooth stone surface of the greenish black carved bird displayed on a tall pedestal, and asked about the beaded moccasins sitting on a windowsill.

  Well, I missed my chance. I would never go back there again. I gave my teacher a ride home, and he’d shared a personal story only to illustrate a point, to teach his fledgling student a lesson. It made no sense why I even cared.

  Glancing at my watch several times only seemed to make the movie drag by more slowly. When the hero finally saved the world, Tim’s arm wrapped around my shoulder. Minutes later, after the credits rolled, he suggested we go out for dessert.

  “I’m pretty tired tonight,” I said.

  “Then we’ll just get something to drink. It won’t take long.” He placed both hands on my waist as he followed me up the sloping aisle. “You’re not getting away from me yet, pretty lady.”

  We walked hand in hand across the parking lot to a Starbucks. “Save us that table by the window, and I’ll get something,” he said, pulling out his billfold. Sitting where he’d suggested, I watched him hand the woman at the counter a twenty, then carefully count his change without leaving a tip. He returned with two vanilla lattes, even though I’d requested a plain one.

  “You’ll like this better,” he said. “I’ve never met anyone who hasn’t.”

  I tasted my latte, but found it too sweet, causing the inside of my mouth to pucker.

  “Like it?” he asked, and I smiled back. Looking across the table at the dimple on his chin and his long eyelashes any woman would envy, I knew I should find him appealing. He was sweet and considerate, unlike some of the self-centered men I’d dated. And Tim apparently found me attractive judging from the way he was looking at me with hungry eyes. Between sips his hand reached across the table and lifted my fingers to his lips for a kiss, then a nibble.

  Later, when we got to my front porch, I said, “Thank you, that was fun.”

  “This is more fun.” He drew me into an embrace, his mouth covering mine. Again his lips felt cool and hard.

  Why didn’t I feel the flame of physical attraction? I wanted to enjoy the kiss, but felt numb inside. Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe there was something wrong with me. Was my resistance to him some psychological hang-up?

  “I’m sorry I’m so tired tonight,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind if I say good night.”

  “I understand, pretty lady. This is only our third date. There’s no need to rush things.”

  He gave me another extended kiss, then nuzzled my earlobe. “I want to see you again soon,” he murmured. “I’m going to enjoy getting to know you better.”

  “Me, too.” Then why was a tug-o-war battling inside mind? I gently extricated myself from his grasp and stepped inside.

  “Don’t you worry about a thing, I’ll handle it,” I heard Lois say to someone on the phone as I approached her desk the next morning.

  Lois dropped the receiver in its cradle and grinned to herself. She finally noticed me. “Don’t sneak up on me like that,” she said. “But since you’re here, that was Sherry Henrick on the phone. Things are sailing right along.”

  In spite of Lois’s somewhat patronizing tone, I liked having her at the helm. Using phrases like “piece of cake” and “no problem,” she sounded confident the sale of Wayne and Sherry’s home would close soon. After we finished some paperwork, Lois and I discussed co-listing a small bungalow that would come on the market in a couple of months.

  “I’m glad you’re up for this,” she said. “We’ll see how this one comes together, then the sky’s the limit. This is great. I need an assistant.” She paused to regroup her thoughts, no doubt. “I don’t mean you’ll be my second-in-command.” Her exuberance returned. “You’ll be my partner on these transactions. It’ll work out perfectly.”

  “I agree,” I said, hoping with all my might she was right.

  After Lois raced off to play nine holes of golf, my time at my desk crawled by. Henry’s invitation nagged at me like an itchy mosquito bite that I swore I wouldn’t scratch.

  Of course I won’t go, I told myself. But five minutes later, I found myself contemplating what I might wear if I changed my mind.

  Around three, my phone line lit up. I picked up the receiver to hear Tim tell me how much he’d enjoyed spending the evening with “such an incredible lady.”

  “Have you changed your mind about coming over to my folks’ for dinner?” he asked. He was still helping his father clean out the garage while they listened to the game on the radio, but when they finished I could drive over for some of his mother’s fried chicken. The invitation sounded awfully dear. Another example of what a nice guy he was. But I wasn’t ready to be scrutinized under a parental magnifying glass.

  “My art teacher’s throwing a party,” I said. “I think I’d better put in an appearance.”

  “Then you’ll have to come over another time. They really want to meet you.”

  “You told them about me?”

  “Sure.”

  After I hung up, I called Laurie to ask if she was going to Henry Marsh’s party.

  “No can do,” she said. “Dave and I are off to a black-tie fund-raising auction. I wish you were here to tell me if my favorite little dress still looks good after all the food I’ve been devouring the past few weeks.”

  “I could come over.” I enjoyed looking through Laurie’s wardrobe. She owned more clothes than any woman I knew, and the figure to show them off.

  “That’s sweet of you, but no. Spend the time getting yourself prettied up and go to the party.”

  “What if Phil and Darla are there?” Of course, they would be. My stomach clenched at the thought of seeing Darla. “I couldn’t face them again without a date.”

  “Isn’t he your ex? Don’t let that guy have so much influence over you. Go.”

  If I didn’t run into someone I knew from class, I could always leave, I promised myself while driving to Henry’s studio. Once more, I was obliged to park my car a block away. As I neared the studio on foot, I could hear music and voices. Recalling my last visit there, I froze for a moment. No, this would be different. And mingling was a great way to meet new clients.

  I figured no one would hear my knocking. I pulled the front door open and a billow of warm air smelling of sweet-and-sour sauce and shrimp floated out. Ahead loomed a crowd of strangers. Nobody seemed to notice my entrance. Forgetting my pep talk, I felt small and alone—like an outsider who had no business being there. I backed out and slowly shu
t the door. Descending the first step, I saw Phil coming up the walkway.

  “Hey, this is great,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you. You’re not leaving already, are you?” He wore a day’s worth of stubble on his chin, giving him the carefree look of a man on vacation. He reached past me, opened the door wide, and made a gesture for me to enter.

  There was little free space for us to wade in. Most of Henry’s paintings were stacked out of the way to accommodate the gathering of fifty or so people. An old wooden door set on two sawhorses served as a table and lay heaped with trays of hors d’oeuvres and drinks.

  Phil, walking ahead of me, exchanged hellos with several people. Across the room I spied Henry, who stood chatting with several young women, among them Rhonda from class. Besides them, I recognized no one. My first impulse to leave had been a good one.

  Phil slowed his pace to speak to me. “Margo, I’m worried about Rob,” he said, but he appeared too happy to be worried.

  “A few days ago, he told me everything was going fine.” That was a slight exaggeration. Rob rarely spoke in superlatives, and our most recent conversation lasted two minutes. “He said he’d just taken a math exam. He could be worried about his grades.”

  “Maybe. But the guy seems mighty homesick.”

  I tried to recall Rob’s tone of voice. “He didn’t sound that way to me.” My son had yet to tell me he missed me, or home.

  “I think he’s more Andrea-sick than anything. He misses that girl terribly.” In other words, Rob opened up to Phil and not me.

  “He’ll find a new girlfriend,” I said. “Eighteen is too young to be in a serious relationship.”

  A woman wearing black-rimmed glasses swooped by carrying a plate piled high with goodies. “I love your new work,” she told Phil. “Give me a call or stop by the gallery so we can talk.”

  “Thanks, I’ll do it.” He turned back to me, but his attention seemed to be elsewhere. He was probably anticipating his honey’s arrival.

  “Where’s Darla?” I asked.

  “She had something to do tonight.” He waved at a man just walking in. “Sorry, there’s someone over there I need to talk to. I’ll see you later.”

  He took off, leaving me standing alone. I searched for an opening in a conversation, but all the tight circles of people appeared impenetrable. Working my way between groups, I came to the food table. I selected two shrimp puffs and an egg roll and arranged them on a plate like a happy face. I clunked several ice cubes into a tall glass and filled it with diet Pepsi until the bubbles threatened to topple over the side. Hands full, I wandered to the window and stared at the darkening bay. After several minutes of forced appreciation, I allowed my eyes to casually find my host.

  Henry now stood with his arm around the shoulder of a pretty blonde. Out of nowhere, a strange sadness engulfed me. The room was sweltering, and my forehead felt damp. I set down my plate of uneaten food and my glass, and wove my way toward the door and freedom.

  “Marguerite, you made it.” Henry appeared next to me. He’d caught me trying to vamoose without saying hello first. “How long have you been here?”

  “Not long.” It would be impolite for me to leave now. “This is quite a party. It’s a little warm in here though.”

  “I was just coming to open the door.” He pushed the door open, and a glorious burst of cool air gushed in. He helped remove my jacket and hung it in the closet. “Did you get something to eat?”

  “Not yet.”

  He guided me back to the hors d’oeuvres. I stood at his side while he said “Good evening” and “How are you?” to several acquaintances.

  The young blonde appeared, and without hesitation he kissed her lightly freckled cheek.

  “See ya, Daddy,” she said, then kissed him back.

  “Marguerite, this is my daughter Terry.” Terry’s complexion was fairer than her father’s, but I detected a strong similarity around the expressive eyes and the bridge of her regal nose. I shook her hand and said, “Nice to meet you.”

  Rhonda strode over, her hips swinging. “And you know Rhonda, from class,” he said, putting his other arm around her shoulder.

  Rhonda looked even more attractive than she did on class nights. Her emerald green dress, cut low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage, mirrored her vivacious eyes. And she looked awfully alluring when directing her gaze in Henry’s direction.

  “Rhonda’s Terry’s best friend,” he said. “She’s practically another daughter.” He mussed her strawberry blonde hair, and she stepped out of his reach and patted it back in place.

  Moments later, after the two young women had departed, Henry said, “Marguerite, I’d like you to meet some good friends.”

  I shook hands with a stylish couple, the Tangs, who’d recently purchased one of Henry’s pieces. They seemed to assume I was either an artist or a collector. Rather than describe me as his student, Henry simply gave my name and nothing more.

  The Tangs started talking about celebrities and events in the art world I’d never heard of. When Henry joined in, he played the devil’s advocate, asking if society should feed the arts while people were starving. This question sparked a round of lively debate. With my girlfriends, I never had to verbally tread water to keep from sinking like an uneducated rock. But it was fun to at least appear to be a part of this conversation. I nodded knowingly, as if fully aware of everything being discussed.

  When the Tangs said they must get their babysitter home, they told me they hoped we would meet again. “I’d enjoy that,” I said, although I knew it was unlikely.

  The room thinned out, and the upbeat jazz changed to a leisurely saxophone solo, which sounded soothing and peaceful.

  “Want to dance?” Phil said, and I noticed him swaying next to me.

  I folded my arms across my chest like a coat of armor. “No, thank you, I don’t.”

  “Come on, you used to love to dance. And you were always the prettiest girl on the floor.” He moved closer, and I backed away, into Henry, who I didn’t realize was standing on the other side of me.

  “What’s going on over here?” he asked.

  “I was just reminiscing with Margo,” Phil said. “She’s still as pretty as she was twenty years ago. Hank, you should do a painting of her.” He stared into my eyes with far too much familiarity. “Hank does portraits, when he finds a face he can’t resist.”

  “I’m sure he has plenty of models to choose from,” I said, shooting Phil the evil eye and wishing that for once it would drop him to his knees.

  “I’ve already considered painting her,” Henry said, sounding somewhat sincere.

  Before I could respond, we were interrupted by a woman’s deep vibrato. “Henry, my dear man, we haven’t talked all evening.” A tall, large-framed woman with shiny dark hair slicked back into a bun steered Henry toward a corner.

  “That’s Mrs. Mitchell R. Lamont,” Phil told me. “Seattle’s favorite patroness of the arts. She puts her husband’s timber money to good use. I’d love to get to know her better myself.”

  I knew Phil wasn’t the type to grovel at anyone’s feet. “Once she sees your sculptures, she’ll be calling you.”

  “Thanks. Say, I’m heading out. You staying?”

  I glanced at Henry. Mrs. Lamont, her red lips fluttering only inches from his face, looked like a vampire ready to draw blood.

  “No, I was about to go myself,” I said. At that moment Henry glanced our way, and I waved at him. He made a move in our direction, but Mrs. Lamont latched onto his arm and kept talking.

  Phil insisted on escorting me to my car. “I’ll be fine,” I said, heading briskly down the stairs to the sidewalk.

  He caught up with me. “Come on, let me be a gentleman for once.”

  The sky was black, the street deserted. The smell of damp pavement blended with diesel exhaust and trace smoke from someone’s chimney. Neither of us said another word. I listened to the scuffling sound of our shoes, heard a distant siren, a dog barking. Wh
en we reached my car, I unlocked the door, then turned to say good-bye.

  Phil stood right behind me. “Good to see you, Margo,” he said, bringing his face closer and gazing into my eyes. “I’m glad we can be friends.”

  Then, without warning, he hugged me.

  After the party I went straight to bed, but I couldn’t find rest. In my mind’s eye, I could see Phil’s face. No doubt about it, he’d grown better looking with age. Had his newfound success or his recent sobriety made him more attractive? Or was it the fact that a knockout like Darla found him delectable? I hated to think I’d let her influence me.

  My focus shifted to Henry. In the stillness I remembered his saying he’d considered painting my portrait. Was he serious or just having fun with Phil, who loved a joke? Disappointment, followed by anger, jumbled through my head, causing a pinging in my ears. Phil and Henry were kidding me—and it wasn’t funny.

  At noon the next day, Tim called to invite me to brunch. “I woke up hungry for a kiss,” he said. “How about if I swing by in thirty minutes?”

  I dressed in jeans and a striped knit top, then searched the hall closet for my black jacket, without success. I glanced out the window and saw Tim’s BMW cruising to a stop in front of the house. Charlie growled, then barked. Deciding I couldn’t deal with the dog today, I grabbed a sweater and hustled outside.

  Tim was opening his car door when he noticed me. I hopped into the passenger seat.

  “You look nice, as always,” he said, then gave me a quick kiss. “Is there a good place to eat near here?”

  “Several.”

  We chose a casual restaurant located one block from Green Lake and only a few minutes’ drive from my house. An hour later, as I nibbled the remains of my coffee cake, I felt Tim’s leg resting against mine under the table. I watched him swallow the last bite of his omelet, leaving his plate spotless.

  He asked for the bill—and I’ve got to say it was nice dating a man who didn’t expect me to foot half of it—then he suggested we walk around the lake. “I’d better work off those calories.” He patted his tummy. “All I’ve done is eat all weekend, and tomorrow it’s back to my size thirty-four slacks.”