A Portrait of Marguerite Page 15

  She tilted her head toward the arrangement. “We’re supposed to use gradational shading to make the basket look solid.”

  I positioned my pencil on the page, but worked with only half my concentration on my drawing. The other half kept Henry in sight so I wouldn’t be startled if he approached.

  He never wandered over.

  He left the room at the beginning of the break. Waiting for his return, I lingered by the coffee thermos and spoke to every person who poured a cup. When Henry did show up, he avoided looking at me.

  By the end of class, it finally hit me. My esteemed professor was snubbing me again. This was worse than high school.

  As the class broke up, and students started packing their materials, I dallied. While rearranging my pencils, I chatted with Emily until I saw Henry standing alone gathering up the basket.

  Refusing to be treated like a nonentity, I boldly walked over wearing a phony expression of confidence. “Good evening,” I said, forcing buoyancy into my voice.

  His eyes looked worried, almost frightened. “I’d like to speak to you, but not here. May I call you at home?”

  “Sure.” A lemon rolled out of the basket and landed near my foot. I bent down to grab it, then dropped it back in. “Give me a ring.”

  When I returned to my desk, Laurie wiggled her eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “What were you two talking about?” she said.

  I was so flustered I could barely get the words out. “I asked him which kind of eraser he recommends.”

  If only I could find something to erase all memory of him from my mind.

  I’m too old for this, I told myself in the seclusion of my kitchen. Kicking off my shoes and tossing my purse on a chair, I wanted to scream. I refused to let Henry dictate my mood. I must be in the grasp of PMS or premenopausal craziness. Or maybe I was suffering from depression again. I hoped not. I couldn’t face seeing a shrink—rehashing my divorce and how I messed up as a parent.

  Telling myself I would be perfectly fine, I started up the stairs. But by the time I reached the bedroom, I felt myself slipping into a dark pit. Desperate to divert my thoughts, I spent extra time brushing and flossing my teeth. I considered getting them bleached. That might knock a few years off my looks. If I looked better, I would feel better.

  I arranged my pillows, got into bed, opened my book, and pretended there was nowhere else I would rather be. I began the next chapter, entitled “Building Your Dream House.” The writer described the foundation blocks on which exciting new lives were erected: childhood dreams, the things one had always wanted to try but hadn’t because of fear of failure. The author started from the basement up and suggested tools one needed to proceed, such as finding mentors and enrolling in appropriate education.

  At around age thirteen, I thought, men became my foundation blocks. First, I was Daddy’s good girl—the oldest child. Then I tried to be what Phil wanted. After the divorce, as a single woman, I was temporarily relieved of the burden of trying to please a man. But loneliness took hold of me and I started searching for another mate. In the dating scene, I’d molded myself to be whatever I deemed each new guy wanted, until I felt suffocated.

  I slapped the book shut. It was time to find new bricks and mortar, and construct my world on something other than the opposite sex.

  I glanced up to the cracking ceiling. God, I thought. Are you just another man who let me down?

  Of course not, because he didn’t even exist. Or did he? Closing my eyes and bowing my head, I whispered, “Okay, I’ll give you one more chance to show yourself.”

  My eyes snapped open as the room echoed with emptiness.

  The doorbell chimed, and Charlie scrambled to the front hall. I noticed the clock read 7:00, exactly the time Tim said he would arrive. He’d phoned me once a day for almost a week asking to see me. Feeling drained of all stamina, as though I were coming down with a virus that never materialized, I’d put him off. All I’d craved was solitude.

  Henry hadn’t called, and I’d convinced myself I didn’t care. I could kick myself for wasting one moment thinking about him. How dim-witted it would be to get involved with another deadbeat artist when someone as nice as Tim liked me.

  “I’m coming,” I called, then swept the door open and flashed Tim a smile. Wearing a sports jacket and slacks, he stood for a moment eyeing me as though we barely knew each other. I could see I’d hurt his feelings. How could I have been so thoughtless?

  “Come in,” I said, reaching out to take his arm. He stepped inside, but instead of kissing me, he said hello to Charlie, whose ears tipped back.

  “It’s good to see you,” I said, and led Tim into the living room. He parked himself on the far end of the couch and crossed his arms. Scooting close enough so our knees almost met, I asked about his last few days. His stony features slowly relaxed, and one arm slid to the back of the couch as he described a recent bank transaction. But when he finally suggested we grab a bite to eat, he made no attempt to help me with my jacket or even open the door for me.

  We headed to Ray’s Boathouse Restaurant, and in thirty minutes sat at a table overlooking Shilshole Bay. Below us boats, their white hulls vivid, motored by in the jet-black water as they departed the Ballard Locks on their way into Puget Sound.

  With my encouragement, Tim described in detail an important bank transaction with a wealthy Seattle family I knew by name and reputation. As we ate, I conjured up enough questions to supply him with two hours of explanations. By the time we finished our dinners and the check arrived, my eyelids were drooping. He quickly paid the bill so he could take “my sleepy lady home.”

  In his car he invited me to his condominium for a cup of coffee. “I’ve been wanting to show you my place. Then I’ll run you right home, I promise.”

  “Okay.” I’d wondered where he lived, but I hadn’t wanted to give him the wrong idea by asking to see it.

  We crossed town, then cruised over the expansive floating bridge to the East Side. I watched the lights of Kirkland and Bellevue grow brighter and soon saw waterfront homes taking shape. Tim said something, and I glanced over at him. The greenish white beams from the towering lights lining the bridge cast ghostly shadows across his face. He suddenly looked like a stranger.

  I clamped my eyes shut for a moment. Now was no time to turn back, I told myself. He’d be furious and never ask me out again. I wouldn’t blame him. We rolled down the exit ramp, then traveled north along the banks of Lake Washington. He deposited the car in his reserved spot, and we rode the elevator up to the third floor.

  “Welcome to my hideaway,” he said in a Dracula-like voice. He led me through the spacious living room to the deck, which stretched out over the water. In one corner of the deck stood two chairs and a table with an umbrella. A potted Boston fern in need of a thorough soaking and a dose of fertilizer hunkered in the other corner.

  Listening to the rhythmic waves lapping below us, I rested my elbows on the railing and inflated my lungs with moist air. Tim stood behind me, his cheek resting against mine.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “Yes, it’s beautiful. You must come out here a lot.”

  “Not really, I’m not home much. I’d spend more time here if I had someone like you to keep me company.”

  From behind he enveloped me in his arms. I shivered from the chilly breeze seeping through my jacket, and he tightened his hold. Hoping to move indoors, I turned around to find his eager lips waiting for a kiss. I shuddered again, and he rubbed my back.

  “Let’s get you warmed up,” he said and reached for my hand. We moved inside; I sank down on the couch as he went into the kitchen. He returned carrying two brandy snifters and a crystal decanter containing tea-colored liquid, then sat next to me.

  “May I?” he asked, removing the decanter’s stopper.

  “None for me.” I wondered what had happened to his offer of coffee.

  He filled his glass, took a sip, then licked his upper lip. Then, sliding his arms around me, he
pushed my weight back into the couch’s thick cushions. He kissed me, and I tried to share his affection in a way that would replicate the moment I’d shared with Henry. Those lips had rendered me helpless, but with Tim I felt like a wooden doll.

  He pulled back a few inches. “You and I belong together,” he said in my ear. “You’re different from the other women I’ve met. Beautiful but also intelligent and independent.” I could hear his breath becoming staggered. “You could stay here tonight,” he said, his hand moving to my hip.

  I stopped him from exploring further. “I think I’d better go,” I said.

  “All right, pretty lady.” He wrapped a strand of my hair around his finger. “If you’re not ready, I’ll respect that.”

  Staring into the nubbly carpet, I searched for a witty answer to placate his hunger, but found none.

  “We’ll do it your way,” he said with a sigh. “Good things are worth waiting for.” He massaged the back of my neck, then my shoulder. “But first I want to show you the rest of my abode.” He guided me through to the kitchen, then his bedroom. With its brocade quilt, accent pillows, and matching Roman shades, it looked as though a decorator had picked out every item in one fell swoop, giving the rooms a sterile feel.

  “Someday you could watch the sunset from my waterbed,” he said, then gave the bed a push, sending an undulating wave across its surface.

  I didn’t enter beyond a step or two.

  At eleven thirty, we said our final good nights at my front door. When he left, I wandered into my kitchen to check for phone messages.

  “This is Henry Marsh,” I heard. “It’s seven o’clock. I’ll call back tomorrow.”

  As I listened to my morning coffee spatter in the coffeemaker, I contemplated not walking with the Mom’s Brigade. I might just stay at home, but what would I do? Wait for Henry’s call? No, I refused to sit by the phone like a high-school sophomore hoping the senior jock would ask her to the prom.

  I found my walking shoes, snapped on Charlie’s leash, and headed out the door. The silver clouds looked tissue-paper thin and would probably burn off into a sunny afternoon, but a cool wind tickled my face, making my ears tingle. I spotted Laurie at the corner wearing a fleece jacket I hadn’t seen since last winter.

  “It’s freezing out here,” she said, and rubbed her hands together. “I hope those other two get here soon so we can get moving.”

  At that moment Erika, her hair tucked under a knit cap, rounded the corner. Five minutes later Susan drove up in her minivan and jumped out, panting. “I’m sorry, but the telephone rang as I was going out the door.” The others rolled their eyes.

  It was too chilly for dawdling; I noticed the group was moving faster than our summer speed. Even Charlie acted friskier, standing on his back feet and straining at the leash.

  “I can’t believe how fat I’m getting,” Susan said once she’d regained her breath. “That’s one reason I was late. I couldn’t find anything to wear. I was five pounds lighter when I weighed myself last week. Where did it come from?”

  With the greatest diplomacy, and without mentioning that Susan’s sweatpants had been fitting snugly for months, we each recounted our various diets and exercise routines.

  “I tried that already, and it didn’t work for me,” was Susan’s answer to every suggestion.

  “Hey, everyone, did I tell you about our trip to Kauai in December?” Erika asked, slowing down and giving her hips a hula swish. “Picture me and Jonathan strolling barefoot on the beach after a day of snorkeling. Doesn’t that sound perfect?”

  “Don’t get near me when you come home,” Susan shot back with a laugh. “I avoid suntanned people all winter.”

  “Hey, I deserve it.”

  “Dave’s been promising me a vacation for a year,” Laurie said, sounding like a pouting child about to throw a tantrum. “But I’ve given up. Unless work’s involved, he’s not interested.”

  “He’s a hardworking man,” I said. I remembered our discussion about Christian men at Barnes and Noble and added, “There are worse things. He could get his nose pierced and dye his hair orange.”

  “Not Dave,” she said. “He’s too uptight. He wears the exact same thing every day. Boring.”

  I was growing weary of Laurie’s bellyaching. “Boring beats unpredictable or reckless.”

  “I agree,” Erika said.

  “Ooh. Look at that guy,” Laurie said, as a lanky runner sprinted by.

  I glared at her and arched an eyebrow.

  “I’m only looking,” she said.

  The phone was ringing as I opened my door. Charging in, my limbs seemed to move in slow motion. I nabbed the receiver and brought it to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Marguerite?” I recognized Henry’s voice.

  My tongue felt too large for my mouth, but I managed to say, “Henry, how’s it going?” in an offhand manner.

  “The truth is, not well.” His voice sounded mechanical, like a computer-generated message. “I’ve acted very badly. Please, forgive me.”

  “For what?”

  “Teachers should never get involved with their students on a personal level. This is the first time I’ve crossed that line.”

  “I’m hardly a schoolgirl.” I didn’t know whether I was annoyed or hurt.

  “I realize that, and some might find me old-fashioned, but I believe it’s for the best.”

  “You didn’t come on to me. I invited you to my parents’ house.”

  “As I recall, I invited myself.”

  “I didn’t mind.” I remembered how happy I’d been when he admired my painting. “And my parents liked you.”

  “I liked them, too. Very much. The problem’s not with you.” He paused long enough for me to wonder if we’d been disconnected. Then he said, “Truth is, I’m choosing not to date anyone.”

  Not dating anyone, or not dating me? “Don’t worry, it was no big deal,” I said. “If you like, we can pretend the whole thing never happened.” Although I couldn’t imagine how I would accomplish that feat.

  “Thank you.” He sounded more at ease. “I would like to talk to you about your work sometime. How long since you last painted?”

  With an affected laugh I said, “I can’t remember,” which wasn’t true. I could well recall my final unfinished painting, a self-portrait. I’d depicted myself sitting in the window seat of the apartment Phil and I shared. I wore a peasant blouse, its soft neckline shirred by a ribbon that tied in the front. My long hair, which hung almost to my waist, had been braided on top of my head and was intertwined with daisies. With most of the larger areas of the painting finished, I’d one day lost interest and never completed it. I’d left the work sitting on my easel for several months. Then, to make room for a new piece of furniture—was it the bassinet?—I folded up the easel and stuck the painting behind the couch. When I moved, I took my art materials and canvases to my parents’ house, so the painting could still be stored somewhere in their basement.

  “I encourage you to start again,” Henry said. When I didn’t answer, he added, “Maybe I can help. Why not stop by my studio so we can discuss it further. I assure you, I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

  I wondered what his idea of gentlemanly behavior was. I had a rough time believing he’d act any differently than he had in the past, which was positively rude. And as for my painting, how could I trust a man like him to be straight with me?

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Lois said as I approached her desk. She opened the desk drawer a few inches, dropped in a nail file, then closed the drawer with her knee, checking afterward to make sure she hadn’t snagged her panty hose. “Not to worry, but there’s a glitch in the Henrick deal.”

  My left eye twitched when I heard the word glitch. “What’s happened?”

  “Old Mr. Troutman fell yesterday and broke a hip. It may be serious.”

  I hate to confess this, but the first person I thought of was myself. My clients, my sale, my commission. But then I envisioned an older man
stumbling off a curb and not getting up again. “The poor man.”

  “Now his wife’s contemplating moving into a retirement center instead of another house.”

  “A broken hip can be disastrous at his age.” I thought of my own parents: Mom balancing atop a step stool to change a light bulb, and Dad wandering about the house reading his paper, not watching where he’s going. If either fractured a bone, even twisted an ankle, who would care for them? Mom was used to catering to Dad, but she wouldn’t be strong enough to lift him, let alone get him to the bathroom. And Dad? He would have no clue about how to take care of Mom. He could flip burgers on the gas barbecue on the Fourth of July, but I wasn’t sure he even knew how to scramble an egg.

  Lois lay one hand on her desk and glanced down at her plum-colored nails. “Oh well, in our business, if it’s not one thing, it’s another, right?”

  I didn’t know how she could act so jolly. Even Lois Grimbaldi couldn’t mend a broken hip in time to complete the deal by closing.

  “I’m running over to the hospital right now to check it out,” Lois said. She pushed her chair away from her desk and stood. “If Mr. Basetti calls, would you talk to him? We’ve been playing telephone tag for days.”

  When she returned several hours later, I’d given Mr. Basetti the price and other details on a home his wife had driven by. No sweat. With him, I had nothing to lose, so I didn’t get rattled.

  “Great,” Lois said. “We can work on this together if you like.”

  “All right.”

  She noticed my serious expression. “It’s still too early to assess Jim Troutman’s condition. What a trooper. He was in good spirits, so let’s keep our fingers crossed.” She wrapped her middle finger around her index finger, then gave her hand a small shake. “It’ll all work out somehow.”

  When I got home, I found a message from Phil waiting for me. “Give me a jingle, okay?” I phoned him back, and Darla answered in her purring voice.

  “Hi, this is Marguerite.”