“What are you drinking?” he asked Aden. “Call me Pat, please. Martinis all around?”
“Pat,” Lucinda said. “This is Aden Vitali. I don’t believe you’ve met. He’s head of development for arts and humanities.”
“Just who’d Michaela would want to see. I’m a tech man myself.”
Lucinda took a seat on a rust suede couch.
“Michaela’ll be back in a jiff. She wanted to walk Tangiers before the rain.”
Pat placed a tray of martinis on the cocktail table.
“Say! I just hired that husband of yours,” he said to Lucinda. He snatched a martini glass and held it up. “TGIF!” he cried before taking a huge gulp.
Before Lucinda could respond, Michaela entered the room through the sliding glass door to the garden unclipping the leash of an Italian greyhound that curled his reed-like tail under himself and sat in front of the couch looking up expectantly at Lucinda. Thunder cracked right over the driveway, sending the dog streaking under Aden’s chair.
“Tangiers! It’s all right. We’re not hit.” Michaela’s voice was deep, its accent old Bostonian. She shook water droplets out of her long hair, which appeared brunette from a distance and hennaed close up.
“Come out, baby,” Michaela cooed to the dog. Tangiers took an instant liking to Aden — Who didn’t? Lucinda thought — and now sat like a miniature Egyptian statue, a higher concept of a dog, next to Aden’s left calf.
“He knows I’m a dog person,” Aden said.
“Where are you studying, Vanessa?” Lucinda asked. Her mind spun with the thought of Bart working for Pat.
“We sent her to Smith for freshman year last fall, but she missed Cape Tilton. And ended up back on our doorstep,” said Pat.
“She missed the horses and the polo parties,” Michaela said, laughing.
“Did I mention we’re considering adding an equine program at Peabody-Hawthorne? It’s very tentative at this point, but with the right resources — ” Lucinda said.
“What disciplines?” Vanessa interrupted. It was the first moment she’d broken her gaze from Aden, who’d wisely chosen a wing chair away from the couch.
“To be determined. But I expect hunter/jumper and dressage to start. Then eventing. Of course, there would be pre-veterinary and equine industries concentrations.”
“What you need at P-H is proven blood on the Clammers baseball team,” Pat said. He bleated out a laugh that ended in a snort. Tangiers tilted his head quizzically at Pat from his vantage point at Aden’s side.
A car horn honked twice in the drive.
“Why can’t he come to the door like civilized people?” Pat asked.
Vanessa rose from the couch, stretching like a feline after a half-day nap. “I’m off,” she said. “Great to meet you Aden and… ahh, Lucy.”
She held out a hand to Aden to either shake or kiss. Aden stood, so did Tangiers, and shook Vanessa’s hand.
“Lucinda,” he said, looking at his boss then turning back to Vanessa. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you as well, Vanessa.”
Aden sat back down, with Tangiers settling back in by his leg.
“Off you go, but not before you put on shoes,” said Michaela. “Bring Cameron in next time. So, Lucinda! Tell me about the new art studio. I want to know everything.”
Michaela crossed her long legs and turned toward Lucinda on the couch. Her handsome, large features were made up in an attempt to diminish the effect of their great size, but all that effort somehow saddened Lucinda. And the emerald green eye shadow, accentuating the length of Michaela’s prominent nose, cancelled out the effect she’d intended. Michaela looked like a Matisse painting from his Fauve period.
“Here are the architect’s drawings for the proposed renovations. It’s very exciting!” Lucinda said, spreading out the plans on the cocktail table. “The facilities will be a mix of modern and old academy design, taking best advantage of the northern exposure.”
Michaela’s eyes darted all over the plans. She pulled the papers toward her, smiling, as if they were for a building she’d commissioned for herself.
“How many work spaces?” she asked.
“Fifteen to start, then we’ll see how demand goes. There’s going to be some areas we’re going to leave flexible to be molded by the students and artists we attract for faculty,” said Lucinda. She noticed, through the window behind Aden, rain silently slicing into the rock garden.
Pat’s smartphone rang in his pocket and he wandered off into the next room to talk.
“Yes, Frank!” Lucinda heard. Drops of rain hit the window behind Lucinda.
“I dare say I could get Rilre to do a workshop for us in printmaking,” said Michaela. “We met on the Vineyard last summer and he’s so… ,” she looked toward the doorway through which her husband had disappeared, “energetic.”
Lucinda lost track of what Michaela was saying, straining to hear Pat’s phone conversation with Frank. Aden jumped in.
“There’s a great crop of art majors coming in winter term. We would love the idea of you spearheading an art exhibition as we firm up the facility plans. If you can get Rilre to do a master printmaking class that would be more than splendid,” Aden said, pulling Lucinda back into the conversation through eye contact.
The wind surged and rain pounded the roof.
“Another round?” Pat said, returning from the kitchen, his conversation over. “Might as well, you can’t go anywhere in this.”
“I’m fine,” Aden said, winking at Lucinda.
“Me too,” Lucinda said.
“Honey?” Pat said to Michaela. She lifted her glass, eyes still on the blueprints, and he traded a fresh glass for her empty. “I’ve just sealed a deal with Frank for $2.3 million for the business school. Building and equipment.”
“How splendid,” Lucinda said automatically, before censoring herself. Her response, she realized too late, could have been taken as sarcastic or, at best, less than enthusiastic. She tried smiling her way out of the awkward beat. She felt like a harbor skiff tossing in a nor’easter or whatever kind of storm was nailing Cape Tilton at the moment. Michaela watched Lucinda, her eyebrows drawing together, a sly smile spreading across her vast mouthscape.
“Yes,” Aden said. “We’re stunned! How splendid to have leadership-level support of both business and the arts all in the same house!”
Lucinda gulped the rest of her drink. “Yes, stunned,” she added. Her right hand shook as she smoothed her hair away from her face. Her temple was throbbing too.
A sixtyish woman in a pleated navy dress entered the room and announced, “There’s a gentleman at the front door for you, Mr. Weld. A Mr. Bart Beck.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Finch. Send him on through. The more the merrier,” Pat said.
Lucinda wondered if she could just walk out into Michaela’s rock garden and hop a boat bound for Maine. Then, with a spectacular boom, all power to Windward Willows was cut.
The storm darkened the sky to a charred violet, and Mrs. Finch pulled taper matches and candles out of the drawer of a massive German schrank commanding the far wall like a shadowy boulder. It must have been inherited, Lucinda guessed, as it matched nothing else in the modern décor. Bart entered the room via the doorway beside the schrank, then Pat steered him through the daylight gloom past the cocktail table to sit next to Lucinda. She looked at his wet sneakers.
The candles were lit, producing the effect of a séance around the cocktail table. Bart did not sit on the couch. Lucinda looked up from his shoes. She thought his face looked cold and weary, and she reached out a hand to him just as he turned away from her. He crossed the room to the sliding glass door and waited, as if to be let out as soon as the rain stopped. Declining the first offer of a drink, he took a sudden interest in a hand-signed Chagall print on the wall. Lovers and a horse floating in space behind a bunch of roses.
Tangiers sighed and lay down over Aden’s shoes. Aden stretched out a hand when Pat extended another full martini glass toward
him, averting his gaze from Lucinda.
Lucinda turned to Michaela, who was watching Bart.
“Really great,” Pat said, looking between Lucinda and Bart. “Keeping this all in the family.” He smacked Bart on the back. “Martini?” Bart nodded as if resigned.
Bart and martinis, not good, Lucinda thought. The storm intensified, Tangiers whined, and Lucinda leaned against the couch back. There was nowhere to go until the rain stopped. She glanced at Aden, who contemplated either Bart or the Chagall, she wasn’t sure which. Tangiers was in Aden’s lap, his slender nose wedged between Aden’s thighs, his eyes closed.
“Michaela, I’m so happy to have this opportunity for you to really get involved in studio art. It’s inspirational,” Lucinda said. Her last attempt at some semblance of professionalism. She felt suddenly exhausted.
“It’s ok, dear,” Michaela whispered. She took a generous sip of martini, laid a hand on Lucinda’s thigh, and gave a conspiratorial nod in Bart’s direction. Then she moved herself deep into the couch, pulling the art studio plans onto her lap. How much did she know? Lucinda wondered.
The lights popped back on with a jolt, followed by the blast of a siren. After Bart opened the sliding glass door, Pat trailed him out into the rock garden.
A Man from India
A few of the tougher McIntosh apple trees in Lucinda’s orchard still conjured up delicate white-pink flowers in May that transformed into tiny sweet-tart, red-green apples by September. Walking at the northern end of the orchard late on Wednesday afternoon, Lucinda picked two apples and carried them past the field grasses turning red and caramel. She paused at the iron-fenced private memorial to her Aunt Jean to inhale the crisp air and admire the foam-crested swells of the Gulf of Maine, as if she owned as much of its expanse as she could see. Shifting her gaze back inland, she considered the possibility of putting in a small hay pasture — there was enough room for it between orchard and beach — next year. But she would have to do it herself.
She remembered those autumn weekends, after she and Bart moved to the farm, spent fixing things and painting. God, that was more than 17 years ago. It hadn’t seemed that taxing, doing it together.
Today was one of those days when the steady cool temperature and bright, thin sunlight revealed that the blending of summer and autumn was complete, and autumn had won. She buttoned her canvas barn jacket against the west wind that suddenly tore up the orchard hill and snatched off a few more crimson hands from the arms of the sugar maples.
As she neared the barn, Catcher padded toward her on his snowshoe paws with lazy anticipation, greeted her in the open breezeway, and led the way inside. He walked like a black bear, she thought, swinging his legs wide, each step deliberate. He’d just showed up one day four years ago, a black-and-white longhaired cat with a black trapezoidal patch off center over his nose, his belly splashed with yellow paint. He had extensive mousing experience she learned after he took over the barn.
As Lucinda entered the barn, Lady Grey, who was watching something out the back window, swung around and moved eagerly to the front of the stall letting out a soft nicker, lifting her head over the Dutch door. At first she hadn’t recognized an apple as food, but now she reached out eagerly for the treat. Lucinda was pleased the mare seemed to be over the initial shock of the off-the-track transition and looked forward to her visits.
The mare’s coat, although groomed thoroughly each day, was still dull and fuzzy. Her muscle mass was taking time to rebuild, and she’d snapped at Nanogirl on a visit last week. Dr. Camille told Lucinda these were things to expect from a horse in steroid withdrawal. In the past month Tori had come out a few times to help her work on saddling and mounting, which hadn’t been difficult to fix, and Lucinda looked forward to bringing the mare to Salt Marsh Stable to start basic training in late November. Boot camp in life as a civilian horse.
In the meantime, she spent the evenings when she didn’t have to work hanging out with the mare and Catcher, cleaning and oiling her old tack until they shone, washing grooming tools and organizing and reorganizing everything, trying to bring the barn back to life.
She avoided the house, especially in the evenings. It was those photographs. Over the years, as Bart’s photography skills grew, he had covered the place with the best of his photos of the two of them he’d taken during the past twenty years. Photos that he hadn’t removed yet because, presumably, he didn’t have much room wherever he went. Or maybe he thought he might come back?
They had wide white mats and thin russet frames that set off the blue of the sea present in so many of them. The one over the couch in the living room was of Lucinda’s profile against a background explosion of sandpipers taking flight. Another, a close up of waves about to roll over her bare toes, her toenails painted blue-black like mussel shells. Another dual self-portrait in the orchard, with Lucinda wedged into the fork of a short tree and Bart looking up and handing her an apple — their faces dappled with sunlight along with the leaves. She should just take them down and put them in the attic, but that felt too final. She tried a few times, but she couldn’t touch them.
The one over their bed was the worst — the self-portrait of the two of them as twenty-one-year-olds on Tilton Head Bluff, behind them to the south and west spread Lucinda’s aunt’s farm — that would become theirs the next year — and the sea. Lucinda was smiling at Bart. Bart glanced at the camera, his arm slung proprietarily around Lucinda’s waist. They were the photos of an artist. An artist in love with her.
She never noticed these photos during the months she was with Jay. And although she lived within its walls, she didn’t really inhabit the farmhouse either, blinded as she was by a compulsion to be with this new man. Now she could lose herself, staring into this photograph for fifteen minutes at a time, forgetting what she came into the bedroom to do. Noticing a detail she never saw before. Trying to figure out what happened to that joyful couple.
Her gaze fell on the sterling marine-link necklace, now just a little silver slagheap on the nightstand next to Bart’s side of the bed. He just took it off and left it one day before he made his final decision to leave, she wasn’t sure which day, but now that seemed really important to know. The necklace seemed too hot to touch, the space around it glowing with a silver irradiation.
In hindsight, she realized Bart’s drinking was probably worse than she’d suspected. Or did she block it out? The weeks leading up to the start of her affair last January, he’d been away from home most weeknights. Had he preferred beer and whiskey to her company? When he switched to whiskey, he was already far gone. What led to what? Thoughts shot through her mind as she groped for clues about what happened. Mixed in were blips of encounters with Jay, the excitement and terror of those rushed meetings and meals and nights. So dangerous. So exhilarating. So addictive. So stupid.
We both made mistakes, she confessed to Catcher. He stood on a hay bale in the thinning evening light, staring at her with his gold eyes and waving his plumelike tail as if lazily dusting the air. But her mistake changed the basic agreement she and Bart had made, and they could never go back to the way it was. Was that good or bad? She wasn’t even sure what had compelled her to be with Jay. But once the volatile interlude played out, it was always there. Always, like the booming Atlantic in the background, however sorry you were afterward. That thought chilled her much more than the thought of spending the winter alone in the farmhouse. But she felt that there was still something she could save, if she could just figure out how. Jay had been a rude awakening that Bart and Lucinda’s former life was over. But was it too late to be together in a different way?
Catcher responded by swiping the air in the corner of the tack room and licking a spider web off his catcher-mitt paw. Lucinda felt herself in the stable again and inhaled the sweet hay scent of the barn, one color of the spectrum of scents of sheltering animals. It felt good just to see Lady Grey standing in her stall beginning her long recovery. She dared not think of the pleasure of quiet rides in the
woods next year — she didn’t deserve it. But another voice, one from her childhood, one that didn’t communicate in words, told her she did.
That was the problem of living alone. There were too many voices echoing in her head, except the one she missed most. She wanted to hear Bart’s voice again. That’s how she felt leaving the Welds’ that day. She tried calling him three times since that awkward meeting, but he hadn’t answered.
This early evening she still had more work to do — a visit to Honor Emerson’s law office in Thornbury Crossing — but first she wanted to savor a letter she’d received in that day’s mail from Peter. Sitting with Catcher on a hay bale outside Lady Grey’s stall, she unfolded the letter written on stationery in blue ink, not printed from a computer.
Dear Cinda —
I am no longer Peter Tyne. They’ve given me a tongue-twisting south Asian name that translates as Brother of Soul Riches. And I’ve shaved my head. Don’t laugh! I see you there, with at least one of your cats, and you are laughing out of control.
I’m studying the sutras, primarily the Heart Sutra, which is really big here, although the main thrust of it seems to be that everything is nothing and nothing is everything. Check it out (enclosed), it will blow at least part of your mind. My linear brain has been jerked off track. I drink a lot of tea, and we all smile a lot.
The thing I enjoy most is helping with all the work involved in giving retreats for the public. I look at the people who come and see this anxious look in their eyes and how they seem to drink in greedily the thing here that calms people and brings them right back in front of themselves. And then they usually flip out again once they take a good look within. And then we have to steady the folks again. Often, the monks have to steady me again because I take on people’s sick energy. What fun!
Halt at X: A North of Boston Novel Page 8
