A Portrait of Marguerite Page 6

  “I’m not putting that down, mind you,” I added, wishing I’d chosen my words with more care. “I’d love to have that kind of setup.” I gnawed off a chunk of currant scone, and savored its sweet taste.

  “It doesn’t always work that way. I have all the time in the world, but no talent. Anyway, being a housewife may come to an abrupt end one of these days. I haven’t decided yet.”

  I washed my mouthful of scone down with a gulp of latte. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve had it with Dave.”

  I remembered her making similar proclamations before, and it never came to anything. I knew she liked to vent her frustrations every now and then. Who didn’t? As she grumbled about his lack of communication, I noticed a young couple studying at the next table. Rob, a late-nighter since the age of ten, was taking an 8:00 a.m. math class. I wondered if he was sleeping through his alarm every morning, the way he often did at home. And without me there to keep after him, was he bothering with his homework?

  “This time I mean it.” She spoke with precision, her volume building. “He loves work more than life itself. Certainly more than me and the kids.”

  My fingers wrapped around my warm cup. “That’s not true. He’s crazy about you.”

  “Be glad you’re single. If I had to do it all over again, I’d never have gotten married.”

  “Come on. Sure you would.” Her spats with Dave never lasted more than a day or two, and then I’d be hearing about their joyous reunion.

  “Well, I wouldn’t have hitched up with Mr. Work-Eighty-Hours-a-Week. You’ve done perfectly fine being single, Marguerite, and I’m sure I could too.”

  “What did he do this time?” The din around us was growing, and I found myself catching phrases from other conversations.

  “One more vacation cancelled at the last minute.” She shook her head in a quick rhythm. “This was the weekend we were going take the Clipper to Victoria and stay at the Empress Hotel. My parents were all set to look after the kids. Today the jerk told me he’s too busy. He claims he has to fly to Baltimore to see a client and can’t get out of it. It’s probably some bimbo’s bed he can’t get out of.”

  In all the years I’d known Dave, I’d never seen him ogle a woman other than Laurie, let alone come on to them. “I agree that Dave works too much. But he isn’t the kind of man to have an affair. He loves you.”

  “That’s not good enough. I need someone who’s really there, listening to me, not waiting for some phone call or fax. He’s always late—sorry, can’t make it, tied up, maybe next time—always something more important than me.”

  I didn’t know what to say. For eighteen years I’d jealously watched Laurie’s lifestyle and tried to be happy for my friend’s good fortune.

  Her voice dropped an octave. “There’s something else I want to tell you. Now, try not to judge me. I haven’t said a word to anyone, and I feel like I’m going to explode. Susan and Erika are way too serious. They’d give me some hysterical lecture.”

  Her face took on new life, as if she were about to unveil the solution to an ancient riddle. “I met this man at the driving range a couple of weeks ago. He’s there every Wednesday when I go for my lesson. I’ve never met anyone like him before, and I can tell he likes me.”

  I almost choked on my mouthful of scone, but managed to swallow it down. Every soap opera I’d ever watched spewed through my brain like water through a hose nozzle. I envisioned Laurie’s ship crashing into the rocks, sucking her family down with her. And why? Because some stranger made her feel attractive?

  I needed to say something wise. Spouting ultimatums wouldn’t work. Which of my many mistakes should I use to illustrate how women mess up their own lives?

  Her eyes lit up and she waved across the room. “There’s Henry Marsh with Phil.”

  Please understand, before my first drawing class, Phil’s and my paths never crossed each other unless we were attending one of Rob’s school functions.

  Holding full coffee mugs, the two men were searching for an empty table.

  “Laurie,” I said, “let them sit somewhere else. This is serious, we need to talk.”

  Ignoring me, she beckoned them over.

  “Mind if we join you?” Phil said above the clatter. He pulled up a chair and parked himself across from Laurie. “Hope we’re not intruding, but there’s nowhere else to sit.”

  Wishing he and Henry would disappear, I shrugged.

  “Sure, no problem,” Laurie said, her voice melodic. “There’s plenty of room.” Henry found a chair and positioned it opposite me.

  “I adore your class, Professor Marsh—I mean, Henry,” she said the moment he was seated. “I’d love to see your work sometime.” She looked as happy as ever.

  “Oh, he’s quite a painter,” Phil said, his gaze landing on me. “You were at the opening the other night, Margo. What did you think?”

  “His paintings were beautiful.” I looked at Henry straight on. I felt like adding a comment about his bad manners, but supposed it would only make me appear foolish. I would act magnanimous. If I could put up with Darla, I could tolerate anyone.

  “Thank you,” Henry said, then spoke to Phil. “Your statues were excellent as well.” As he and Phil discussed the value of placing sculptures in public spaces, I scanned Henry’s face. His eyes were nutmeg brown, speckled like the chest of a wren. Laurie was right about his good looks. There was something intriguing about the man. But who needed intrigue?

  During a pause in the dialogue, Laurie asked Henry, “Did you always want to be an artist?”

  “Yes and no,” he said. “For as long as I can remember, I loved to paint. But my father, a cardiologist with dreams of my following in his footsteps, offered to pay my tuition if I studied biology, which I did the first two years in college. I received good grades and all, but found the subject boring. You can imagine my father’s dismay when I announced I was switching my major to art in my junior year, even if it meant getting a job and supporting myself. He was sure I’d become another hippie dropout.”

  “You must admit,” Phil said. “Not all of us have been as successful as you.”

  “Your time will come, my friend. Especially now that you have a day job to pay the bills.”

  “Life’s getting good,” Phil said. “I even got caught up on my child-support payments.” He winked at me, as if he and I shared some amusing joke. “This woman’s been more than patient.”

  “I’m not sure how patient I’ve been,” I said, recalling the threatening letters I’d sent him.

  “At least you didn’t have me arrested. There were a few years when I would have deserved it.”

  I slurped the last drops of my latte. This was a crazy conversation. At one time I’d hated Phil so much I wouldn’t have cared if he’d rotted in jail. Tonight we were chitchatting like old friends.

  Phil checked his watch. “I’d better run, have to be at work early.” He and Henry got to their feet. “It’s been a pleasure, ladies,” Phil said, bowing slightly.

  “Good night, see you next week,” Henry said, speaking mostly to Laurie.

  “Bye-bye, this was fun,” she said. As the two men worked their way toward the exit, she gathered her purse. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait,” I said. “We need to talk.”

  She stood and shoved her chair against the table. “Not now, I’m out of time.”

  Outside, ominous clouds bristled just above the lampposts. We made it to Laurie’s car moments before the rain started lashing down. As we rolled through the darkened streets, I tried to rekindle our previous conversation.

  “Flirting with a man, any man, other than your husband can only lead to trouble,” I said.

  She cut me off. “Give me a break. If I’d wanted a lecture, I would have called my mother.”

  She’d always described her mother as a manic-depressive busybody, but I was sure the woman and I would agree on this subject.

  “Bingo,” I said to myself as I eyed the C
raftsman bungalow from my car. This two-story dwelling—its wide front porch supported by stately columns of river rock and wood—would be ideal for Wayne and Sherry Henrick.

  It was Broker’s Open, the morning realtors previewed new listings each week, and I’d been driving from house to house—along with the rest of Seattle’s hungry real-estate agents—pretending I had hot buyers ready to scoop up each one.

  Trotting in on the heels of three other agents, I climbed the L-shaped staircase. I could smell the scent of cedar and mothballs, and I wondered if older people lived here.

  I mentally ran through the Henricks’ list of requirements. Sherry longed for a larger master bedroom and private bath. She found sharing a sink and toilet with their five- and seven-year-old children a nuisance. This place had a glorious master bedroom with a spacious bathroom, plus a small deck off the suite as a bonus. The two other bedrooms featured built-in bookcases and window seats.

  I said hello to the listing agent as I surveyed the updated kitchen. Not perfection, I thought, but livable. I descended a flight of carpeted stairs to the daylight basement with its extra room that could be used as an office or sewing room. Standing in a quiet corner, I fished out my cell phone and called Sherry.

  “I’m busy,” she said, her voice sounding rigid. “I’m on my way to an important meeting.”

  Dad might have been proud of me because I refused to take no for an answer and was waiting out front when she finally arrived, dressed in tennis whites and looking aggravated.

  “This is a fabulous house. I know you’ll like it.” I ignored her cool, almost hostile, demeanor. “I don’t know why we didn’t check out this neighborhood before.”

  Her mouth angled down as she glanced at her watch. “I have to leave in five minutes.”

  Doubt began worming its way into my mind, but I admonished myself to stand firm. “This whole area is being fixed up,” I said. “See how cute the other houses and yards are?”

  Her head rotated a few inches, and she sized up what she would view as she came out the front door.

  I asked myself what else a top saleswoman would say. “Picture this house with a coat of new paint,” I said. “Maybe taupe or cream.” Sherry was now following me up the driveway, catching my every word.

  I slowed my pace to admire the home’s shingled facade. “Don’t you love this old-fashioned front porch? You could put a planter on either side of the entryway and maybe paint the door a contrasting color.”

  Over the years of vanishing buyers and fizzled deals, I’d lost so much of my confidence that closing a sale made my heart race like I was running a marathon. When I was a girl, I remembered, a neighbor’s German shepherd would sometimes charge out, snapping at my heels with menacing growls. While the other kids ran away, I would stomp my feet and yell at the dog to go home, and the animal would eventually slink back to its yard. I still wasn’t afraid of mean dogs, nor of spiders, nor snakes. Why people?

  You can do this, I told myself. What had my boss said? People are looking for the experience they think they will have living in a house.

  I led Sherry to the living room. The owners’ antique furniture—a Victorian sofa and two high-back armchairs sitting before the fireplace on an Oriental carpet—warmed the room.

  “Imagine Wayne, you, and the kids hanging your Christmas stockings on that mantel, then waiting for Santa to come down the chimney.”

  She stood with her hands on her hips, her head tilted.

  “Nice high ceilings too. The Christmas tree could go in that corner.” Her eyes moved to the place I had indicated. “You want to be in your new home before Christmas, don’t you?”

  I moved closer, speaking into her ear. “This place has it all, and the prices in this neighborhood haven’t quite caught up with the rest of the city. I must caution you though—” I paused and looked around to see who else was listening, then lowered my voice. “Other realtors have their eyes open for these jewels for their own buyers. This one won’t be on the market for long. If you’re interested, we’ve got to move quickly.”

  “May I use your phone?” Sherry held out her hand, and I passed her my cell phone. She punched in a number and scanned the room again as she waited for an answer. “Wayne, honey, I think I’ve found the house we want. Can you get right over here?” Her lips parted for a few seconds. Then, “Yes, I’m sure. Let Marguerite tell you how to get here.”

  Within the hour I was writing up an almost full-priced offer for the home.

  “This should go through without a hitch,” I said, sounding one hundred times calmer than I really was. “We’re lucky to be the first ones. I’ll call when the offer’s been accepted.”

  “Most of us have allowed ourselves to become cemented into a job, a routine, a mode of life that is both unsatisfactory and boring,” the author of Unearthing Your Childhood Dreams stated.

  I was reading as I lounged on the couch with a tartan blanket draped over my lap and my morning cup of coffee nearby.

  “Often, we blame our willingness to remain in limbo on our bosses, our spouses, our kids, or on not having the money or time to make a transformation.” The author thought people stayed stuck in a monotonous, unfulfilling lifestyle because they were too busy being grownups.

  “Oh, really?” If I hadn’t been the adult around here, who would have? Laurie could flirt with whatever frivolous pastime she wanted, but I’d always been burdened with too many obligations.

  A cool draft wafted across the room. I wrapped the blanket around the backs of my legs, but then felt trussed like a mummy. Was reading about a creative life a waste of time? I wondered as I kicked my legs free. What had all those years of studying art done for me? I earned a diploma, but I couldn’t make a living from it. What was I supposed to do with a degree in painting: make billboards, become a manicurist, open a tattoo parlor? After graduation I’d had to jump into the work force and swim for my life.

  Reading on for a page and a half, I resisted every suggestion. Why worry about taking the wrong path in life if there was no turning back? By my age it was just too late.

  I closed the book and put on the morning news. The weatherman declared it would be blustery and wet all day, a fact I could see for myself. Then a fitness expert complained about what bad shape Americans were in. Looking down at my growing thighs, I thought about mounting my stationary bike, which stood in the corner of my bedroom, but decided to go to the kitchen for a snack instead.

  My large sketchpad lay on the table. Examining my drawing of the oak tree, I stood back to view it from afar. Was it any good? Maybe, but it looked as though someone else had done it. My landscapes and still lifes had always been predictable and staid, while this composition bustled with motion and humor.

  Opening my smaller notebook, I flipped to a blank page. I sat down at the table and scanned the room for a suitable subject. My gaze traveled out the window, and I saw bulbous clouds floating by like sailboats in a regatta. I picked up my pencil and began to draw. Soon my cloud shapes grew dense, grand, and alive. Consumed in creation, I was unaware thirty minutes had slid by. Finally, I paused to inspect my work, and my chest swelled with exhilaration.

  I could remember taking a watercolor class in summer school at age nineteen. That July my classmates and I wandered around the almost deserted campus painting gothic buildings, trees in profuse attire, distant mountains, students sleeping on the grass. Our small group played with our paints like children. My only ambition was to satisfy myself with my art. Everything I did seemed to turn out right, even painting trees red and the sky orange, or zeroing in on a young woman reading and transposing her into a princess wearing a bejeweled crown.

  In the fall, however, when I showed my bulging portfolio to my favorite teacher, Professor Jenkins, he wasn’t pleased with my carefree approach. Instead, he steered me toward his own conservative style. Adoring my mentor, I tried to imitate him. By the time I graduated from college, though capable in my craft, I’d lost the spirit of that magical summer. />
  I escorted the Henricks to my desk at the office and offered them chairs. As I sat down across from them, my mind scrambled for the opening lines I’d rehearsed to myself moments before.

  “I have good news for you,” I said, sounding too cheerful. “The home inspector said the house is in good shape.” I dreaded going on. Sometimes a repair could tip a whole sale into never-never land. “The only serious concern is the roof.”

  “How much will that cost us?” Sherry said, her words coming out like pellets from a shotgun.

  “It probably won’t need to be replaced for a couple of years. But we can get someone out there to give you an estimate, if you want.”

  Wayne, his suit a size too small for his chunky frame, nodded his balding head. “Absolutely. We’re not made of money.”

  Sherry swiveled in her chair to face him. “Maybe this isn’t the right house, after all. Maybe we need to keep looking.”

  I drew in a full tank of oxygen. “By the way,” I said, as offhandedly as I could, “someone made a higher offer on the home just hours after yours was accepted.”

  Sherry seemed to grow an inch. “Does that mean they get the house?”

  “No, it’s still yours, as long as we don’t start making new demands. The offer behind yours is full price.”

  “Really? They’re willing to pay more, even with the roof?” Wayne asked.

  “Well, they can’t have our home,” Sherry said.

  A few minutes later, I walked the Henricks to the door. As they exited, Lois sailed in like she was stepping onto a runway at a fashion show. She looked flawless, as if a stylist had just given her black hair a final poof. Her understated but obviously expensive clothes matched right down to the mauve Feragamo shoes.

  “Come back to my office,” she said to me as if I were her secretary. As I followed, I listened to her three-inch heels clack-clack on the wooden floor. It was hard to tell Lois’s age from looking at her. Maybe late fifties. But she wasn’t the type anyone would dare ask.