Truth of the Matter

by Beck, Jamie

  “I got sidetracked by the beautiful things.” I leave the precious clothes behind and walk into the sunlight, only to be mortified anew. Yoga pants in public—what was I thinking? They leave nothing to the imagination and reveal every imperfection. “I didn’t expect to run into anyone I knew.”

  Then again, it’s a big event for a small town, so it shouldn’t be a surprise that he’s here. In fact, subconsciously I might’ve even hoped to bump into him.

  “Good place for early Christmas shopping.” He holds up a bag, thankfully oblivious to my musings. “My sister, my niece, and my mother—all done.”

  For years I purchased all the gifts for Richard’s family. Lauren can’t possibly know them well enough to select the perfect items. Richard might not care, but come Christmas, the Chases will miss me a little, I bet. “That’s a lot of ladies.”

  He shrugs, looking pleased, which I find very sweet. “They spoil me. I’m not good at mushy, but I pick good gifts.”

  I don’t know why something so simple nearly brings me to tears. “That’s nice, Dan.”

  “Yeah. I’m lucky.” He scans the area around me. “Where’s Katy?”

  “Visiting her father up in our old neighborhood. Her first time in his new house with the girlfriend and her kids. I’m flying solo!” Blah, blah, blah . . . my gosh, as if Dan cares. I sound like a ninny.

  He crosses his arms, bag dangling along his side. “Ah, so you have some time to yourself.”

  I’m trying really hard to have it feel as wonderful as his tone suggests it should be. It is easier to feel alive—feel hope—in this crowd than sitting alone at home with nothing to do and no one to care for. If I keep moving, then someday—maybe not too long from now—twenty-four hours will pass without a thought about Richard and Lauren. Without me second-guessing everything from marrying Richard to my motives for moving here.

  “I was thinking of going to that gallery you mentioned,” I reply. “What was the name again?”

  “Finch Street Studio. It’s right around the corner, on Finch Street.” He gestures with his head.

  “Who would’ve guessed?” I tease.

  His brows rise. “Why don’t I join you? I can introduce you to Trudy. She and I go way back.”

  “Oh really? Sounds like there’s a story there.” My face is hot again. I adjust my sunglasses, self-conscious and worried that he’ll think I’m flirting when I don’t mean to.

  “High school sweethearts.” He winks, furthering my concern. “She broke my heart, but we stayed friends.”

  I can’t recall anyone named Trudy back in the nineties. Then again, I was at home and in bed by nine in those days.

  “Ah. You have an ulterior motive for escorting me, then.” I shoot him a knowing look.

  “Nah. She’s been happily married for twelve years.” He swings his shopping bag toward Finch Street. “Shall we go?”

  There are worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon than visiting an art gallery with a handsome man. “Why not.”

  It’s literally one block off Main and sits on a corner lot. While the storefront is mostly plate glass, the shop’s brick sidewall is entirely painted in spectacular graffiti—a Warholesque image of a woman in sunglasses, done in teals, plums, shades of pink, and yellow. “Very cool.”

  “Have you ever done anything like that?” Dan asks.

  “Graffiti?” While I appreciate pop art, my stylistic preferences lean toward the isms: impressionism, postimpressionism, and abstract expressionism. Not exactly suited for sidewalks and commercial exteriors.

  “No. I mean on that scale . . .” He widens his arms, bag still dangling. “Huge.”

  I shake my head. “Fun project, though. Something for the entire community to enjoy.”

  “If someone gave you a wall, what would you paint?” he asks as we approach the gallery door.

  “It would depend on my mood at the time.” I laugh, trying to picture myself standing in front of drywall in a home or an office lobby. It’s absurd to consider, but a cartoonish image of Lauren beneath my bootheel flickers to life. Not exactly Monet.

  “If it were right now . . . ,” he prods, stopping on the sidewalk.

  I flush, suspecting he hopes to be wowed while knowing he won’t be. But, dammit, I can at least give it a try. With my eyes closed, the sounds of the street fair and nearby gulls filter into my thoughts. Drawing a breath, I let my thoughts wander before opening my eyes. “Maybe an abstract image of the sky over the bay just after a late-day storm, with rosy-orange sunlight behind the clouds, and the faintest hint of a rainbow in the distance.”

  Another juvenile attempt at symbolism. My skin is on fire, but I don’t cover my face or look away. One could argue that childishness suits my current stage of rebirth. Would Professor Agate accept that as me taking responsibility for my creation? Ha!

  A slow grin appears as Dan studies me. His amber eyes glow like the backlit clouds in my imaginary painting. “I’d like to see that.”

  “Please don’t hold your breath. I’m not up for a funeral.” I chuckle while he pulls the door open. Only after we step inside do I acknowledge that maybe I could paint the bay—not to impress others or to sell, but for myself. For fun. When was the last time I did anything just for fun?

  The gallery design is fairly typical—polished wood floors, stark white walls, high ceilings, and bright lights. The theme of the exhibit must be wildlife naturalism. I’m drawn to a gorgeous image of a mother lion on her side, nursing two cubs. My being lifts in the face of the universal imagery. I’m so awed I almost touch it.

  “You like that?” Dan asks.

  I nod. “It’s wonderful. Powerful.”

  “In what way?” He studies the image. “Seems more peaceful than powerful.”

  “I think the artist chose a lioness to counter the way society—and children—often make mothers feel vulnerable. But our bodies are amazingly life-giving and nurturing. Mothers give without taking, and that requires strength and courage.”

  A flush spreads across my chest following my little speech, although that is exactly what my professors would demand. Dan doesn’t dismiss my comment or make a joke, as Richard might have. He’s considering it, so I let myself enjoy the moment of thinking critically about art. It’s been years since I’ve taken time to visit a museum or gallery.

  A rather elegant, slender blonde looks up from her desk in the back corner and grins. “Dan!”

  She brushes her clothes as she stands and strolls toward us. Her flowing black slacks and halter-style top flatter her figure. A jaw-length bob and fuchsia lipstick lend a sharp, smart look, too. I’m not surprised he dated someone this pretty, but her chicness makes me rethink what his ex-wife might’ve been like.

  She kisses Dan on the cheek, then thumbs away the lipstick smudge before turning and extending her hand to me. “Hello. I’m Trudy.”

  “Hi. I’m Anne Chase.” God, I need to change my name. “Actually, Anne Sullivan . . . or soon to return to that name anyway.”

  Bumbling again. Katy’s right: I’ve got no game.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Anne.” Trudy’s eyes twinkle in the light. She’s something of a sprite—full of energy and perhaps a bit of mischief. “Are you new to town or just visiting Dan?”

  “Oh, I’m not with Dan.” I wave my hands—my shopping bag crinkling as I do—failing miserably at sparing us both the embarrassment of being considered a couple thanks to my overreaction. “I mean, I know Dan, of course. He’s doing work at my house. I moved to town with my daughter a few weeks ago and am renovating my grandparents’ old Cape.” More verbal diarrhea. Glaring proof of my lack of practice socializing with adults about topics that have nothing to do with children. I make a private vow that if Trudy and I hit it off, I will not bore her with my divorce or parenting woes.

  “Ah. Welcome to Potomac Point. Are you in the market for artwork as part of your renovation?” She crosses her arms, pleasantly awaiting an answer.

  I shake my head. “Not a
t the moment, sorry. Dan suggested I meet you and see your gallery.”

  She pats his shoulder in a sisterly fashion. “Isn’t that lovely?”

  “Anne’s an artist,” Dan adds.

  “Was.” I wave my arms, but rein them in quickly. “It’s been a long while since I’ve painted.”

  Dan says, “The stuff in her living and dining rooms is as good as anything in here.” He points at artwork around the room.

  Trudy’s gaze sharpens. “Have you a website or portfolio I might view?”

  “Does PTA-related graphic design count?” I chuckle. “But seriously, I gave up my career a decade ago to raise my daughter.”

  That sounds lame, but I can’t embarrass Katy by exposing the nitty-gritty of why she requires so much of my time. Even now, when I should have more free time, I’ve got to be on the lookout for drugs and other types of rebellion.

  “Maybe you can start up again,” Trudy says. “I love to support local artists. In fact, in December I showcase them, complete with a festive opening-night party on the town’s Holiday Stroll celebration. Does that deadline motivate you?”

  “Oh, no, thank you. Even if I could produce something worthy, that timing is too soon. I’m in the thick of moving in and getting my daughter transitioned. But I’ll definitely drop in to support the others.”

  “Well, I’d love to schmooze, but I’ve got a ton of work today. Maybe we could grab coffee and talk art. There aren’t many of us who like to dig into that, you know.”

  “I’d love that, thanks.” I beam. Then a vision of Katy at Richard’s—stressed and awkward—taints my joy.

  “Call me here and we can put something on the calendar.” Trudy squeezes Dan’s hand. “Always great to see you, Dan. Thanks for stopping in. If you have questions about anything you see, give a shout. Otherwise, I’ll leave you to browse.”

  “See ya, Trudy.” Dan waves and I nod, releasing her from our conversation. He leans toward me. “Told ya you’d like her.”

  “Yes, you did.” We head outside together, and I pause on the sidewalk. “Listen, I appreciate your encouragement about my art, but I’ve got too much on my plate with Katy, Gram, and the renovation. Maybe I’ll paint again someday, but if I’m forced before I feel it, the work will suffer and that won’t help my confidence.”

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to push. Ellen used to get on me about that a lot. My sister’s poor kids probably hate when I visit or yell from the sidelines.” He chuckles at himself, but all I can think about is how nice it is that he makes time for his sister’s kids’ events.

  “I have to ask: Why do you care so much whether or not I make friends and paint or whatever?” The question surprises us both.

  He stares into my eyes, making me a little breathless. “When Ellen took off, it threw me way off my game. I felt like hell. Wallowed for a year, unable to cope with the kick in the teeth. The failure as a man. The doubts. That all makes you do things you regret . . . big mistakes.” He almost shivers while glancing at his feet. “I guess I thought you could bypass those mistakes and regrets if you got back into doing something you’re great at.”

  His chivalry melts my heart like it’s been warmed by the sun.

  “Wow. That’s . . . that’s very kind, Dan.” And revealing. I start walking because standing together on the sidewalk locked in a personal conversation feels too intimate. “Honestly, I can’t imagine you wallowing or making big mistakes.”

  “Trust me. I did.” He snorts.

  “With women?” If I could cover my face without looking immature, I would. What made me blurt that?

  “No. Women were the last thing on my mind.” He scrunches his nose. “Trust issues, thanks to Ellen. Sadly, I dove headlong into a months-long combo of alcohol and belligerence that resulted in a bad fall from the top of an extension ladder.” He points to the scars on his forehead and arm. “It’s lucky I’ve got such a hard head. Only suffered a moderate concussion and a bunch of stitches. But these battle wounds keep me in check on lonely days when I’m tempted to wallow.”

  “Oh dear.” I know that heartache so well my chest hurts when picturing him stumbling around, drunk and suffering. “I understand. Lately I’ve come to better appreciate the benefits of a good pinot noir.”

  “Who doesn’t?” He rubs the back of his neck like he might regret sharing such personal details.

  We stroll a few steps in silence before I add, “I’m doing okay, though. Katy keeps me focused and moving forward.”

  His mouth presses into a tight line as we hit Main Street. “What about when Katy’s not around, like today? I know she’s your priority right now, but you’re more than Katy’s mother.”

  Am I? It’s been my primary role for almost seventeen years. I can’t recall the last time I defined myself as something other than a mother, daughter, or wife (ex-wife). A sudden thought slams into my consciousness, causing me to stop in my tracks. Before the pregnancy, I had goals of my own. A plan—the Columbia fine arts master’s and all that would follow. That’s the Anne whom Richard fell in love with, as I fell for the ambitious dreamer he’d been. He didn’t waver from his course, but I strayed far from mine. Did the Anne I’ve become make me a stranger to him, too? Is that why he doesn’t love me anymore?

  Dan grabs my arm when I stagger. “Hey, ignore me. Who the hell am I to project my stuff onto you? As long as you’re satisfied, that’s all that matters.”

  He smiles in a feeble attempt to pretend he doesn’t still believe he hit the nail on the head—an apt idiom for a contractor.

  “Thanks.” I blow out a quick breath to reset myself. “I’m sorry Ellen hurt you that much. How long ago did you divorce, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Five years.”

  “Wow.” He’s been single a long time. “No one special since then?”

  He shakes his head. “Nah. I don’t think it’s in the cards for me. The thing that came between Ellen and me wasn’t the other guy—not really. And I can’t fix my . . .” He waves his hand. “Never mind.”

  Hm. There’s more to his story, but I won’t press. “So you keep it casual.”

  “Casual is good. No one gets hurt.”

  “Makes sense.” I smile, but it’s far too sad for me to actually be happy. Will that be me—a future of casual affairs with no one to love or to love me?

  Dan steers the conversation elsewhere, pulling me back from an abyss. “How’s your grandmother doing?”

  “Same. It kills me to see her slipping further and further away. Half the time she doesn’t recognize me. It must be terrifying to live in a worldful of strangers like she does now.”

  “I’m sorry that’s happening on top of everything else you’re going through.”

  I nod. He’s really very kind—like the young man I remember. So different from my first impressions this summer. “To be honest, she mentioned something during my last visit that was upsetting—a place called Allcot—and acted afraid of being hurt. I did some digging and found out there used to be a mental hospital by that name years ago not far from here. I’ve no idea if she actually spent time there—or if she was afraid of it as a child and now is confused and thinking that that’s where she’s been stuck.”

  Dan’s brows pull together. “I’m sure you would’ve heard something if she’d ever been hospitalized.”

  I’d agree if Grandpa’s whispered words weren’t in the back of my mind. “Her ‘secret box’ proves that she isn’t big on sharing.”

  “Your father can’t help?”

  “Doubtful.” First I’d have to reach him instead of his voice mail.

  “Cousins? Aunts or uncles?”

  “I hesitate to disclose Gram’s secrets to them without her permission.”

  “But you’re telling me things.” He crosses his arms.

  “That’s different. You don’t really know her, and you won’t judge her. I worry they would. We were never all that close to begin with. It’s complicated, and I’m running out of time because Gra
m is out of it more often than not.”

  “Are you just curious about the past, or is there a deeper reason to push?” Dan asks.

  “Both. There could be a hereditary mental health issue I should know about. But the bigger part of me needs to know more about what shaped the woman I most looked up to, the woman who shaped me. She’s struggling with these memories. With regret, maybe. If I figure out what happened, maybe I can help lessen her regrets before she dies.”

  “That’s a tall order for someone with advanced dementia. Does she remember the past long enough to be haunted by it?”

  “It seems like she spends more time in the past now than the present, actually.”

  He clucks, shaking his head. “Wish I had better advice.”

  “I’m just grateful to have someone to bounce ideas off of.”

  “Want to grab a bite?” Dan asks, gesturing to Oak & Almond across the street. “I don’t know about you, but I think we deserve a nice lunch after all this heavy talk.”

  “Oh, that’s nice, but I planned to swing by my gram’s before yoga class.” I’m not dressed for a nice restaurant, and this feels a wee bit too much like a lunch date. I’m not ready to date, although if I were, Dan might be a nice jumping-off point. “Can I take a rain check?”

  He nods. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed, but my chest is a little heavy. “Of course. Have a nice visit.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Bright and early.”

  I’ve enjoyed hearing him whistling through my house. It’ll be quiet when he finishes his work. We part ways with a smile, and I walk back to my car.

  It’s only after I’m driving to Gram’s that I realize I’ve thought only once in the past hour about how Katy is handling Richard and Lauren. I check my phone. No texts. Everything must be fine.

  It’s been ages since I’ve been utterly free to do as I please.

  Look at me. My first day without Katy isn’t so bad after all.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MARIE

  “Gram, you should’ve prepared me better for dealing with teens.” Annie sips the tea she made us in the microwave.