A Portrait of Marguerite Read online

  I dropped Susan off, then jetted off to my next appointment on time. I arrived at the Henricks’ home with two minutes to spare. I had already shown Sherry and Wayne seven houses and had tried every tactic to get them to choose one, without success.

  They were such nice people, I thought as I rang the doorbell, sending the first eight notes from Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony through the fifties bungalow. But were they just another name on my list of lost causes?

  I could remember plenty of similar incidents. Clients who looked and looked. Pleasant people, who insisted they liked me, said I was the greatest agent they’d ever met, then evaporated like a drop of rain on hot pavement. Sometimes, I’d find out later they’d wandered into an open house and bought from another agent without even contacting me. Didn’t they know I could have sold that house to them? Didn’t they know I worked on commission and had bills to pay just like everyone else? Maybe I needed to be more assertive. That’s what Dad would have told me.

  I knocked several times, then stabbed the bell again.

  Finally Sherry, clad in a pink terrycloth bathrobe, came to the door.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said. Her button nose and small intent eyes reminded me of the Beanie Baby piglet I’d given my four-year-old niece on her birthday.

  “Am I early?” I asked, knowing I wasn’t.

  “No, I’m running late, just got home from tennis. Come on in and make yourself comfy.” Leaving me standing in the family room, Sherry ambled off to the back bedroom.

  A stack of fashion magazines lay on the coffee table. I grabbed the top one and sat on the overstuffed leather couch. Across the room, an expansive TV set, its volume just audible, caught my attention. As I opened the magazine, I glanced over at the screen and noticed an attractive black woman interviewing several teenage girls, about fifteen years old, all holding babies that looked to be their own.

  Seeing them filled me with a self-righteous indignation I had no right to own. Hadn’t young women learned anything in the past twenty years? Were they just as easily fooled as ever?

  Then I remembered how at age twenty my own resolve to remain a virgin floated out the window the night Phil invited me to his one-room apartment. “I’m flunking out of psychology,” he’d said. “Could you come help me study for an exam?” But when I arrived, I didn’t see a single book.

  The TV show was too painful to watch. I found the remote and clicked off the set. I congratulated myself for having a son. There was so much less to worry about with boys.

  Fifteen minutes later Sherry meandered into the family room and started transferring items from her mock crocodile purse into a navy blue one that matched her shoes.

  “Wayne and I drove all over Ballard after lunch yesterday,” she said, squinting into her compact mirror to apply lipstick. “We saw lots of cute houses down there.”

  I shaped my face into a cheery facade. “You poor thing, you must be exhausted by now.” I knew I needed to put the brakes on. I didn’t intend to show this couple every house on the market.

  “Aren’t you feeling overwhelmed with options already?” I said. I’d heard top saleswoman Lois Grimbaldi from the office talk to clients this way, and they always came around with a little persuasion. “I can give you several reasons why we shouldn’t even bother checking out Ballard.” I stiffened my voice, sounding more like an attorney than a realtor. “It’s miles away from the freeway, which would make Wayne’s commute longer.”

  Sherry’s round hand grasped the doorknob. “We already figured that out. Wayne could hop on Highway 99. It would be a straight shot into town.”

  “What about your kids?” I stalled, my mind floundering for a new approach. “You and Wayne said you wanted to live within walking distance of a good elementary school. And I thought you loved Wallingford Center. It’s so much fun to browse around in.”

  “There must be good schools in Ballard, too. I love the quaint main street.” She tugged open the door. “Let’s at least swing by.”

  After a hurried drive, I coasted up to a sprawling two-story residence. The unappealing structure, with its added second floor, a garage that had been converted into a bedroom, and a makeshift carport, towered over its neighbors. The architect, if there was one, should be ashamed of himself. Most likely the owner came up with the design himself.

  “That’s it.” Sherry craned her short neck to gawk out the side window. “What do you think?”

  “Now, Sherry.” I killed the motor without removing the key. “Right off the bat, you need to understand that the size of this house enriches the values of the smaller ones around it, but receives no monetary advantage from them.”

  “I don’t care. Let’s go in. Looking is such fun.”

  Of course, I would do whatever she wanted. The situation reminded me of my father’s old Pontiac. Once he’d invested in a new engine, he felt obligated to spend whatever it took to keep the automobile running.

  After I dropped off Sherry, I headed to the office. Now that my sales had slackened, all the workdays seemed to blend into one another. I thought about the past year. Even when I’d jumped through every hoop set before me, most of my promising deals had trickled away. Several buyers were unable to obtain adequate financing. Others frightened themselves with their own self-doubts. Then calling me with what sounded like a fabricated excuse, they’d demanded their earnest money back.

  I could recall beating myself up over every lost sale. But that only made the losses hurt more, as if dollars had been stolen directly from my own billfold. After each defeat I contemplated switching to a dull, predictable nine-to-five job. But the next day I returned to the same old thing. What other skills did I have? None, really. I should have learned to type back in high school when my mother suggested it. But I was determined never to work in an office.

  I cruised around a corner and into the office parking lot, which sat adjacent to the one-story brick building. By the time I got to the receptionist’s desk to check for messages, I felt myself slipping into the doldrums. My little desk, surrounded by three movable burlap-type fabric walls, was no place to liven my spirits. On the other side of the building, I thought, before a glorious picture window, which looked out onto a tree-lined street, Lois Grimbaldi was putting together million-dollar house deals at her mahogany desk.

  I strolled into the Monday morning sales meeting bringing with me the kind of jubilance only a sale can produce. I waved across the room at Lois, the woman who’d made my achievement possible. As I found a seat, I remembered how she’d persuaded me to hold an open house at her listing the previous Sunday, while she and her husband flew to Palm Springs for a weekend of golf. At first I’d resented spending the day in that dreary little home no one seemed to like. That is, until Bev and Bill Avery showed up. The sale had seemed too easy. Bill was being transferred to the area in two months. The Averys’ only question was “When can we move in?”

  It had been a mediocre month in the real-estate market, and after the meeting several colleagues congratulated me for selling the property. I thanked them. Maybe things were starting to turn around for me after all.

  That evening, I ate a quick meal, then stretched out on my living room couch. I sank deep into the worn velour cushions; my heavy lids blackened the room.

  I was startled back to consciousness by Charlie’s barking, followed by the shrill ring of my doorbell. I stood up too quickly, and watched the room do a spin, then staggered to my feet and yanked open the front door to find Laurie standing on the porch, rubbing her arms to keep warm.

  “You ready yet?” she asked.

  “I totally forgot about the class.” I checked my watch and realized I’d slept over an hour. “Maybe I’d better skip tonight.” All I was good for was watching TV, then diving into bed.

  “No problem, I’m early.” Laurie sashayed into the living room, her hips swinging. “I had to leave before Dave and the kids needed something.” She plunked down on the wingback chair, which stood perpendicular to the couch. “I
’m not cooking on Monday nights anymore. No way. That’s my artist’s evening.”

  I took note of my sadly wrinkled work clothes. “I can’t leave the house like this.”

  “If you’re not going, I won’t either.” She crossed her legs at the knee, then selected a fitness magazine and started reading the table of contents.

  I knew that escaping Laurie’s grasp was like attempting to fly out of a spider’s web, so I caved in without a struggle. “Fine, give me ten minutes to get ready.” I changed into chestnut brown corduroy slacks and a matching sweater. There was no reason not to look nice, I thought. Soon I was being chauffeured through the darkening streets toward campus.

  Once in the art building, we found our seats while the other students straggled in. Henry arrived with a cardboard box in his arms.

  “Good evening.” He opened the box, removed half a dozen wooden blocks, and arranged them on the table. “Everyone did beautifully last week. You seem like a group that can take on any challenge.”

  He spoke about ways to incorporate sketches with other projects. “In Emily’s case, perhaps her weaving.” All faces turned to the woman sitting on my left. He paused, his gaze moving to me for a moment. “Some of you may have studied art in high school or college.”

  Had Phil talked to Henry about me? My chair grew harder, and I squirmed to find a comfortable position.

  “You don’t need to take classes to be an artist,” he continued. “Rousseau and other Primitives painted without formal instruction. But for most people, it helps to learn the basics.” He repositioned a block. “Tonight we’ll explore perspective.”

  Several students groaned.

  Chuckling, he stood back to assess his arrangement. “For thousands of years, artists drew without using perspective and got along quite well. Creating an illusion of depth wasn’t necessary to making fine art.”

  I watched Henry’s animated features as he spoke. I half-listened, wondering how it felt to harbor such an intense yearning for anything. The man was obviously passionate about teaching and about art. Long ago, I’d felt a similar craving for my painting. I remembered myself as a young woman standing before an easel. My hand boldly directed my brush, and images emerged from the untamed color.

  A pencil dropped to the floor. My shoulders jerked, and I realized Henry had stopped speaking.

  “What do you think of our still life?” my neighbor asked. The woman leaned closer, bringing with her a delicate aroma of lilac. Her face, framed with snowy wisps of hair, was at least as old as my mother’s.

  “I’m Emily McBride,” she said.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Marguerite Carr.” I searched my purse for a pencil, then opened my pad.

  “Are you enjoying the class?” Emily asked. She wore an olive green, loosely knit sweater and a silky floral skirt. A tiny gold cross hung from her neck on a chain. “I came away from last week’s lesson with so much good information. I’ve already seen my work improve.”

  “Professor Marsh said you’re a weaver.” As I spoke we both began drawing.

  “For most of my adult life, but recently I’ve been writing children’s poetry, and now I want to illustrate it.” She softened her r’s like someone who grew up somewhere on the East Coast. “Maybe it’s a foolish notion, but I thought I’d give it a try.” Her lips formed a crescent. “I don’t have much drawing background. How about you?” She glanced at the beginnings of my sketch.

  “I studied art in college.” I decided not to mention the endless hours I’d spent in the painting studio, or that I’d carried paper and pencil practically everywhere I went.

  I outlined the blocks in quick, easy lines. My hand seemed to remember the fundamentals of perspective like recalling the words to a childhood rhyme. I executed the correct angles to make my flat drawing pop out into the third dimension.

  “Cool,” Laurie said. “How did you do that?”

  “It’s really nothing.” Actually, I’d surprised myself with my accuracy. “Once you learn how, I guess you don’t forget.”

  Henry suddenly stood behind me, staring over my shoulder. When would he say something? Did he think I had learned perspective from his lecture, or could he tell I’d studied drawing before?

  He moved behind Emily. “You might work with this angle here,” he pointed out. “Otherwise that looks quite respectable.”

  “You mean I’m not too old to learn new tricks?” Her laughter fluttered like a rippling brook; her slender fingers intertwined.

  “In my eyes you’re a young woman.” The rich timbre of his voice vibrated against my back as I shortened a line, then lengthened it. Again he passed behind me without a word. I felt my pulse quicken and heat radiating up my throat. Why was I submitting myself to this torment?

  After the break Henry asked us to get out our smaller sketchbooks. I’d forgotten mine. It contained only my one miserable attempt at drawing Charlie anyway. If anything, I was relieved no one would see it.

  “How did you all do?” he asked. “Not an easy assignment, was it?” Several students shook their heads.

  “Making yourself draw each day can be a daunting task. You’ll remember that I asked for quick, information-gathering sketches, the way a person might take a few notes if a speaker said something useful. A short phrase so the note taker could later recall the whole presentation.”

  Addressing a plump woman with an anxious expression, he added, “Don’t worry, Toni. I’m not going to look at your work.” Relief swept across her face. Then he asked us to take the rest of class time to draw a new piece. “Use one of your sketches to inspire you.”

  Again, the rustling of paper and quiet chatter filled the room.

  “What’s up?” Laurie asked when she noticed me sitting motionless.

  “I forgot my pad. Not that it would have done me much good. I don’t feel like drawing my dog again.”

  “Who cares? You’re a good artist. Make something up. He said he wasn’t going to look at our original sketches. Besides, what’s he going to do, flunk you?” She opened her pad, then tried to decide between a sketch of a carnation and another of an apple.

  How can a grown woman feel so insecure? I wondered about myself. I’d always encouraged Rob to jump in without caring what others thought. I stared at the rectangular page hoping for a brainstorm. I’d never been able to draw things off the top of my head. I’d always needed a subject sitting right in front of me. My mind grasping for ideas, an image formed itself like a pearl in the back of my mind. I began to sketch the oak tree near my house. Up sprang the giant, knotted trunk. Out stretched its arms, heavily laden with foliage. The massive tree became a home for robins and sparrows. It waved its hands at the cumulous clouds swimming by, and the earth beneath it took shape. Deer and rabbits came to wander and graze around it.

  I put in more detail, more life. Only the drawing existed.

  “Hey, that’s great.” Phil’s voice sounded like a machine gun beating into the back of my skull. I twisted around to see that he and Henry had both been watching me draw. It was as if they’d seen me dancing around the house to Kool and the Gang’s “Celebrate Good Times” the night I sold a duplex following a bidding war that skyrocketed the sales price up ten thousand dollars. In other words, I felt exposed.

  “I like what you’re doing, Margo,” Phil said. He was wearing a polo shirt and clean jeans, not plaster-room attire. Had he come here to bug me?

  “Don’t you have somewhere else you need to be?” I said, and, thankfully, he drifted toward the door.

  Laurie leaned over to get a clear view of my drawing. “That’s awesome,” she said.

  “It’s that big tree on the corner,” I told her. “You know, the one we meet under for our walks. I guess I got carried away with the rest.”

  Emily looked over and said, “How lovely.”

  Henry addressed the class. “Our time is up for the night. If your drawing’s not done, finish it at home.” He strode to the front of the room and began tossing the blocks
back into the carton. “Your perspective studies were quite good. We’ll go over it again next week, but I promise not to bring these back.”

  He paused for a moment to glance at me. “Drawing, like everything else in life, needs review and repetition. And compassion.” I felt as though he were addressing me, alone, but then his stare moved to Laurie. “Show the child within you compassion.”

  Again, our homework was to draw twenty minutes every day. “About ten years ago, when I gave up watching most television,” Henry said, closing the box top, “I had much more time on my hands. Window-shopping, crossword puzzles, talking on the phone, can fritter the day away. I’m not suggesting that you forgo dining with friends or watching the Mariners on TV, but make sure to invest twenty minutes a day in yourself.”

  When he’d finished speaking, Laurie turned to me and chortled. “I’m not giving up my favorite soap,” she said. “I know—I’ll stop house cleaning. That’s a bunch of wasted time. I’m sick of picking up after Dave and the kids.” Delighted with her own humor, she added, “Hey, want to stop for a little snack on the way home?”

  Laurie and I found Starbucks humming with activity that evening. The aroma of coffee beans and warm milk permeated the air. Frank Sinatra’s swooping words, “I did it my way,” mingled with the whooshing of the espresso maker.

  Laurie and I stood in a slow-moving line to purchase lattes and scones. Then we scanned the crowded room and found one empty table in the back against the wall. Laurie forged ahead, tugged two chairs together, and motioned me over. I scooted in next to her, so we both faced out. I thought about my evening, recalling the exhilaration I’d experienced as I sketched the oak tree. In spite of Henry’s lack of praise and Phil’s unnerving intrusion, I felt hopeful, as though my life might change for the better.

  “What’s Emily like?” Laurie asked between sips. She licked frothy milk off her upper lip. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to her.”

  “She’s wonderful—the kind of woman I want to be when I’m her age.” I thought of Emily’s sophisticated style, yet her childlike excitement each time she drew. “She probably has a husband to support her, so she can dabble with whatever she likes.” As I said the words, I realized I had also described Laurie’s situation.