A Portrait of Marguerite Page 9

“Your drawings in class are quite good.”

  These were the words I’d been craving—if I’d heard right. “Thank you,” I said, wanting to ask if he really meant it.

  His eyes grew intense as he studied my face. “Phil said you used to paint. What’s stopping you now?”

  I shrugged as though I hadn’t given it much thought. “The usual. My job eats up most of my time.” My words stumbled over each other, and I could feel my face warming. “I don’t have a place to paint either. I mean, not a studio like this.” I knew I sounded like an idiot. But why should I have to defend myself?

  Glancing out the window, I saw a sailboat tacking into the south wind. Then, like a flash of lightning in a calm sky, a crazy notion gripped me. I was sitting close enough to him to touch his hand. I speculated about what would happen if I reached out and took it. Yes, it was a ridiculous idea, something I would never actually do, but I could almost feel the warmth of his skin. I turned my head to find him watching me as though I’d just said something captivating. He couldn’t possibly know what I was thinking, I assured myself, but I felt trapped in what seemed like an endless moment.

  The front door creaked, and I tore myself out of Henry’s visual grasp as Emily and Roger from class entered the studio.

  “Hello, hello,” Emily called, curving the words into a melody. Roger followed, clad in a suit and a striped tie.

  Henry and I got to our feet. “Welcome,” he said. “Watch where you step.”

  “What a lovely work space,” Emily said.

  “It doesn’t look anything like my office,” Roger said, good-naturedly. I recalled his mentioning he sold advertising and worked downtown.

  Henry laughed. “I imagine that’s true.”

  “This one is marvelous,” Emily said, pointing to a canvas sitting on the floor, propped against the wall.

  “It sure is,” Roger said. “Is it finished?”

  “That’s still up for debate.” Henry placed the canvas on an easel. The painting portrayed an auburn-haired woman playing a flute. Her eyes half-closed, she seemed in reverie, as if mesmerized by the tune. On closer inspection, I saw she was standing before a lead-paned window, each square of glass mirroring an ivied garden.

  “All my endeavors are in some state of transition,” Henry said. “With each one I have to force myself to stop, then start another.”

  As we observed his other works, I chided myself for imagining sharing an intimate moment with him. No need to worry; I was back in the driver’s seat again.

  I half-listened as he talked about a large painting sitting in the corner—a depiction of two women on a park bench, one reading and the other knitting. He explained why he’d painted the same scene three times—at morning, midday and afternoon—to study the varying shadows and hues.

  Over the next five minutes, more students arrived. “Hello,” or “How are you?” Henry said to each one. Guiding them through his studio, he seemed no longer aware of my existence.

  Twenty minutes later, when Roger announced he needed to leave for a one o’clock meeting, several others also said their farewells. Finally, only Emily and I remained.

  As Henry closed the front door, Emily approached me. “How are you today, dear? You seem quiet.”

  I felt like I was riding a unicycle and barely maintaining my balance. I was tempted to reach out to her for support, but said, “I was thinking about work. Did I mention I’m in real estate?” I handed her my business card, then wished I hadn’t. I’d sworn I wouldn’t become one of those agents who took advantage of friends, particularly sweet older women.

  “I’ll bet you do a wonderful job.” She tucked the card into her purse. “Maybe you should give one to Henry, too.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Doing business with him would be excruciating for both of us.

  Minutes later I was nearing the University Bridge. I heard its bells tolling, then saw its warning lights flashing, and the arms lowering to stop traffic while a boat motored through the cut. As I waited, I felt irritated and drained. I shouldn’t have come. Spending time with Henry Marsh was not what I’d needed today. Why was I speechless around him, like a teenybopper meeting a celebrity? He was just a man, like any other.

  Sitting at my desk reviewing the documents I needed to give to the Averys, I glanced at Rob’s photo. Even at a young age my son had taken after his father. What happened to my half of the genes? I wondered. Did they lie dormant in Rob’s DNA, waiting to surface in the next generation? I remembered what Emily said about grandchildren bringing incredible joy. The thought of a toddler someday crawling into my lap sent a wave of warmth through my chest. But it was way too early to start imagining Rob getting married, and I was too young to be called Grandma Marguerite. What a gruesome thought. Anyway, Rob might never have children. The woman he married could be infertile or already have kids. Those things happened.

  Finding the papers, I slipped them into a manila envelope. As I wrote the Averys’ name on it, I thought of Phil’s and my wedding album, which I’d saved for Rob’s sake, although he’d never seen it and might never want to. The photos sat at the bottom of a box, beneath the canceled checks and paperwork I’d saved in case the IRS ever audited me. I hadn’t looked through the album since Phil and I split up, but I could remember every detail of the ceremony as it unfolded in my parents’ living room. Phil had looked like a movie star in his black suit and pleated tuxedo shirt, which I never saw him don again. I’d worn a white empire gown with a scooped neckline and a high gathered waist that covered everything. Although Mom begged me to get married in a church with a minister, I’d insisted a justice of the peace guide us through our vows. “A couple needs God on their team, like the third leg of a stool,” Mom had said. “Without a commitment to him, I don’t know how any marriage makes it.”

  Had she been right after all? No, it wasn’t God I needed, but a better man—one like my father. Growing up, I’d considered Dad to be old-fashioned, like a worn copper penny. But in truth, he was the finest man I’d ever known.

  I left the office and pointed my car toward home. Stopping at a crosswalk to let a couple pass, my thoughts returned to Phil. After the misery he’d put me through, our divorce came as a welcome relief. With our final good-bye, a euphoric sense of freedom took root inside me. But within the year, I grew tired of being alone. In spite of the hardships men caused, they filled a void in women’s lives nothing else could. In my case, I’d tried inflating myself with food, clothes, work, but nothing satisfied my hunger for intimacy or my sense of inadequacy. Only in a man’s arms could I close my eyes and feel whole.

  I’d never loved another man besides Phil—not a real one. I’d joked with the Mom’s Brigade that all I really wanted was someone to accompany me to the annual company Christmas party. I’d sworn I wouldn’t attend the splashy event alone again. I was finished pretending I preferred circulating and meeting new people. Done flitting about like a barn swallow rather than hanging onto one man’s arm like a fragile orchid. I envisioned my escort dressed in a suit and tie. He would make witty small talk with my colleagues, but his attention would always be on me.

  If I’d stayed with Phil, I thought, he would have refused to attend the party with me, or if he’d gone he would have gotten drunk and acted sloppy. Someone like Henry Marsh would probably consider a bunch of realtors beneath him. Or worse, spend the whole evening talking about himself and trying to sell his paintings. Yikes.

  I heard a honk and scanned the crosswalk to see the pedestrians were long gone. As I gunned the engine, I checked the rearview mirror, but could only see the top of the car behind me because I was slouching so much. Elongating my spine, I pulled myself erect to gain several inches. The perfect man for me must exist, I told myself. I remembered Susan saying her husband’s friend was a banker, which sounded interesting. Even if he wasn’t Mel Gibson, it was time to get real and settle for less than perfection. I was, after all, far from perfect myself.

  I pulled to the side of the road and d
ug out my cell phone. “Hi, Susan, it’s Marguerite,” I said when she answered. “Do you think Bob’s friend still wants to go out with me?”

  Her voice sprang to life like a windup toy let loose. “Sure, you bet. I’ll call him right now.”

  “Slow down. How much have you told him?” The way Susan carried on sometimes, this guy probably thought he was going to meet a fashion model.

  “I described you as a top-notch realtor, a single mother, and an artist.”

  “I’m not sure how hot a realtor I am.” Some teens cruised by, their stereo bass booming so loud my car windows shimmied. “I don’t feel like a mother anymore, now that Rob’s gone. And I’m hardly an artist.”

  “Relax,” she said. “It’s just a date, not a lifetime commitment.”

  When I got home, my answering machine was blinking.

  “Hi, Marguerite. It’s Tim O’Brien. Susan said you’d be expecting my call.”

  When I heard Emily’s voice on the other end of the phone, I figured she’d probably gotten my number off my card. But why would she be calling me?

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said.

  “No, not at all.” In truth, Rob’s was the only voice I wanted to hear. I’d been working through my frustrations by sweeping, then mopping the kitchen floor, and was considering cleaning the inside of the stove, a chore I hadn’t tackled for years. “What can I do for you?”

  “Henry asked me to help him out by contacting half of his students to let them know we’re meeting outside of class this week to see an art show.”

  I’d already decided to give myself the week off. “I’m not sure I can make it.” I used my free hand to swab the counter with a sponge. The graying linoleum surface wore gashes where Rob had sliced food without using a cutting board and black marks where the former owner had set a hot pan.

  “That’s a shame,” she said. “I’ve heard realtors put in long hours.”

  “Yes, I’ve been buried at work.” I was exaggerating, but I had little desire to see an art show. I tossed the sponge in the sink, which also begged for scrubbing. “And Mondays are one of my busiest days.”

  “Let me tell you where we’re going in case you’re able to come. All right?”

  “Sure.” I waited without retrieving paper or pen to write down the address.

  “It’s at the campus gallery, not too far from the art building.”

  “Okay, I know where it is.” In college, I’d often strolled through its rooms looking for inspiration.

  “We’ll be looking at a visiting drawing exhibit. According to an article in the newspaper, it’s outstanding.”

  “Yes, I recall seeing it.” I hadn’t bothered to read further than the headline.

  “So far, everyone I’ve called has jumped at the opportunity to have Henry lead us through it.”

  “I’ll see,” I said, then searched for a polite way to change the subject. “How have you and your husband been?” I imagined Emily’s spouse sitting close by waiting for her to get off the phone.

  “Dear, my husband has been dead for nearly fourteen years. Do I talk as though he were still alive?”

  “I’m so sorry.” I sat on the nearest chair. “I mean, I didn’t realize.”

  “No need to apologize. Some days it seems as though he is here. There certainly isn’t a day I don’t miss him. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and feel as though he should be lying next to me. His snoring used to aggravate me no end.” She sounded older, tired. “Now I’d do anything to hear it again.”

  As she spoke, I thought of my mother nudging Dad in the side to get him to stop snoring. Mom was five years younger than he, and would probably outlive him. I knew that, like Emily, someday she would wake up alone and reach out to emptiness.

  Mom claimed she’d walked in on Dad and Alice. But I chose to believe she’d taken an innocent moment and blown it up to gigantic proportions after years of festering. I thought of my father engrossed in Monday Night Football, his evening paper falling to the floor as he nodded off. He was too old to be fooling around, with his high blood pressure and heart problems.

  “Sometimes when I’m folding laundry,” Emily continued, “I wish he’d come walking into the room to carry the basket upstairs for me like he always did.” She laughed, her voice like a feather, light but textured. “That may sound crazy to a young woman, but I spent most of my life with him.”

  “What was he like?” I asked, hearing her need to talk.

  “Al was my opposite. He was a hard-driving, top-level corporate manager, and I was a stay-at-home mom who didn’t wear makeup or curl her hair. His world and mine were so different, I never did understand what he did all day. But he was a kind man and a good father, and we had a lot of fun. Opposites do attract. Isn’t it strange how those things work out so well? We complemented each other beautifully.”

  “He sounds wonderful. I’m sorry you lost him.”

  “Oh, we’ll see each other again one day in heaven. I’m counting on that. And you, young lady, I hope we see you Monday.”

  After she hung up, I stood for a moment listening to the furnace sigh, then shut off. The house stood empty, like a birdcage after its tenant had flown away. I lifted the receiver and dialed Tim O’Brien’s work number.

  “Okay, so it was a dumb movie.” I slipped out of my jacket, draped it over the chair back. “But at least no one got killed, and it had a happy ending.” You’d think I’d be done with boy-gets-girl stories, but I still liked them.

  Tim chuckled from across the table. “Next time, I get to pick. Okay?”

  Next time? “Sure.” We’d seen a romantic comedy, the kind some men usually don’t tolerate. Yet Tim had gone willingly, saying whatever I liked was fine with him. He’d opened every door—even the car’s—bought the biggest tub of popcorn available, and tempted me afterward with a chocolate torte at a nearby cafe.

  I had little doubt most women would appreciate his teddy-bear cuteness and rolling laugh. Dressed in a polo shirt and khaki slacks, he was a square-jawed, clean-cut man who could have modeled for an Eddie Bauer catalog. Susan had raved so much about him that I’d prepared myself for the worst.

  His black BMW wasn’t shabby either. I normally didn’t care what a man drove, but a nice car did spell success.

  I sliced a ladylike piece of cake. “I shouldn’t be eating this.” I nibbled into it, allowing the dark-chocolate frosting to melt slowly on my tongue.

  “You don’t need to worry about your weight.” He plunked a wedge of cheesecake in his mouth. “A few extra calories won’t hurt a bit.”

  I patted the corners of my mouth with my napkin, careful not to remove my lipstick. “A few thousand extra, you mean?” I hadn’t flirted for ages and was having a good time being charming. I wore a magenta V-necked sweater and the black slacks that made me look thinner than I really was. His lingering gaze told me he found me attractive. He pushed his plate in my direction and offered me a bite.

  “Are you trying to be a bad influence on me?” I asked with an exaggerated look of disapproval.

  “Moi? My mother says I’m an angel.”

  I hoped upon hope his mother was right. “Hmm.” I reached over, cut a sliver of cheesecake, and tasted it.

  “Like it?”

  “Yes, everything’s delicious.” I watched his eager eyes sparkle from behind long lashes. There was nothing not to like about him, I decided, even if I didn’t feel a tingling spark of chemistry. Perhaps sizzle didn’t matter anymore. I knew from experience that red-hot flames burned out quickly, leaving stone-cold ashes behind. Weren’t honesty and reliability more important than intense, but short-lived, excitement? I’d heard of people who had known each other for years suddenly discovering passion. Love could ferment and mellow like vintage wine.

  “Did you catch the Mariners last night?” Tim asked.

  “No.” I never paid much attention to sports unless Rob was on the field. “Did you go?”

  “Yeah. My dad scored t
wo seats right behind home plate. Things were tied until the bottom of the ninth. Then the Yankees pitcher fell apart, and we hit a homer with bases loaded. It was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  Minutes later he laughed as he described an interception at a recent Seahawks football game. Apparently he fancied sports as much as my father.

  “Then what happened?” I asked, inhaling a yawn.

  At the end of the evening, we stood for a moment on my front porch. In an impulsive move, I thanked him with a kiss. Our lips barely touched. Wanting to be held, I almost pulled him nearer. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to go out with him again. Did we really have much in common? Tim hadn’t asked me about my job or even about my son. Maybe Susan hadn’t mentioned Rob, which might be just as well. Finding out a woman has a child whose voice is deeper and shoulders broader than his own might scare a man away.

  “I enjoyed your company, pretty lady,” he said, hesitating as if he had more to say. Then he took a step back. “I’ll give you a call.”

  “Thank you.” Was I thanking him for the movie or his promise to call? It didn’t matter. The ball was in his court.

  I hadn’t visited the campus museum once since my college days. But Emily’s conversation had touched me with its honesty; I contemplated going just to see her. “Bring your sketchpad,” she’d told me. “We’ll be using them.”

  Standing in my kitchen, I had less than forty-eight hours to draw something before class night. With no open house scheduled for the weekend, there was time to sketch right now. I glanced around the room, hoping to find a subject. The small wrought-iron chandelier, with its four arms branching out to hold flame-shaped bulbs, floated above the kitchen table. The wall hutch, crammed with Rob’s art projects from grade school and one of his lacrosse team photos, hung next to his framed first-grade self-portrait. Magnets of all shapes and sizes holding pizza coupons, Cathy cartoons, and articles I thought I might need someday littered the face of the refrigerator. My mud-caked walking shoes lay by the back door next to Charlie’s basket. Did my house smell like a dog? I wondered. It must, after twelve years of his canine presence.