by Susan Conley
It struck him as odd that after all those years of his mother champing at the bit for him to ‘sort out that mess!’ that she had, in his absence, resisted the urge to purge … but then he remembered that his oldest sister had taken the house ages ago, and surely this would be the room of a niece or a nephew? His breathing became labored as his disorientation increased, the lack of any other sound, even a creak of the old house settling, began to feel alarming. Why was it so silent? Why was it so dark? Why was he wearing his old flannel pajamas? Panicking at the sight of his grown up arms and legs sticking well out of his Zig and Zag gear, he tried to rise, to get up and away, but he was paralyzed. He tried to shout for help, but he couldn’t even move the muscles of his throat. Alarm overwhelmed him and his breathing came faster and faster until —
He was standing in the garden of Aunt Maeve’s detached house in Dollymount. Slightly derelict, the family was forever urging her to sell it, rent it out, do something with it. It was prime real estate in this day and age, and priceless if you were a romantic, which it seemed that Maeve was. She was ‘saving’ it, and wouldn’t be drawn out on the subject. Jamie had always loved the place, and he wondered if that ridiculously large shed, practically a barn, was still out back, and as soon as thought of, he was standing before it, and it was unrecognizable: remodeled into an enclosed shelter, he faced a bright blue door that swung open to reveal a fully kitted out studio. His own long worktable ran down the center of the room, his tools and works-in-progress everywhere in the usual jumble. The roof was glass, and natural light poured into the place like manna from heaven. I want this, he thought, and moved into the room. As he did, the intensity of the light increased until it was blinding, and he could do nothing but shield his eyes against the glare —
When he opened his eyes again, he was standing on the bank of a peacefully flowing river. The opposite side wasn’t far away; overcome with the desire to ford it, he gauged the depth of the water, and knew it was too deep. He walked east to look for a shallower crossing. The banks were wooded, and as he moved through the trees, deer and hares and great blue herons watched him pass. Far from skittish, they seemed to look on approvingly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement on the other side of the water, but every time he paused to look, there was nothing. He kept moving, and without knowing how he knew, he knew it was Annabelle.
The river was rushing now, and narrowing, and he began to run, certain that he would be able to ford the river and get to her. The trees became a blur as he pelted through the forest, and he came crashing through the underbrush to stop at a point that was no more than three feet across. Annabelle stood facing him, her face placid, her eyes shadowed by — confusion? Fear? Hope? He couldn’t tell. Her hair tumbled all around her, much longer than he’d remembered, and the gown she wore seemed to be flowing into the river. He moved to cross, but something held him back, an invisible barrier, and Annabelle seemed to be as trapped as he was.
Simultaneously, their hands came up, reaching across, and they leaned as far forward as they were able, their fingertips practically touching as the river rushed harder, the sound became a roar as —
Jamie woke up to the sound of a wild, blustery thunderstorm. The rain rattled on the umbrella factory’s metal roof, and wind pounded the windows. Must have been the rain, he thought, making me dream of Ireland.
Or an evening spent in pursuit of Maeve.
He slumped at the edge of the bed. What the hell was she about? Demanding a visit, demanding the picture he’d promised her, insisting it be that very night, at that very time, and then not turning up? And why she wanted to meet him in front of some derelict shop in ‘North Chelsea’? Well, who knew with Mad Maeve.
A big yawn kept him occupied for a moment or so, and gave him an excuse to remain perched on the bed. Stretching mightily, he stood, the siren call of a prospective double espresso impossible to resist.
Some grounds, a quick blast of hot water and two heaping spoonfuls of brown sugar later, Jamie was well on his way to full participation in the day, and better able to consider what might best appease his growling belly. Toasted homemade brown bread topped with butter and strawberry jam? A three-egg omelet filled with brie and spring onions? Fried potatoes and rashers?
All of the above. Fully awake at the thought of such a feed, Jamie began slicing, chopping, and mixing, and only when he had all the bits and pieces of his meal ready for assembly, did he allow himself to continue to review events of the night before.
Annabelle. The irritatingly organized writer. Some dress … Jamie mechanically added cheese and onions to the bubbling eggs, and tossed bread in the toaster. And the combination of the little leather jacket and that sexy blonde bob … He smiled to himself as he ground more beans for more coffee. Annabelle. It was, he had to admit, ages since he’d even thought twice about a girl, since …
He leaned a hip against the counter and stared blindly out the window. Did he want to ‘go there’? “Don’t go there!” He could almost hear Sherrie’s thick Noo Yawk accent rasping in his ear. One of her favorite phrases, it covered a range of subjects including queries as regarded her incessant shopping, and whether or not, during the last six months of their three-year relationship, all those midnight telephone calls really did have to do with the running of her fledgling art gallery.
No … let’s not ‘go there,’ Jamie decided, as he rescued his omelet in the nick of time. The toast had gone stone cold, the rashers and spuds gone greasy, and the eggs were suddenly unappetizing. Only thoughts of Sherrie could put him off his food.
Another cuppa would set him straight, and all the food could be reconstructed and resurrected for lunch. Maybe a bit of work would set him fully to rights … but a wander into the studio reminded him of something else he was trying to forget.
It wasn’t trouble with his restoration commissions. It had nothing to do with his gig for Kelli. It didn’t even have anything to do with his own work — a miracle in itself. In fact, he toyed with the idea of giving the glass panels he’d been experimenting with a trial run in Kelli’s production/installation … God knew, she could afford it. Yeah. Yeah. Hmmm. Whadadya know, he thought to himself, sarcastically. I must be some kind of genius.
But what kind of genius, he wondered, would turn down the chance of multi-year funding? Precisely what kind of eejit would fail to at least take a shot at such a scheme, even though that scheme originated, and would have to be executed, in Ireland?
Jamie unenthusiastically took up the clipping a Dublin-based brother had sent to their mother, who had sent it on to himself. Fully funded for three years, studio space provided, materials provided up to seventy per cent. All he had to do was submit a piece of work of mythological origin, appropriate for display in the county council office of choice —
Disgusted, Jamie crumpled up the clipping for what seemed like the hundredth time. He didn’t mind the public art aspect of the submission; in fact, he thought the more art in public spaces, the better.
No. It was the hokey Oirish bloody Celtic Twilight bollocks of the subject matter. It was everything he’d always dreamed of — since becoming a proper artist — wrapped up in almost everything he’d always tried to get away from. Feck’s sake. Who needed another bloody Cuchulainn statue? If he was to enter this competition, how would he match his figurative skills with an interesting subject? Preferably female — they were infinitely more interesting than the males. Emer, Grainne, Deirdre of the bloody Sorrows … no, no, and no. All too well-known, cliché.
If he was going to do this, he’d have to rescue one of the figures from their sad, seemingly choiceless destinies, or at least definitively show some sort of humanity that many of these Celtic types seemed to lack. He dug around for a sketchpad. The last part of his dream flashed into his mind’s eye: Annabelle on the banks of the river, her hair and dress seeming to flow into the water, and the water seeming to flow into them —
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br /> Sinann.
Jamie scrambled around on his hands and knees, looking for his new favorite pencil. Turned into a river for daring to drink out of the holy well of some mythical salmon — he’d have to check that, and made a note — he imagined that instead of punishment, the mythical maid saw it as transcendence, as the freedom to roam the breadth of Ireland: flowing, forceful, necessary.
He rapidly sketched the figure of a woman whose hair and dress were transforming into waves of water, her body leaning forward, her arms reaching up in what was a gesture of abandon and triumph. Her eyes would express her victory and her face the strength of her decision. He imagined the image flowing like the water she was, over a huge sheet of glass, lit from behind. And whether he liked it or not, he imagined that his imaginary goddess’ face had a familiarity to it …
Jamie reached over and, for the thousandth time, uncrumpled the clipping his brother had sent. His stomach rumbled, and resigned and invigorated at the same time, he thought it best to eat brunch now before he got lost in his latest creation.
• • •
Lorna approached the corner of 22nd and First with trepidation and irritation. The potential for melodrama has not been suitably plumbed, Lorna sneered. Why not simply take the tram out to Roosevelt Island? Why not take the bus out to Jersey? For God’s sake. Clutching her Hermes scarf more closely around her throat, she shivered as she made her way up the block.
Her annoyance increased at the sight of Kelli lurking in the shadows of a dumpster, clothed in black from head to toe, and was gratified to see that Maria Grazia was visibly vexed. Lorna fixed a chilly smile on her face — never much of a challenge, and certainly less of one when the wind was coming off the East River as it did now — and strolled up to the two.
“Why, hello, comrades,” she greeted them, and Kelli looked around wildly, furtively handing out folded pieces of paper.
“I know it’s chancy,” she panted, “Putting the plan down in black and white, but — ”
“Ooh, let’s memorize the contents, and then you can eat them!” Lorna suggested.
“This wasn’t necessary, Kell,” MG cut in. “We’re not stupid, it’s all simple enough.”
“I want to run through it once more,” Kelli insisted, her eyes darting up and down the avenue. “I call Annabelle and give her the assignment. I promise her two tickets — ”
“One intended for me — ” chirped MG, getting caught up in the spirit of it all despite herself.
“Which you cancel at three twenty-five P.M. Eastern Standard Time,” said Kelli.
“With apologies, and I suggest that she give a Lorna a try — ” MG continued, and she and Kelli cut their eyes to Lorna, who replied, flatly, “To which I agree, but then, inexplicably, I cancel at exactly seven-fifty Eastern Standard Time, even though she wouldn’t not go because it is a job.”
“She needs to have the extra ticket for Jamie!” Kelli shrieked.
“He needs to sit next to her!” MG howled.
“This is how it will transpire.” Lorna crossed her arms and stared off into the middle distance. “You, Kelli, will give Annabelle this assignment. You will have the box office set aside her tickets. He will not in fact have a reservation. I believe we can rely on Annabelle to offer him the ticket, and on Cezanne to accept.”
Kelli scribbled on her master list, and Maria Grazia wondered, “Do we still need to be involv — ”
“Yes!” Kelli hissed. “We need a fail-safe! We need a back-up!”
We need to wrap this up. “I think that should do. Shall we?” Lorna linked her arm through Maria Grazia’s and applied the Grip of Death.
“Ow. So, Kelli, all that good for you?”
Kelli ran her eyes over the notes, and nodded slowly. She raised her eyes to meet Lorna’s and she smiled warmly, admiringly. “So simple, yet so direct. What a mind you have, Lorna. No wonder you’re such a success. And to see you share its wealth in aid of a dear friend — oh. It touches me. And, I must confess, stirs up a powerful envy in me, to think that you’ve never married your amazin’ skills to one of my innovative projects — ”
I have no more time to waste on this creature, thought Lorna, as she spun MG around and headed back toward civilization. “Goodbye.”
• • •
They left a cautiously scuttling Kelli at Second Avenue, and walked further west, Maria Grazia bustling, Lorna clacking along in her Louboutins.
“That wasn’t too terrible,” MG muttered, trying to gauge the severity, on a scale of one to ten, of the blankness of Lorna’s expression.
“That was quite enough. And I knew she would try to mesmerize me into working on what is surely to be yet another misguided, yet well-funded effort — ”
“It wasn’t too terrible,” Maria Grazia insisted. “Let’s hope it was worth it.”
“If I hadn’t gotten a look at Kandinsky, and at Annabelle’s face when she saw him, I wouldn’t have shown.” Lorna lit up a well-deserved cigarette.
“And what about his face?”
Lorna inhaled consideringly. “I don’t know if I can — It was … theatrical shock. You know, the kind of emotion in a scene that’s about … well, love, I suppose. When the hero sees the heroine for the first time. It’s banal on film, but it was rather … um … what’s the word … ”
“Authentic?” asked Maria Grazia, longingly.
“Exactly, authentic.” Lorna narrowed her eyes as she scanned MG’s face. “That was longing I heard.”
“It was not.”
“It was. You sounded yearn-y.”
“I did not!”
“Did. My, my.” Lorna stubbed out the butt. “Santa Maria Grazia the Pure expresses longing yearniness re: romance.”
“Are you quite finished?” Whenever Maria Grazia tried for snooty, for Bates-esque hauteur, she failed miserably.
“For the moment,” Lorna murmured, delighted at the prospect of a chink in MG’s chaste armor.
Maria Grazia pulled Lorna over to the nearest coffee shop and said what she was sure was the final word on the subject. “All that’s left is for us to keep our heads, and to follow these stupid instructions. It’ll be a snap. Belle believes in synchronicity and fate and all that crap. She won’t suspect a thing.”
Chapter Seventeen
She didn’t like to think that she was a cynical creature, or distrustful, and if she couldn’t trust her oldest, dearest friends, then who could she trust?
But right this second, Annabelle didn’t trust Maria Grazia or Lorna as far as she could throw them.
Or Kelli, for that matter. As her body swayed with the rocking motion of the F train to Manhattan, her mind seemed to take on the same aspect, looking at her present situation from side-to-side rather than dead on. Exhibit A: Kelli had booked her to review a show. Okay, so that often happened. But Kelli had distinctly — distinctly — mentioned that the show was in a similar vein to her own production, and wouldn’t it help Annabelle’s development of Kelli’s website if Annabelle checked this one out? The kicker? Oh, just that several of the ‘brain trust’ would probably be going along as well, the major players, the lighting guy, the choreographer, several random mimes … the set painter.
When Annabelle had begun to question that little nugget of info, Kelli had promptly hung up.
That may in fact be exhibits B & C, Annabelle thought as she continued to sway.
Exhibit D: Maria Grazia had rung less than an hour later, commiserating about the ‘assignment’, but happy enough to go along. She’d book the tickets so that they could sit together. She seemed to be rather adamant about this point in particular, despite Annabelle’s protests that as a reviewer she would be given a pair automatically — and MG had promptly hung up.
Exhibit E: Lorna had rung her that afternoon sometime around three to say that Maria G
razia was sick with laryngitis, and that she, Lorna would be Annabelle’s date. This is where it got extremely fishy. Lorna’s loathing of Kelli extended to her projects, to any projects the woman thought worthwhile, to the very air she breathed. When Annabelle questioned this — dial tone.
Am I a suspicious person? Annabelle didn’t think she was, but she wasn’t sure anymore. Seriously, though? In the last few weeks, hadn’t Lorna tried to set her up? Hadn’t Maria Grazia been bugging her about Rembrandt? Oh! Annabelle bounced in her seat — Exhibit F! All teasing about the painter-slash-restorer had inexplicably ceased. Ohmigod, thought Annabelle. What if he’s there tonight? Her eyes widened, and she leaped up from her seat, for no apparent reason, resulting in absolutely no reaction whatsoever from the rest of the train’s passengers. She sat back down again abruptly.
Well, so what if he was? Who cared? She didn’t. “I don’t,” she said aloud, and was once again roundly ignored. Nevertheless … she checked out her appearance as best she could in a grimy, clouded window. Hair: excellent; make-up: minimal but flattering; fragrance: Jo Malone Lime Basil & Mandarin; outfit: casual with a bit of sexy thanks to a low-ish cut top, and new faux-lizard bottle green ankle boots with a three inch heel.
She was sick of pretending that she hated being tall.
So … if anybody cared, she looked pretty, thank you very much.
The train shuddered to a halt at East Broadway. Two stops to go, and Annabelle put a hand to her chest, her heart inexplicably racing. Her broken heart — beating like a drum. She had better pull herself together, because if something was up, it wouldn’t do to be all aflutter and … expecting something to be up — which it wasn’t — how could it be? Maria Grazia didn’t know The Irish Guy, and Lorna only saw him the one time and … no!
