A Portrait of Marguerite Read online

  Once in her private office, she sank into her desk chair and motioned me to sit across from her.

  “I met with a new client who says she’s an acquaintance of yours,” she said. “Darla Bennett.”

  My scalp tightened so much my eyebrows must have raised an inch or two. “I’ve met her, once.” I intended to keep my private life just that.

  Lois tossed me a look of impatience. “In any case, perhaps you could keep an eye open for a condo for her. I’ve been so inundated with new clients this week I can’t keep up.” She paused. When I didn’t respond, she said, “Darla wants a view, a hot tub, and enough room for her boyfriend. She’s planning to get married in the near future.”

  “Married?”

  “Yes. Apparently to someone you know.”

  Strange as it may seem, I felt like a car had just knocked me off my feet. “Did she give you his name?” It had to be Phil.

  “No, I didn’t think to ask.”

  Her phone rang. She swung the receiver to her ear, turned away from me to speak, and didn’t look back.

  At my desk, I tried to remove the image of Phil and Darla standing at the altar from my mind. But a moment later, I found myself picturing her in a white satin and organza gown looking as resplendent as a Miss America Pageant winner. I supposed it made sense that Phil would remarry after all this time. Divorced men often did so within a year. Not that I cared one way or another. I wouldn’t allow myself to.

  I glanced at Rob’s photo, sitting on the shelf next to my file cabinet. It had been taken years ago, but remained my favorite. I picked it up, feeling the cool silver frame in my hands. Clad in his lacrosse jersey, twelve-year-old Rob was innocently radiant. His smiling face still beamed with soft preadolescence, before his voice dropped an octave, before stubble darkened his chin, before he’d dated a girl, let alone fallen head over heels for Andrea. That little boy didn’t exist anymore, I thought. My son was a young man now, waking up in a bed far away, eating what he wanted, managing his own time.

  I wished he would come home for the weekend, but he wasn’t planning to return until Thanksgiving vacation. Last Thanksgiving, I remembered, he’d accompanied me to my parents’, meaning this was Phil’s year to have him. I hated that I had to share my son, but inviting Phil to family gatherings wasn’t an option. Even if my father didn’t nix the idea, as he had in the past, the dinner would be miserable for everyone, especially me.

  Noticing a thumbprint, I polished the photo’s glass surface with my sleeve. Over the years Phil had passed up many opportunities to spend time with Rob. Several times he’d asked to take our boy somewhere, then failed to show up. As long as I lived, I would never forget the afternoon Rob, age five, sat waiting on the front steps for his father to pick him up for an overnight visit. At six o’clock I’d begged my son to come in for dinner, but he’d sat listening as each car passed—none stopping. It still made my insides quake with fury when I considered how much Phil hurt our little boy. I’d wondered if he’d carry that sense of abandonment with him his whole lifetime.

  But over the past few years, I’d noticed Phil changing little by little. He started taking Rob to baseball games, an occasional movie, or just out to eat. He even stopped by the house on Christmas mornings to drop off presents—last year with an unexpected box of chocolate truffles for me, which I thoroughly enjoyed.

  I placed the photo back on the shelf. Thanksgiving was still a long way off. As I calculated how many months away that was, a pool of sadness gathered at the bottom of my throat, spilling into my chest. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

  Was there any way for a single woman to feel anything but lonely? For a moment I considered calling Phil, just to have someone to talk to about Rob. But he’d be at work, or if he were home Darla might be there. Was he really going to marry her? That thought evoked a tidal wave of confused thoughts that scooped up all my neatly stacked emotions and tossed them into disarray.

  Darla’s biting words began whirling through my mind. Until that moment I hadn’t allowed myself to contemplate the obvious: She’d threatened to expose me. Had Phil really told her the whole ugly story?

  I felt like I’d ingested a vial of acid. My eyes popped open, and my hand rose to cover my mouth. No, I reassured myself, Phil promised never to divulge my secret to anyone.

  A leaf floated by my face, skimmed the bill of my baseball cap, then zigzagged to the moist grass where its yellowing predecessors lay. The first to arrive for the weekly promenade, I watched puffs of moisture parachute from my mouth into the chill morning air. Charlie tugged on his leash to inspect his favorite fire hydrant.

  I heard voices and noticed two women pushing infants in strollers on the other side of the street. Rob had been that age when the Mom’s Brigade formed. It had been promoted as a playgroup, which would meet at the Community Center every Thursday morning. Within six months one of the original gang moved away, two went back to work full time, and one lost interest. We four remaining moms became sisters, the threads of our hearts knitting together through our common concerns, and we started meeting in each other’s homes. While we busily fed, burped, and diapered our babies, our conversation often centered on weight loss and lack of exercise. Would we ever be able to zip up and fasten our old jeans? Would we be stuck with distended stomachs and colossal thighs forever?

  Erika came up with the idea of walking around Green Lake—but only when the weather was good, she’d promised. My calves had complained the first few journeys around the lake’s circumference. I couldn’t believe people exhausted themselves for enjoyment. I would rather have camped out in someone’s family room and nibbled homemade brownies. But I forced myself to continue. I didn’t want to miss seeing the other moms, and I figured our gettogethers were saving my peace of mind. My endurance grew, and I was ecstatic when the unwanted inches began shrinking. When the kids finally entered school, we continued to meet, rain or shine.

  My memories were interrupted when Erika rounded the corner and twirled once to show off her new haircut, which was highlighted and shorter at her neck and poofed out around the crown.

  “You look great,” I said.

  Her fingers explored the blunt ends. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely, you look five years younger.” As I watched her flip several pale strands behind her ears, I recalled my dreary reflection in the mirror that morning. “Maybe it’s time I cut my hair,” I said. “I could use a drastic something. All of a sudden I feel old.”

  “Come on, you still look gorgeous.”

  Susan strode the last few feet to the corner. “Who’s gorgeous?” she asked, out of breath.

  “Marguerite is, but she thinks she needs a new hairdo. Or was that a face-lift?” Erika loved to kid around.

  “Very funny. Be serious.” I dragged off my cap to expose a mass of mousy hair in need of washing. “I admit I’m shallow, but please tell me the truth. Do I look as much like a schoolmarm as I think I do?”

  “No, you look as good as you did on the day we met,” Susan said.

  What a kind thing to say—I didn’t buy it. “Then how come I haven’t been out on a date for months?” I’d settled into a rut of renting videos on Friday nights, eating dinner in front of the TV, then turning in early.

  “I told you, Bob has that friend at work,” Susan reminded me. “We could double date, or I’ll give him your number. His name’s Tim O’Brien. You’ll really like him. Such a nice guy, dependable and hardworking.”

  Susan hadn’t mentioned the man’s appearance, meaning he was probably so-so, at best. I envisioned her sweet but homely husband, Bob. Was his friend a cookie-cutter version of him? As I ground my toe into the cement I reminded myself that being dependable and hardworking was more important than good looks and charm. And didn’t I like nice guys? Still, I’d sworn never to subject myself to another night of torture on a blind date.

  “Susan, I don’t know—” I was saved from further discussion by Laurie’s appearance. She wore body-h
ugging running tights and a red sweatshirt with the words “I’d rather be at the mall” written across the front.

  “Hi, everyone,” she said. “Let’s get rolling.”

  I gave Charlie a yank to keep him from running across the tops of Laurie’s white sneakers. Since last night she and Dave must have made up, I thought. She looked on top of the world. I’d called her the night before saying, “We didn’t get a chance to finish our conversation.”

  Her voice had become muffled. “I can’t talk now, I’m busy.”

  “Just promise me you won’t do anything hasty. I’ve made mistakes in my life, and I still live with that guilt.”

  “You married the wrong guy,” she’d said in a hissing whisper. “And you had the sense to move on. What’s to feel guilty about?”

  I’d felt like gushing out the real story, but I controlled my tongue. “Believe me, you can never erase your mistakes.”

  Susan and Erika started toward the lake, and Laurie and I fell in behind. The air felt cold, dry, and delicious. Smoke from a chimney drifted in the blue sky, and I could detect the aroma of burning cedar. Crisp leaves dotted the sidewalk. Dahlias still bloomed, but the hydrangeas had shriveled. Up ahead I saw Green Lake cloaked in white fog, as if someone had tossed a cotton blanket over the water’s surface.

  Susan spoke over her shoulder to me. “I’m not going to let you escape that easily,” she said. “What movie do you want to see? Or maybe a nice dinner would be better, so you two could talk more.”

  “Blind dates never work out.” I could list a half-dozen horror stories to prove my point, the worst being the evening I spent with a man I later described as The Groper.

  “Not true. I know several happy couples who met on blind dates,” Laurie said with authority. “I introduced Lorelle and Nathan. Gave Nathan her number, and he did the rest.”

  “It’s the best way to meet men these days,” Erika agreed. “I was lucky to meet Jonathan at the hospital. Most women don’t work around eligible men all day.”

  “What have you got to lose?” Susan asked.

  “I’ll think about it. But don’t give him my number yet.” I wondered if my friends really had a clue what kind of a mate I needed. I loved them, but they didn’t understand what I was going through. They all had happy, complete lives, with husbands who were their best friends.

  As the day brightened, the pathway around the lake began to brim with activity. Three children coasted by on pint-sized bikes, followed lazily by one of their fathers. He was maybe five years younger than I, and robustly handsome. His gaze flashed right past me, without pausing even for an instant. I didn’t usually inspect each man on the path, but that day I did. Few bothered to look back. Maybe Henry wasn’t the only one to find me invisible.

  “You’re not getting out of this,” Susan told me as we hugged good-bye. “I’m going to bug you until you cave in.”

  “Let me get back to you.” That line always seemed to work for my clients.

  When I got home, I dove into the refrigerator to find it bare, except for a clump of shriveled lettuce, a carton of iffy milk, and a Styrofoam container of leftover teriyaki chicken. With Rob gone, I hadn’t felt like cooking. But I knew if I kept eating take-out food every day, I would inflate into a blimp. I’d already put on several pounds since he left.

  Not bothering to change clothes, I drove to the grocery store. As I steered my cart down the bread aisle, I spied an older woman with a familiar face.

  “Hello, Emily,” I said. “Do you remember me from art class?”

  “Of course I do, dear. Nice to see you.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. McBride,” an employee said as he walked by with a box of celery in his arms. Emily greeted Sam in return, then asked if he’d recovered from the flu.

  “I’m feeling better, thanks,” he said.

  I flung a loaf of French bread into my shopping cart, then followed Emily as she moved to the produce section, where she paused to examine the tomatoes. My style was to grab whatever vegetables caught my eye, without paying much attention to their color or firmness. I usually shopped for food on an empty stomach, and just wanted to get the chore done so I could go home and eat.

  “These are vine ripened, so I splurge a little,” Emily said, bringing the plump tomato to her nose and inhaling. “I try to buy things in season.” She glanced into my almost empty cart. So far, I’d accumulated milk, yogurt, several frozen dinners, and bread.

  “My son Rob’s away at college,” I said, sequestering a head of romaine lettuce and stuffing it into a plastic bag. “It doesn’t seem worth the bother to cook a whole meal just for me.”

  “Less cooking must give you more time to draw. Have you been keeping up with your sketching?”

  I bagged a handful of carrots, bending the crinkly leaves back so they would fit in. “Only twice. It’s hard for me to get much done at home. I’m always so busy.”

  “That’s understandable,” she said with sympathy. “The world is such a hectic place.” She slowed her cart and gazed up at me. “A lot of women put their personal goals on the back burner until their children are out of the house.”

  “You’re right. Now that my only child Rob’s in college, I can’t use him as an excuse anymore.”

  A woman with a toddler in her cart strolled by. In a cooing voice, she spoke to the little boy, then offered him an animal cracker. I stood for a moment watching him gnaw on the cracker and then give his mother a toothy grin.

  Averting my eyes, I started testing avocados for softness. I felt as though I were suspended in limbo, as if the tide were about to change, but in the meantime I was going nowhere.

  “I need to start filling my days more constructively,” I said, then placed an avocado into my cart, even though I’d been told they were fattening.

  “You will. Give yourself time.” Emily’s sigh glided down through an octave. “Isn’t it funny? First our children crawl away from us, then walk away, then drive away—then off they rush into the world.” One hand patted her heart. “I remember how hard it was to let go, particularly of my last one. I must have cried for a month.” She gave her cart a short push. “I bumped around the empty house like a zombie. The worst year of my life.” Her smile returned, but her eyes were moist. “I finally joined a weaving group. At first I used it to fill my empty days. Then the pleasure of weaving became the end.”

  “I may have missed my chance.” I spoke softly, my words catching in my throat. “As I mentioned, I studied art in college.” I swiped at my nose with the back of my hand. “But as soon as I graduated, my painting screeched to a halt. You should see the pathetic drawing I did of my dog the other day.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself.” She touched my arm in a gentle way that showed she cared. “Like being a mother, art is a nurturing process. Not all my new creations are pretty, but I don’t look at them as failures, but rather stepping stones to my next project.”

  “It’s embarrassing,” I said, unsure why I’d chosen her to be my confidant. “I can barely bring myself to draw in class.”

  “I’m sure you’ll get over that with time.” We reached the checkout counter. “Hello, Janice,” Emily said to the cashier.

  I got in line behind Emily and watched the checker double-bag her selections, then load the bags into the cart.

  Emily turned to me. “So nice to run into you,” she said. “Sorry if I slowed you down, dear. I don’t walk as fast as I used to.”

  “I didn’t mind, I enjoyed our conversation.” Very much.

  “And by the way,” she said. “My youngest child’s thirty-two now, and has his own kids. If you think your son was a joy, wait until you have grandchildren.”

  When I got home, I gobbled several cookies as I stowed the groceries. I folded the paper bags and stuffed them in the drawer. I needed to get ready for work, but noticed my smaller drawing pad, which I opened to my cloud sketch. Not bad, I thought, but I noted an area needing more definition. I erased a few lines and reworked the
m, only to find the drawing looked worse. I erased again, removing the top layer of paper and leaving a smudgy surface. Ready to scream, I reminded myself it was only an exercise and not a big deal. I patiently attempted to redo that spot. Completed, it looked too polished compared to the rest of the work. In thirty minutes, I’d changed my spirited sky to boring mediocrity.

  Visiting my childhood home always made me feel eight years old again. Which wasn’t all bad. My father answered the door with the sports section of the Sunday paper in his hand. As I crossed the threshold, he greeted me with a firm one-armed hug and a peck on the cheek.

  “How’s my girl?” he asked.

  “Fine, Daddy.” Gee, I thought I stopped calling him that decades ago.

  “That’s good.” Then he headed into the living room where the TV droned.

  I watched him shuffle across the shag carpet toward his easy chair. Once a tall man, his drooping shoulders and ample waistline made him seem shorter. In his younger days he could bench press 250 pounds, but these past few years I’d stopped asking him to carry things for me. His strength was waning.

  I glanced into the glass-fronted cabinet standing in the front hall and spotted the Venetian glass paperweight containing purple-and-red swirled flowers I’d coveted as a child. When young, my little sister, Nicole, and I devised secret pacts deciding who would inherit what when our parents died, an occurrence that seemed a hundred years away to two young girls.

  The succulent bouquet of pot roast filled my nostrils. I followed the thick aroma to the kitchen to find my mother mashing potatoes at the counter. The room looked the same as it had when I was a child. Against the wall sat the small table where my brother, my sister, and I nibbled afternoon snacks of cinnamon toast and lemonade. Over the table hung the brass lamp, which sent a golden glow across the yellow-flowered wallpaper. I still considered the Bentwood chair against the wall my seat.