A Portrait of Marguerite Read online

  As he fit the key in the lock, I felt like Mount Etna ready to spew off its lid.

  He turned the knob and opened the door wide, as if welcoming a long lost relative. “After you,” he said.

  I felt disoriented—as if I’d never been here before. Instead of smelling a haze of secondhand smoke, I inhaled clean air enhanced with a hint of lemon. Ahead, the walls were freshly tinted buttermilk yellow, and cream-colored molding ran along the ceiling and floor. A Persian carpet led into the living room.

  Phil grinned like a child showing his parents a straight-A report card. “Did I tell you my old landlord put the building on the market last year? All the tenants formed an association, and we turned it into a condominium. This place is mine.”

  Not noticing my scowl, he strolled into the living room, where two matching moss green couches stood at right angles to the marble-faced fireplace. A hand-blown glass bowl filled with shells sat on the sleek table between the couches. He relaxed into one couch and motioned me to the other.

  I sat rigidly, my knees pressing against the table’s edge. “Why did you tell Darla I tricked you into marrying me?”

  His jaw dropped open. “I didn’t mean to. It slipped out. But don’t worry, she won’t tell anyone.”

  “She was just at my house, and she threatened to.”

  “No way. She’s not like that.” He was showing himself to be as naive as I once was.

  “She may have already blabbed to Henry.” A tear trickled down my cheek and into the corner of my mouth. I was surprised I had any tears left inside me. “You promised never to tell anyone.”

  He got up and moved to my couch. Sitting next to me, he reached for my hand.

  I yanked it away. “Don’t touch me, you traitor!”

  “I guess I’ve never been good at keeping secrets. Even when I’m sober, I talk too much.” His arm eased over the back of the couch, then around my shoulder. “I’ll call her and tell her to keep quiet.”

  That wouldn’t work, I thought. Darla would always hold this information over me. My chest began shaking with my labored breathing. I tried to harden my melting features, but tears seeped out.

  “Please don’t cry.” He pulled me closer. “You have nothing to feel bad about.” He wiped my cheek. “I’m not sorry I married you. Marrying you and having Rob were the best things I’ve ever done.”

  “But I forced you to. And I almost aborted Rob.” The words strangled me, closing my windpipe. I could never admit to anyone that I had later contemplated giving Rob up for adoption to a complete stranger. “I wasn’t a very good mother.”

  He kissed my cheek. “That’s all in the past.” For a long moment, our eyes locked. His lips neared mine. Then he kissed me. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to be swept into his powerful embrace.

  He pulled back a few inches and sighed. “You still taste good.”

  His lips brushed mine, but I pushed him away. “We can’t do this,” I said. “It’s wrong.”

  “But this feels so right. What could it hurt?”

  “Isn’t acting impetuously what got us into trouble in the first place?”

  “But we were married once.”

  “The key word is were.” It would be like leaping out of an airplane to see if the ground was still hard.

  Phil lifted a strand of hair away from my face and carefully tucked it behind my ear. “I’ve never met a woman who could satisfy me like you did.”

  My face was bathed in heat. “Not even Darla?”

  “We don’t … I mean, she says we have to wait until after we’re married.”

  I had to hand it to her this time; she had the right idea.

  I found myself humming as I drove past the Seattle Asian Art Museum looking for a place to park. As my voice soared to hit a high note, I realized it was the Mozart piece I’d heard at Henry’s studio. Not wanting to think about him, I turned on the radio, found an oldies station, and began singing along with Elvis: “I can’t help falling in love with you.” That was no good either, I thought. Switching off the radio, I tried to concentrate on my driving.

  Circling the brick water tower on the south side of Volunteer Park, I found a spot at the side of the road. As I backed in, I tapped the car behind me, setting off its alarm. Listening to the car’s siren beep and blare, I remembered Dad teaching me how to parallel park, but I’d never been very good at it. He’d taught me many things. I recalled his bringing the family to the park and climbing the water tower. We kids had scrambled up the stairs, our voices echoing as we dashed around madly, while Dad and Mom admired the view of downtown.

  I hadn’t spoken to Dad since our discouraging conversation at the restaurant, and I wouldn’t do so until he and Mom reconciled, which could be never. Mom was beginning to worry me. I thought older people tended to suffer from depression, not incredible bursts of energy. But she’d sounded almost manic with her crazy talk about travel, and finding her roots, and signing up for a class called Independent Women and Finance. Was she really happier living as a single woman? Had she given up on reclaiming her marriage? No, I wasn’t going to think about Mom either, I decided. Not for an hour anyway.

  Trying to ignore the alarm of the car behind me, I got out, plugged my ears and took off with long strides. My toe hit a crease in the sidewalk, and I started to teeter forward. Flailing out my arms, I regained my equilibrium but felt foolish, even though no one was watching. Which was stupid. Who cared what others thought? I’d spent too much of my life trying to keep up an image, when in reality no one probably noticed. They were likely too busy worrying about themselves.

  Up ahead stood the imposing stone-faced museum, with its panels of metal and white glass at the center. I heard running water from the fountains and inhaled the pungent smell of spent marigolds. Glancing toward the other side of the road, I could see Noguchi’s Black Sun, a mammoth doughnut-shaped sculpture. Below it lay the reservoir, a round body of water.

  Moving toward the front door, I saw the larger-than-life camel statues reclining on either side of me. A mother stood nearby as her son crawled atop one of them, and I recalled playing there as a child. Was I the reason my family came to the museum so often? Neither of my siblings had shown any interest in art.

  I lugged the front door open and saw Emily waiting at the ticket booth, as we’d agreed. She’d called earlier that morning. “Are you available to see an exhibit of contemporary Japanese prints and paintings?” she’d asked in a voice I found impossible to refuse.

  Emily’s silver hair glimmered like a halo under the overhead lights. “I’m glad you could come,” she said as I approached her.

  “Thank you, it was nice of you to think of me.” I opened my billfold and handed three dollars to the woman collecting admission. It was a nominal amount, I thought, and I decided to start visiting a different museum each month. Why not?

  Emily and I ascended several steps and entered the first room as a couple was exiting through the passageway at the far end, leaving us alone.

  On the near wall hung a sign, Reflections of Water: Japanese Modern Prints and Paintings, and I surmised the works all possessed an aquatic theme.

  “It’s a shame you missed the last class,” Emily said. “A young woman from New Delhi dressed in a sari posed for us.” She stopped before a print of four wooden skiffs moored on the banks of the Tone River. “Henry asked Laurie and me if we knew why you weren’t there. He seemed concerned.”

  “A conflict came up that made it impossible.”

  We moved to the next piece, a pen and ink drawing of a mist-enshrouded waterfall.

  “Are you going to keep drawing?” she asked.

  “I hope to. I painted something since we saw each other last.”

  “Good for you.”

  We migrated a few feet to view a print of rain slanting down upon a darkened Tokyo street.

  My mind spun to my new marketing strategies: to send clients calendars at Christmas featuring remodeled homes with before and after photos, and a newsle
tter mentioning my latest sales and listings, and offering tips on creating intimate interior spaces using a coat of paint, existing furniture, and accessories.

  “I’m not sure I’ll have time to paint again until after Christmas,” I added.

  “I hope you will. You were doing something important. The way I see it, God gave us our talents to use whenever we can. He loves to watch us create.”

  I’ve got to tell you, her words sounded like gibberish to me. I couldn’t see what God had to do with anything.

  We continued into the next room to find a dozen high-school-aged students taking notes as their teacher explained a series of ten prints of Mount Fuji. We stayed a few minutes, then moved on to the next room, which housed a collection of kimonos affixed to the wall. Again, Emily and I stood alone.

  “Exquisite,” she said. Her eyes embraced the sapphire blue-and-caramel-colored geometric patterns of the fabric.

  She turned to me. “Did I mention that I first met Henry at church? Over twenty years ago. I got to know his precious family, and my heart ached for everything he and his girls endured. I don’t see him there anymore, but once you know the Lord, the relationship can never be severed.”

  I could understand how an old-fashioned woman might adopt such outmoded notions. It would be comforting to believe in a big father figure watching out for her, especially as she got on in years. But I had proof that fathers couldn’t be trusted.

  ”Do you know Jesus?” she said.

  All I could think about was ending this dreadful conversation. I thought about saying I needed to use the restroom and then never coming back. But I liked Emily too much to run out on her like that. I pretended to examine another kimono while my mind searched for a polite answer. “I went to church when I was young, but I haven’t set foot in one for years—except when someone’s getting married or buried. God and I don’t get along all that well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, dear. Sounds like you feel he let you down?”

  “Let’s just say I gave the God thing a shot, and it didn’t work out.”

  “There were times when I rejected God too. But he didn’t give up on me.” Her voice rang with certainty, as if she were citing a mathematical theorem, when in truth her beliefs were based on speculation. Fantasy, really. “He hasn’t forgotten you either,” she said. “You might give him another try.”

  “How can you be sure about something you can’t even see?” I knew it sounded rude, but I was growing weary of this discussion.

  Her eyes sparkled like a young girl’s. “The same way I can be sure the sun’s up in the sky even though I can’t find it at night. I can see its light reflecting off the surface of the moon just as I see the Lord’s reflected love shining in the lives of my friends, even if I can’t observe it in my own.”

  The room felt suddenly cold; I hugged myself. “There was a time when I believed all things worked together for good for those who love God,” I said. “But good things didn’t come my way. And no matter how hard I try, bad things keep happening.”

  “Bad things do happen to good people,” she agreed. “We’ll have to wait until we get to heaven to ask God why he allows us to experience some hardships. Until then we must keep trusting him and asking for his wisdom and guidance.”

  “I stopped asking God for favors a long time ago, and it’s been easier that way—one less thing to be disappointed about.” I took a step toward the next room, but Emily remained where she was.

  “God’s timing isn’t the same as ours, but he always has a reason for what he does,” she said. “Even his allowing my Al to be taken away so soon. It’s easy to become discouraged when he doesn’t answer our prayers in a few days, or even years, but we must have patience.” She sounded all too much like my mother, which made me feel defensive.

  “I’ve lived the past eighteen years just fine this way.” Thank you very much.

  “Of course you have, dear. But remember, no matter what has happened in your life, God still wants to have a relationship with you. He’s knocking at your door. All you have to do is open it.”

  God wanted to get to know me better? Fat chance. In a rash move, I said, “If God exists, he doesn’t want me.” There, the other half of the puzzle lay on the table.

  She looked perplexed.

  “I haven’t been a very good person,” I said. A woman like Emily couldn’t begin to understand.

  Her face glowed with sympathy. “We’re all sinners.”

  I hated that word. “Not my mother. She’s not a sinner.”

  “Dear, we’re all cut from the same bolt of cloth. That’s just the way we’re made. The good news is, the Lord has promised that if we confess our sins and repent of them, he will forgive us and will wash us clean, the way I often whiten my wool before I spin it.”

  As we wandered into the next room to view an exhibit of Chinese ceramics, Emily started talking about a poetry class she’d taken, as if the previous topic had been the most natural in the world. “We should sign up for another art class together,” she said. “Would you be interested?”

  In spite of all her preachy talk about God, I longed to know her better. “Yes, I’d go if you were there.” As long as there was a new teacher.

  “Great, I’ll look forward to it. When you’re my age, you start losing your friends. It’s hard to let go, but you have no choice. That’s why it’s good to have younger friends—like you.”

  “And I need a friend like you, too.”

  “Good, then it’s settled.” She clasped me in her arms, then stood back and said, “I’m afraid I need to be on my way. I’m babysitting the grandkids today.”

  “Sounds like fun, and I should get to work.”

  “We must do this again soon.”

  “Sure,” I said. “We could try the Frye Museum, and have lunch afterward.”

  Strolling toward the exit, we passed a Ming Dynasty scroll and several earthenware statues we discovered were tomb attendants. We stepped outside the building and headed down the walkway. I’d intended to spend the afternoon at the office, but as Emily got into her car and drove away, I decided to take a closer look at the Black Sun. From the museum side of the street, I could see the far-off Space Needle rising behind the polished granite sculpture and through the nine-foot hole in its center.

  A sporty roadster slowed to let me cross. In the middle of the street, my cell phone warbled. I quickened my pace while reaching into my purse, then pressed the phone against my ear and said hello.

  “It’s Lois.” Her voice sounded fragile—no trace of its usual brassy self-confidence. She was the last person I expected to hear from.

  “Marguerite, I need to tell you something you may already know.”

  A couple sat chatting at the base of the sculpture; I stepped out of their earshot. “You don’t need to say anything.”

  “Yes, I do. No more secrets. I’m an alcoholic, an out-of-control drunk. The burden of keeping that fact hidden has been almost as bad as the booze. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes.” I knew what it was like to shoulder a secret weighing more than this massive sculpture. “How can I help?”

  “If Stephanie gave you those files, you’re already helping me.”

  As I walked around to the back of the Black Sun to view the reservoir below, I filled Lois in on what I’d accomplished so far. With my persuasion and some rather clever recommendations for carpet and paint colors, the Henricks had made an offer on the home they had viewed months earlier. Their offer accepted, the couple was acting like a pair of chickadees ready to build a new nest. Also, the Basettis had found themselves in first place for the house they wanted, and the man who needed to verify his income finally showed up with tax returns for the last three years, proving he was financially solvent.

  “The only person I haven’t spoken to is Darla Bennett.” Speaking her name was like biting into rock salt, sucking the moisture right out of my mouth.

  “I’ve learned a lot since I’ve been here,” she sai
d. “Life’s too short to fawn over people who don’t treat you with respect. If Darla bugs you, let someone else in the office handle her.” She laughed, almost sounding like herself again. “I can’t believe I said that.” Her voice turned serious again. “By the way, if anything closes while I’m gone, I want you to keep the commission, one hundred percent.”

  “No, we’ll split the money, just like we planned.”

  “You’d still want me for a partner?”

  “As long as you stay sober.” My vision traveled to the far-off horizon; I saw a slice of Elliot Bay, and behind it, craggy mountain peaks.

  “When are you coming back to work?” I asked.

  “I’m in here for twenty-eight days, so it’ll be three more weeks, maybe longer. In the meantime please pray for me. Part of this process is admitting I’m powerless over my alcoholism and turning to God to restore my sanity.”

  “Good luck,” I said, knowing it was unlikely I would be doing any praying. “Let me know if there’s anything more I can do.”

  The sky was darkening, and the air tasted thick. I started back toward my car by way of a lily pond. The small body of water seemed the picture of tranquility. I envisioned Emily’s peaceful face. Was it really God who gave her the courage to go on after her husband’s death? If so, then why hadn’t he shown up for me? I’d begged him to make Phil sober and to save our marriage. Where was he when my father cheated on Mom? Where was he the night my future grandchild was conceived? Why didn’t he keep these terrible things from happening? A compassionate God wouldn’t let good people suffer this way.

  How many chances should I give you, God?

  I shook my head. Even if I wanted to pray, my faith wasn’t there anymore.

  A drop of rain flicked my cheek. I looked to the clouds and saw a patch of blue. Was God still knocking on my door?

  Visions of Rob holding a newborn, my parents battling in divorce court, and Phil marrying Darla swirled through my head. I wasn’t strong enough to make it on my own, that much I knew.