The lights went down, the audience hushed, and the announcer began:
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the man of the hour, the man you’ve been waiting for, the only man whose artistry and talent get better year after year, please help me welcome to the stage this evening, the one and only Tony Bennett!”
The crowd went wild. People stood up and cheered and clapped and yelled, and in a moment the elation was broken with “Come Fly with Me” and “I Wanna Be Around.” Blossom was ecstatic. She hadn’t felt this happy since... since forever. The music filled her up like chocolate. It was sweet and rich and satisfying, and how she wanted more. “It’s the Good Life,” “Day and Night,” “Two for the Road.” She held her binoculars tight to her eyes, afraid of missing a single note. The audience loved it to. She scanned it to see that hundreds had come with the same zeal she had. And then he sang “Smile,” and she smiled as she slowly drew the binoculars over the crowd, smiled, smiled, smil—and then she froze.
There was Skip. Third row, center. Who was he with? A woman? Yes. Who? She couldn’t quite see her. She was half turned, leaning forward. “Smile though your heart is aching; smile, even though it’s breaking... ” She was blonde. Was his arm around her? Yes. Was it Jeannie? Tony Bennett kept on singing: “. . . That’s the time you must keep on trying; smile; what’s the use of crying? ” It wasn’t Jeannie. It was someone else. Someone just as pretty. Someone who was not Blossom. “...You’ll find life is still worthwhile, if you’ll just smile... ”
Oh, God. Don’t go there. Listen to the music. Love the music just as you did one minute ago. Look at the stage and listen to the beautiful music. “If you just smile.”
But she couldn’t. She excused herself down a long row of annoyed people and hurried out of the Hollywood Bowl, all the while hearing Tony Bennett’s distant voice rise over the walls, singing, “. . . If you just smile... ” She got in her car and drove home.
The pool lay in front of her like an interlude that separated deliverance from devastation. She eased herself in gratefully.
Back and forth, back and forth she swam, stretching out along the pool’s full length. The water felt so good washing over her as she left the last hours behind her in their wake. One arm over the other, she swam. Oxygen infused every pore, drenched every atom of her being. And with the unnumbered refrain of each round, she began to breathe again. Deep breaths. Cool, energizing breaths, as invigorating as an open window in winter.
How could she have left the concert? She had waited her whole life to see Tony Bennett. It was love that drove her to the concert; it was jealousy that drove her away. Jealousy. If she had stayed with that feeling of love, she would never have left; she would have remained and listened to the music, embracing the moment.
Skip was handsome and kind, and she was drawn to him with a powerful magnetism, with that XYZ of attraction, the hard-wiring of love.
But he shouldn’t be the only reason to feel alive... and suddenly, from the mute bottom waters, she found her smile; from the lipless dark that had swallowed her whole came an unexpected surge of hope. She was healing. She was letting go. And promise poured over her like a christening. It was all right. It was all right. And it was going to be all right.
CHAPTER 37
A S THE POUNDS CAME OFF, so did the awful weight of despair that Blossom had been carrying around with her for so long. Even her obsession with Skip began to fade like a dream that loses its detail by the afternoon. And this particular afternoon found Blossom sitting at an outdoor café on Rodeo Drive, enjoying a double espresso and reading L.A.’s second-most-read magazine, a publication that informed people with money about what to do in Los Angeles. She had vowed to expand her interests beyond the pool— beyond Skip—so here she was, at a chic café, trying to look as though she belonged there.
From out of the glossy pages leaped a painting that demanded her attention. It was an aqua pool, with refracted light breaking across the page. It was cool, inviting. It was where Blossom had enjoyed the best hours of her recent life. Who painted this? Where could she see it? She read on:
David Hockney. Gallery of Contemporary Art.
David Hockney will be speaking at 2 p.m. Sunday afternoon.
It was already Sunday afternoon, and Blossom had only twenty minutes to get over there. David Hockney. He’s good. I wonder if he’s done any more of these pools. This would look nice in the living room. I wonder how much he’d charge for something like this?
Blossom entered the gallery and made her way over to the exhibit and the area where he would be speaking. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in a gallery. Had she ever been in a gallery? She had gone down to Boston one Saturday to see the aquarium, but then, that was not exactly a gallery. Maybe fish enthusiasts might consider it a fish gallery, but Blossom doubted it.
Everyone sat hushed in a semicircle. Blossom took her place toward the end of the row. The room was awash in pools. Blue pools, green pools, pools with people, pools with diving boards, pools without diving boards, pools cut with sunlight—lots of sunlight, a tiny bit of sunlight, no sunlight at all.
She was happy being surrounded by so much water. It was as if the secret life she had created were splashing around her at high tide. Back and forth, back and forth her eyes darted, lost in their own laps.
And then David Hockney came out. Blossom began to applaud, but no one else joined in, so she stopped immediately. The distraction didn’t seem to faze the artist, and he began to talk about his pools. Blossom listened with the concentration of a Buddhist. Nothing could sway her attention from the way he portrayed his pools. It was as if she were back in the voiceless water, making her midnight rounds.
And as she sat worlds apart from the others, she felt that Hockney was speaking only to her. Describing, illustrating, elucidating—it was all directed toward Blossom.
“So are there any questions?” he asked finally.
Those were the words that broke the trance.
“No? Well, please feel free to walk around and enjoy the paintings. Thank you for coming.”
“Excuse me?” Blossom said, her hand raised.
“Yes?”
“How much is the painting behind you?”
Supercilious laughter tittered throughout the room.
Was that a stupid question?
“I actually have no idea how the gallery finally priced this. But I would be very happy if you bought it.”
See? He’d be happy if I bought it! It wasn’t a stupid question.
“If you’d like, I would be more than glad to find out for you.”
“Yes, that would be very nice. Thank you.”
The group got up slowly and started fanning out among the pools.
“I enjoyed your lecture very much,” Blossom said. “I swim every night, and I’ve really come to love the pool in our complex. When I saw your ad in L.A. magazine, I had to come and see if you had more pictures of pools. They’re really, really nice, Mr. Hockney.”
“My ad?”
“Yeah, you know, the ad that showed the pool picture.”
“Oh,” Hockney laughed. “Thank you...”
“Blossom.”
“Blossom. Oh, there’s the curator now. Let’s ask what this dicey little pool painting is fetching,” he said. “Paul, the painting hanging on the back wall—what exactly is the price on that?”
“Is this for madam?”
“No, it’s for me,” Blossom said.
Hockney laughed again. The curator remained humorless. “I’ll check.” He sniffed out of the room, his nose pointing toward the ceiling.
“Are you a collector?” Hockney asked Blossom.
“No. I just like your pools.”
“I’m flattered.”
It was at this point Blossom noticed the hearing aid Hockney had in each ear. It was curious to her, yet she didn’t perceive it as a handicap. On the contrary, she truly believed this helped him hear the music of his art more clearly. It must have, bec
ause every painting sang to her, invited her to wade in, to lay back into the deep, dazzling color of the blues. The blues. It was more than a mood or music. It was the cool smell of a minty sky that fills the air with a sharp, glacial clarity. It was a bowl of beach glass, smooth, rounded, and glazed with a tint of turquoise or a hint of aqua. It was an old cup, a broken shard softened by the sea. It was an endless, cloudless canvas painted with such hope and heart, it became imminently clear to Blossom that this artist, this gifted, beautiful man had made love... come out of the blue.
The curator was coming back with a piece of paper in hand.
“That painting, Pool Number Fifteen, is six hundred thousand dollars.”
“Oh,” Blossom said, disappointed, “that’s more than I was hoping.”
“We do have a slightly smaller painting actually,” the curator explained, “still using the pulp paper method....I believe that’s going for one hundred thousand, perhaps one hundred fifty thousand dollars. Would you like to see it?”
“Very much.”
“Yes, well, it’s not out on the floor, but we do have it in the office. If you don’t mind coming this way, Miss...”
“McBeal. Blossom McBeal.”
“I’m heading that way,” Hockney said. “I’ll walk with you.”
Blossom grinned when she saw the painting. It was wonderful. It didn’t have the yellow diving board, but again the blues were mesmerizing, a crackling current of color.
“This piece is one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.”
A little more then she ought. But Blossom could not take her eyes from it. “I’ll take it. It’s absolutely beautiful.” An early Christmas present to myself. Why not? This is my last Christmas. I deserve something this special.
Hockney smiled. “Good, then.” And he shook Blossom’s hand. “And I’m glad it’s going to someone who likes it so much. Blossom, it’s been a pleasure.”
“Thank you. Perhaps when it’s hung, you’d like to come over and see it.”
The curator shot a look at Hockney.
“That’s a nice invitation, and if I am still in the area, I would be happy to.”
“Oh, you don’t live here?”
“Yes, I live here, but I spend a lot of my time traveling back to England. But if an opportunity arises that extends my stay here, I will let Paul know.”
Paul cleared his throat. “Yes, by all means.”
“Again,” Hockney said, looking at Blossom, “a pleasure.” And he left.
Blossom had to pay with cash, of course, and she announced that she had to go home to get it. The curator smirked, then covered his rude behavior by explaining that he’d never dealt in cash like this before. Blossom knew he doubted that she’d return, but who cared what he thought? It was the painting she was bringing home, not him.
She returned later that afternoon with a brown grocery bag, the only thing she had available to carry that much money in. Her handbag was far too small, and her suitcases far too big. Paul gasped when he saw she’d returned, and gasped again when she emptied the cash on his desk.
“Go ahead, count it,” Blossom said.
“Ummm, I’m sure it’s all here.” He thumbed the dozens and dozens of packages of fives, tens, twenties, and fifties. “Let me just secure this for you,” he said, lifting the painting and preparing to box it.
“No, that’s okay. I’ll just take it as is.”
“You’ll just take it? As is? Without protective wrapping?”
“Sure. My car is just outside. No problem.”
Paul stared at Blossom, then reluctantly handed her the Hockney. “Careful.”
“Yeah, I will be. Oh, and thank you for all your trouble. I really appreciate it.”
“Perhaps you’d like to get on our mailing list for future shows?”
“That’s really nice, but I think I’m kind of in a pool phase right now.”
“I’m sure there will be other shows coming up that might suit your interests.” The allure of cash always triumphed in the end, Blossom thought.
“Well, okay. I’ll write my name and number down. Call me if you get more blue paintings in. My living room is blue.”
“Picasso had a blue period, so I’ll certainly keep you informed.”
“Good. Guess I’ll just take this, then, and be getting along.”
Paul watched Blossom disappear with the Hockney painting casually swinging under her arm. This gave him immediate heartburn, and he hurriedly retreated into his office, desperately searching for nothing less then a wheelbarrow of antacids. And if those didn’t work he always had Valium to fall back on.
CHAPTER 38
DOLLY, COME OVER AND LOOK at my new painting,” Blossom said. When she hung up the phone, she went immediately to the window and called out, “Skip, come up and look at my new painting.” Skip arrived first.
“Thank you for those tickets, Blossom. They were amazing. Do you know where we sat?”
Yes, I know exactly where you sat. “Where?”
“Third row, center. It couldn’t have been more perfect.”
Yes, the whole evening was like that for me, too. “Oh, good.”‘
“And, Blossom...”
“Yes?”
“Your present, the box, it’s so nice. Thank you.”
“What are you going to keep in it?”
“I don’t know. Right now it’s just out on my coffee table.”
“Well, it seemed to be you, with your initials and everything. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you, is Skip your real name?” “Actually, no. My dad is Dennis Loggins, and I’m Dennis Loggins Jr., so somehow I got the nickname Skip.”
“Oh, well, still, S. L. seems like you.”
“Without a doubt. I wouldn’t have any other initials on it. I’m Skip, just like you’re Blossom.” Blossom smiled. Not exactly.
Finally, Dolly arrived, and Blossom was all excited about presenting her newest magnum opus. She corralled both her guests into the living room.
“Ta-da,” Blossom said, pointing toward the Hockney that now replaced the print Skip had hung. Both Skip and Dolly were taken aback.
“An original David Hockney?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“I just know,” Dolly said.
“It’s wonderful, Blossom,” Skip added, looking more closely at the pulpy paper.
“Don’t you love it?”
“Yes, Blossom, I do, I love it,” Skip said.
“It’s not a copy, either. It’s an original. I even met the artist. He was so nice.”
“You did?” Both Dolly and Skip were doubly impressed. “He’s quite famous, you know,” Dolly said.
“Yes, I know. I mean, I know now. I didn’t know before I bought it, but I know now.”
“You just bought this painting like that?” Skip asked.
“Yup. Sometimes you just gotta go for it.”
“Good for you, Blossom. It’s a wonderful piece,” he said. “Only someone like you could come home with a Hockney, just because.” This made Blossom smile. “I’m sorry to rush out, but I left the water running downstairs so I gotta go—but thanks for calling me up and showing it to me. It’s fantastic.”
“Oh, you’re welcome, you’re welcome,” Blossom said, still beaming. When Skip left, she turned to Dolly.
“I want to tell you something, Dolly,” she said gravely. “If anything happens to me, I want you to take this painting. I want you to have it.”
“Don’t say that, Blossom! Nothing is going to happen to you.”
“I know, but if it does, promise me you’ll take the painting.”
“Blossom!”
“No, Dolly, just promise me.”
“If something happens to you?”
“Yes.”
“But nothing’s gonna happen to you.”
“Dolly!”
“Okay, okay—if anything happens to you.”
“If anything happens to me, what?”
“I’ll take the paintin
g.”
“Good.”
“Wanna glass of hemlock?”
They both laughed at Dolly’s unexpected joke. “I can’t believe I said that.”
“Yes, you can,” Blossom giggled.
“You seem to be feeling a little better, Blossom, honey. Are you?”
“I am, Dolly.”
“You put that love thing into its right perspective?”
“I think I did. Something just sort of came to me the other night, and I started feeling better about it. My heart still goes pitter-patter when I see him, but at least it’s not breaking.”
“Exactly, honey. The thing about love, besides needing to have patience with it, is acceptance.”
“Now, that was from a self-help book. Fess up.”
“No, that was on Oprah’s show.” They laughed.
Blossom thought back to the other night, when she felt as if she were swimming toward her own deliverance, when a sudden strike of recognition helped her understand that love was bigger than Skip, that it did indeed have everything to do with acceptance and with herself.
She sighed. “We have so little time on this earth to get it right, and then again, there are times it feels as if some days won’t end. Ever feel like that, Dolly?”
“When Mr. Feingold died, I felt like that every day. I had gotten so used to being sad, being happy felt strange. I even started feeling guilty if I felt happy; I thought I was disrespecting him. Sometimes sadness is a comfort: You carry it around like a blanket and let it keep you company. But as you find happiness, the blanket becomes heavier.”
“I think I’ve done that. Like being fat—it kind of covers you up.”
“Sadness can be a very seductive suitor. He calls on you every night; he wakes up with you every morning. You hold on, afraid to let go. At least it’s something, you think.”
“Dolly,” Blossom asked quietly, “do you think you’ll ever be with anyone else again?”
Dolly paused. “I don’t want to say no, because I’ve worked too hard celebrating life’s possibilities to ever say no. But it’s difficult for me to imagine. Mr. Feingold was the love of my life.” Her voice was as soft as ice cream.
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