A Portrait of Marguerite Read online

  I agreed I could use the exercise too. My parents were expecting me for an early dinner later and I needed to show up with an appetite.

  He grasped my hand as we made our way toward the water and stepped onto the busy path. I’d say there were twice as many people at the lake’s perimeter than on weekday mornings. When my girlfriends and I walked, we prided ourselves on making the loop in fifty minutes or less. But Tim strolled leisurely, even stopping a few times as he explained a transaction at work that might further his career. I took a deep breath and tried to follow his lead.

  Almost around the lake a woman from work jogged by, gave Tim the once-over, and called hello to me. Knowing how people loved to gossip, I figured the whole office would soon know I was dating someone cute, which pleased me. I imagined Tim would look smashing at the company party. It couldn’t hurt to plan ahead.

  When we got back to my house, we went into the kitchen for a glass of ice water. As I ran the tap, Tim came up behind me, his arms lassoing my waist.

  I snapped off the water. “I thought you were thirsty.”

  “That can wait.” His lips found mine. His kiss didn’t seem as foreign anymore. Not what I would have wished for, certainly not like I’d seen at the movies, but not bad. I tried to relax and return his affection.

  The telephone rang, but Tim trapped me against the counter and said, “Leave it. You’re busy.”

  “But it might be Rob.” I wriggled free and reached for the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Marguerite? It’s Henry Marsh. You left your jacket last night. Luckily a receipt in the pocket had your name on it.”

  Of course, I thought, that’s where it was. “Shall I come by the studio to get it?”

  “No, I brought it home with me. You could stop by my house. I’m not planning to go anywhere today.”

  “All right, thanks.” I stood for a moment after the line went dead, wishing I’d asked him to lay it outside his door.

  “Now, where were we?” Tim asked. He snaked his arms around my waist, then kissed me. But his lips had lost any potential magic, and his hands felt groping.

  I gave him a little shove and glanced at my watch. “I hate to kick you out, but I’m having dinner at my parents’ tonight and need to run an errand first.” I contemplated taking Tim along. He was the kind of guy Dad would like: a businessman and a sports enthusiast. And Mom would like his outgoing personality. Tim used excellent table manners and was well spoken, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask him to dinner. It was too soon—or something.

  “Sorry, I’d better get going.” Tim offered to come with me, but I said family matters needed to be discussed. Although I almost dreaded another tête-à-tête with my mother, I wanted to be available for her, as she’d always been for me.

  With a forlorn expression on his face, Tim said, “You and I need to spend more time together, pretty lady. I can come back later, when you get home.”

  As I neared Henry’s house, I eased up on the accelerator.

  I didn’t really need my jacket today, even if it was one of my favorites. I should have asked him to bring it to class. But I was already here, and retrieving it would take only a couple of minutes. I mounted the stairs and tried the bell twice. Finally, Henry opened the door. His mussed hair and sleepy eyes told me he’d been napping.

  “Hello, come in,” he said through a yawn.

  “I apologize if I woke you.”

  “That’s okay. I needed to get up anyway. I don’t want to sleep the whole afternoon away.” He smoothed back his hair and stretched. “Your jacket’s around here someplace. Have a seat.” He yawned again. “You want something to drink?”

  “No, I’m in a hurry to get to my parents’ for dinner.” I scanned the room, but didn’t see the jacket. “Mom’s preparing her famous pot roast. She’s an excellent cook, always makes enough to feed an army.”

  “Sounds delicious. Do you think there’d be enough to feed another hungry soul?”

  “Uh, what do you mean?”

  His words came out deliberately. “May I join you?”

  “Go to my parents? Right now?” I must have heard him wrong.

  “If you don’t mind. My fridge is empty, and I’m starving. And it’ll give us a chance to talk about your work. Unless of course, I’d be intruding.”

  I knew my parents wouldn’t care, and I guessed I didn’t. “All right.” As soon as I uttered the words, I regretted them. What was I thinking?

  He stepped into the kitchen and came back carrying my jacket. Ten minutes later we were turning onto my parents’ street. This neighborhood, where I grew up, usually beckoned me in like a warm hearth. But not today. I almost kept driving as a wave of uncertainty made me ease up on the gas. I didn’t have to go through with this, I told myself. Henry wasn’t holding me hostage. And it wasn’t against the law for a woman to change her mind.

  But my parents’ suppers were informal affairs, I reasoned as I stopped in front of their two-story home. And Mom had often suggested I bring a friend.

  My mother wore a surprised smile when she opened the front door. I’d described Tim to her, so perhaps she was trying to understand her daughter’s dubious portrayal. Henry, relaxed and confident, reached out his hand to shake hers and said, “I’m Henry Marsh.”

  With a quizzical look on her face, Mom said, “And I’m Dorothy Marsden.”

  “Henry’s my art teacher,” I said. “I should have called first. I hope it’s okay that I brought him.”

  “Certainly, the more the merrier. Please, come in.” Dad descended the stairs, and Mom said, “I’d like you to meet my husband, Vern.” Dad shook Henry’s hand, then invited him into the living room where a football game was concluding.

  I set the table while Mom rinsed and dried the lettuce. The aroma of freshly baked biscuits and buttery mashed potatoes, which usually made my stomach groan with hunger, smelled flat. All appetite gone, I felt my forehead with the back of my hand. Maybe I was coming down with something.

  “This is a nice treat,” Mom said. She carried the salad, tossed in a wooden bowl, to the table. “Henry seems pleasant. Make sure you set enough places.”

  “As I said, he’s my art teacher, nothing more. I stopped by his house to get the jacket I left at his party last night.” I could see Mom’s eyes widen. “It wasn’t a date. He invited the whole class.” She gave me one of her I-can-see-through-you expressions, but I kept rambling. “He said he didn’t have any food in his house, and I felt sorry for him.”

  “Of course, dear.”

  During dinner my parents, oblivious to my embarrassment, shared several childhood anecdotes. I picked at my food while the others enjoyed seconds. My stomach had shrunk to the size of a walnut. If I spent much more time with Henry, I’d lose those extra pounds.

  Mom drizzled gravy over Henry’s potatoes. “Marguerite was such a talented child,” she said. “We couldn’t keep a crayon or paintbrush out of her hands. See that?” She pointed to my still life of peonies in an aqua-colored glass vase, which hung above the sideboard. “She did that her last year in college.”

  A queasy feeling passed through me as I watched Henry rise to inspect the acrylic painting more closely. When he sat down again, he agreed it was well done. “Very nice composition, and I like your use of colors. It reminds me of an early Manet.”

  What a generous compliment, I thought, or was it? I tried to remember the paintings Manet produced in the beginning of his career, but I could only recall his later works as an Impressionist. Was Henry trying to tell me I could have matured into a proficient artist if I’d kept working at it? Or was this praise to buoy up two parents?

  Forty-five minutes later, my parents and Henry finished their blackberry pie a la mode, which I didn’t even try. In the last two hours, he’d learned most of my history, at least what my parents knew, including the fact I sold real estate.

  “Delicious dinner, Mom,” I said, when the conversation lulled. I stood and pushed back my chair. “You want me to help yo
u clean up before we leave?” I emphasized the word leave.

  “Are you sure you don’t want more coffee?” Mom asked. “I could brew another pot in a jiffy.”

  “Not tonight, Mother.”

  Henry patted his mouth with his napkin. “Thank you, Mrs. Marsden, for a meal I will long remember.”

  “You’re welcome, and please call me Dorothy.”

  I carried a load of dishes to the kitchen sink while Henry got to his feet, then strolled to the front door with my parents.

  “Glad to have met you, Henry,” Dad said, giving his hand a shake.

  “Come back anytime,” Mom said.

  I squeezed past them. “Thanks, Mom, see you, Dad,” I called over my shoulder as I darted to my car.

  On the drive back to Henry’s place, I wanted to ask him if he really liked my painting. Not that I could paint another one like it now. A person can never go back in time. A child athlete wouldn’t be able to score the winning goal at a soccer game or a dancer perform a pirouette after years of inactivity.

  Instead, we chatted about my parents. Gracious and genuine was how he described them. “I hope I’ll get to see them again sometime,” he said.

  Highly unlikely, I thought as I shoved my foot on the gas pedal. Yet the dinner was not a complete bust. It had been reassuring to see my parents getting along so well, just like old times. I supposed Mom’s anger had been alleviated by a dozen yellow roses, Dad’s usual offering after a tiff.

  I pulled up to Henry’s house. “Good night,” I said.

  He sat silently for a moment, then turned to me and slowly moved closer. As I watched his features blur, I realized he was going to kiss me. And I was going to let him. Tim’s face suddenly flashed through my mind like a wagging finger chastising me. Was I being unfaithful to him? He and I hadn’t agreed to date each other exclusively, but was this wrong? Before I could answer myself, Henry’s lips brushed mine. Then I felt my mouth melt into his. The kiss, lasting only a moment, left me limp. When it ended, I sat back to drink in its luxury. I couldn’t believe he’d kissed me. And what a kiss.

  He was still only inches away. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He expelled a hard, quick breath. “I’m sorry.”

  Before I could speak, he got out of the car and mumbled a hurried good-bye. I felt stunned, like a bird that had flown into a windowpane. Was that all he could say? That he shouldn’t have kissed me? I watched him disappear up his stairs. Part of me wanted to follow him and rush into his arms, but I could only sit in dumb amazement.

  As I entered my kitchen, the phone was ringing. No one called me this late. It must be Henry explaining his bizarre behavior. I’d rehashed the kiss over and over on the ride home. Never in my life had a man kissed me, then immediately apologized and practically run away as if his life were in danger. What was his problem? We were both single adults, even if I was Phil’s ex-wife. Did Henry have an aversion to divorced women? If so, why had he kissed me?

  I answered the phone and heard Tim say, “How about if I come over? I could be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m about to go to bed,” I said. “It’s been an exhausting evening.”

  “Poor baby. Why don’t you let Dr. O’Brien come over and make you feel better? We got stopped in the middle of something special today, and you’ve been on my mind ever since.”

  I tried to decide whether I wanted to go out with Tim again. I had just kissed another man, and enjoyed it. I wasn’t a two-timing type of woman who could juggle men like beanbags. But I didn’t trust my emotions. How many times had I thought I was making the right choice, only to discover I was living in a fantasy world?

  I thought about Tim’s good points and reminded myself the list stretched long. And he seemed genuine, uncomplicated. With Tim what you saw is what you got.

  “Not tonight,” I said. “But we’ll see each other again soon.”

  At one the next afternoon, Lois and I met for lunch at Azteca Restaurant. Feeling little interest in the Henricks’ deal or any real-estate business, I sat as a foggy spectator while Lois’s elastic mouth emphasized the words closing and co-list. I hadn’t slept well the night before, and the three cups of coffee and two doughnuts I consumed during the office meeting had drained me.

  Trying to impress me with hermost recent sale, Lois heaped guacamole and sour cream on her taco salad, then dug in.

  “You must have the metabolism of an eight-year-old,” I said. I’d never heard her complain about her weight. The woman seemed to shine twenty-four hours a day. “How do you manage to stay so slim?” I asked.

  “I drink more than I eat.” She must have noticed confusion on my face, because she added, “Water. I chug at least eight glasses every day, and I walk on my treadmill in the morning while I watch the news.”

  “Your routine must work, because you look great.”

  “So my hubby tells me.” She swallowed another mouthful. “Say, you could help me out. In thirty minutes I have an appointment to show Darla Bennett a condo, and it may cut my golf game short. Maybe you could fill in for me.”

  I dropped the tortilla chip I was about to plunge into the salsa on the edge of my plate. “Darla is my ex-husband’s girlfriend.” I felt like I’d just unloaded my top bureau drawer, where I hid my private effects, on the table, but she deserved an explanation.

  “So? You’ve been single ever since we met. You must have gotten divorced ages ago.”

  I grabbed the chip again and dragged it through the chunky red sauce. “Real life’s not like the movies, where everyone can be best friends after they break up.”

  Lois stared back without understanding. “Then wouldn’t it be an outstanding revenge to earn a fat commission check from her?”

  “No, I think I’d better keep out of it.”

  “Have it your way.”

  After she left to meet up with Darla, I stashed my half-eaten enchilada in a doggie bag and drove home. I made a stab at straightening the house, threw a load of laundry in the washing machine, even took Charlie for a walk around the block, then tumbled onto the couch for a quick nap.

  The neighbor’s leaf blower woke me up. I tried to move my head, but my neck felt locked in place, as though rigor mortis had set in. Swinging my feet around to the floor, I pushed my torso to a sitting position with my arms, which started my head pounding. I checked my watch and realized I’d slept two hours. Laurie would be around to pick me up in twenty minutes.

  Feeling woozy, I splashed cold water on my face, then checked myself in the mirror. Nothing I tried alleviated the puffy half-moons under my eyes and the sleep creases on my cheek. My hair lay matted flat on one side, but fiddling with it made it look worse.

  Laurie’s horn tooted out front. I finished changing out of my work clothes into jeans and a turtleneck sweater.

  “Tell me all about the party,” she said as I piled into her car.

  “Not much to tell. There were tons of people there, but the only one I recognized from class was Rhonda. Phil was there, but at least Darla wasn’t hanging on his arm.”

  “What did you and Henry talk about?”

  I glanced down at my loafers, and noticed I was wearing one black sock and one blue sock. “He was surrounded by admirers and rich patrons most of the time. We didn’t talk much.”

  “That’s strange. I’d swear he’s been watching you in class.”

  “He probably thinks I’m a still life.” I tried sounding nonchalant. I was tempted to divulge the dinner at my parents’ house and the kiss, but I ran my tongue over the inside of my teeth to keep myself from jabbering. I wasn’t ready to talk about it—whatever it was.

  “Enough about me,” I said, pivoting in my seat to read Laurie’s reaction to my question. “How’s your golf swing?”

  Her face remained unchanged. “That’s all over. I might even switch golf lesson days. That man means nothing to me.” She took a hard left, forcing my shoulder against the car door.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I said, not complete
ly buying her explanation. Laurie often acted giddy, but she seemed different tonight. Her voice sounded tinny, and her speech scattered.

  “You can quit worrying, okay? You’re worse than my mother. I moved two thousand miles to get away from her meddling.” She glanced at me as she slowed for a red light. “That guy still might come in handy. He’s an investment counselor who could give me free advice. It’s time I started my own stock portfolio.” The light turned green, and she zoomed forward, almost grazing the pedestrian who was leaving the crosswalk. “Our broker acts like I don’t even exist. If I answer the phone when he calls, he automatically asks for Dave without even saying hello to me first.”

  I watched her lips move as she muttered under her breath at the driver in front of us, a tiny woman whose head barely cleared the steering wheel. A moment later, Laurie passed the woman by crossing a double-yellow centerline.

  I clung to the armrest. “There are lots of investment brokers out there. You should find someone else.”

  She sailed through the tail end of an amber light. “Thank you, Mother.” When had she become such an aggressive driver?

  Arriving at class, I spied Henry standing at the far side of the room talking to several students. In spite of my determination to remain indifferent toward him until I made sense of things, I found being in the same room with him maddening, yet delicious. I looked away and tried to concentrate on opening my sketchpad and checking my pencil tip.

  Minutes later I watched him arrange fruit in a flattish wicker basket, then demonstrate a drawing technique, but I heard little of what he said. He really did have a beautiful face, its expressive lines carved out of experience, heartbreak, and intelligence. I wondered if he’d noticed me yet. When he glanced around the room, his gaze drifted by me without stopping.

  I heard the movement of paper and realized everyone else was starting a drawing assignment.

  “What did he want us to do?” I asked Laurie.