I show her my work, without saying much. Explaining paintings is not my forte. If a picture of mine needs a long explanation, that means I haven’t managed to get across what I wanted to with the paint.
Tom comes to join Rachel. They look over the paintings. Then the watercolors. Then the sketches. When she sees herself, Rachel smiles.
“I like them. And I think I have a buyer for you. Leave this landscape here, if you can. One of my clients actually just called and asked about a landscape.”
“Do you have anything else like this?” asks Tom, pointing at what is probably the most monochromatic of my paintings.
“Yes, but they’re bigger, already on stretchers, so they wouldn’t fit in my car. I can bring them later in the truck.”
Tom and Rachel exchange glances.
“We’re having a big exhibition of young artists in a couple of months. We could use your work,” Rachel tells me.
Tom is excited. “Remember our collector from Seattle? He’s a regular customer. He just happens to be extremely interested in monochromatic work right now. He’s buying absolutely everything. Bring us all you have. I’ll take some pictures and put them up online. Then we’ll see.”
My head is starting to spin. I never even dreamed this might be so successful! I put my hands up to my cheeks, that are burning. Rachel smiles.
“Why are you so surprised? You’re very talented, Emmy. That’s indisputable. Now our job is to find your paintings the buyer they deserve.”
Chapter 8. Good Luck and Bad Luck
I leave the landscape and the sketches with Rachel, say goodbye to Tom and drive home, excited and full of hope. Paul is there, cooking dinner (he cooks much better than I do). Before I’m even in the door, I’m chattering feverishly, telling him everything that Rachel and Tom said to me.
“See? You just needed your luck to turn a little, and now everything’s going to go swimmingly, plain sailing. You’ll see.” Paul smiles happily.
“Wait, wait,” I stop him. “My grandmother always used to say that good luck and bad luck are two sides of the same coin. Something like that, anyway. So it’s not smart to celebrate too early.”
“What do you mean?” Paul puts the food on our plates and hands me a fork. I wave that fork around dramatically as I relate to him the Chinese fairy tale my grandmother told me when I was little.
“One upon a time there was a man. He wasn’t especially rich. He had a son and a horse. The horse was a very rare, expensive breed. And one night that horse ran away.”
“Where did he run away to?” Paul was chewing, but I could see he was interested in my story.
“I don’t know where. And nobody knew, so they never found him. Anyway, the neighbors came by to offer this man their sympathy. They told him what bad luck it was, since it had been a wonderful horse and now it was lost. And the former horse owner, totally unperturbed, says to his neighbors, ‘There’s nothing to regret. It just happened by chance. It’s not my fault or anybody else’s. And there’s nothing to be upset about.’ After some time, the horse came back, and not alone. He had a young mare with him, just as fantastic as he was. Now this man had two fantastic horses. And again his neighbors came to him and said, ‘You’re so lucky. You didn’t even have one horse, and now you have two. Look what good fortune you have!’ But he said the same thing again: ‘It’s just chance. I had nothing to do with it.’”
“How could he have had nothing to do with it?” Paul wonders out loud. “They’re his horses.”
“Well, yeah, they’re his, but he didn’t do anything to make the horse come back, and with the mare, no less. He could just as easily not have come back. Or somebody else might have found him. See, the most important thing is that nothing in this story depends on the man himself. Everything happened outside of his own intentions.”
“What happened next? Is there anything else, or is that it?”
“Next his son took that fantastic young mare for a ride, and she threw him. The son broke his leg and was crippled the rest of his life. One more time the good neighbors came to visit, and they told the father how unlucky he was, that luck had deserted him. And he tells them there’s no need to pity him or his son, or to blame the mare for what had happened. It had been an accident. Nobody could have predicted it or prevented it, so it would be silly to fret over it. The neighbors decided the old man must be out of his mind with grief, and they all went home. Two years later, a war started. Almost all the men in the village had to go and join the army, except for that old man’s son, because he was a cripple. Many of them were killed, but the man and his son lived.”
“What are you trying to tell me with this story of yours?” Paul asked.
“It’s not me,” I answered. “It’s my grandmother. The point is that, sometimes, things that seem like bad luck or trouble, or big problems, may bring about something very good and important in your life. Or the opposite: Good luck and good fortune might lead to terrible outcomes. So sit still, don’t get all worked up. Neither rejoicing nor complaining will help you with much.”
“Interesting point of view,” said Paul, looking at me closely. “What did you do to make your grandmother tell you stories like that?”
“I got too carried away with my Disney heroines. When I was little I really loved watching Cinderella. I could have watched that movie over and over, every day. My grandmother finally got sick of it, and she sat me down and told me that story. I only realized later what it was about, but I remember it perfectly.”
“Why? What do you think? You were just little, right?”
“Well, there were no princes or kisses in the Chinese story, but it still turned out well. And those neighbors who came over no matter what had happened – they just got to me somehow.”
Then Paul tells me that John has not only read his screenplay, but has agreed to make some edits to it.
“Do you know what John thinks is missing?” he asks me.
“No, what?” I’m dying to hear the answer. John’s opinion is very important to me. I couldn’t define, myself, what the screenplay lacked.
“Passion,” says Paul. “Don’t look at me like that. I was surprised, too. What kind of passion could there be between an athlete and a coach? Unless they’re both gay? But John says that passion is not necessarily sex.”
My friend Diana might disagree with John there, but I wouldn’t. I ask what else John told him.
“John thinks I wrote it right, and it’s interesting, but it’s too rational, too cerebral, not emotional enough. If I add more emotion and passion, then he thinks it could be a fascinating story.”
“Did he tell you how to add the passion?” I’m collecting our dishes and putting them in the sink.
“He took a copy and said he’d make some notes in the margins where things need to be rewritten or rethought. Can you believe it?” Paul walks up behind me. I turn around to face him, and put my hands up on his chest.
“He must like you,” I smile. “And he likes winning with you.”
“He likes you, too,” says Paul, winking suggestively. I turn away from him and start digging in the pantry so that Paul can’t see me blush. “It’s true! He told me you’re gorgeous, and your face is mesmerizing.”
Chapter 9. Dinner for Three
A few days later, Rachel calls and asks me to meet her at the gallery again.
Tom greets me like an old friend. When I come in, he is just saying goodbye to a client, and he introduces me as a young artist with a lot of promise. Wow! Who would have thought that I have a lot of promise? I feel flattered. Then he helps me bring my paintings in from the pickup.
As we come back into the gallery, John is right behind us. He has the exhausted look of someone at the end of a long, hard day. When his glance falls on me, his eyes light up. He is clearly happy to see me. I love it. And honestly, I am happy to see him, too. Looking at him is sheer enjoyment. Summer is almost here, and he is wearing short sleeves, which means the muscles in his arms are visible. Immed
iately I start mentally undressing him, till I catch myself and blush.
John steps aside to answer a phone call, and I ask Tom about Rachel. She’s been delayed with a customer on the other end of town and asked us to wait for her. John hangs up and turns back to us. That was Rachel on the phone. She was still a good distance away from the gallery, and she thought the three of us should meet to eat somewhere in between. We could talk about selling my paintings over the dinner.
I thank John for the invitation, but I feel awkward. They had planned to have dinner together, just the two of them. What did they need me for? Maybe I should meet them some other time? Meanwhile John’s phone rings once more, and he moves off again to take the call.
“I wouldn’t refuse, if I were you,” Tom tells me in a confidential tone.
“It’s awkward, though. She just invited me to be polite.”
“To be polite, you think? What, you haven’t seen how he looks at you?” Tom whispers.
“Who?” I’m whispering now, too.
“John! Who else? He looks at you like a cat looks at a bowl of cream.”
“You must be joking. I could walk under his armpit without stooping. What would he want me for? And he has Rachel, remember?” I can’t even believe I’m talking about John. The fact that I’m talking about him with Tom, Rachel’s assistant, makes it even crazier. An unpleasant chill sets in again somewhere in my stomach.
“No, I’m serious. And so is he, I think. He’s not the kind of guy who discriminates against women based on height, weight, eye color or anything else. John is absolutely omnivorous. He likes all kinds of women. Pity I’m never going to get that kind of treatment from him. If John looked at me even once the way he looks at you, I’d drop everything and go with him to the ends of the earth, as they say. What a man!”
“And how do you know?” I’m curious.
“I’ve been working here a long time. I even had an internship here in college. Rachel and John have a very interesting marriage – one without limits. I mean their marriage isn’t limited to the two of them. For both of them. They don’t even hide it from each other. Actually, I think it brings them closer together. They understand each other, and they don’t judge one another. There’s something to that, you know.”
“What, do you think?” I ask, but I never get an answer to that question, because John has finished talking and is walking toward me.
“Well, should we go?” he asks. He already has a hand at my elbow, leading me to the door.
“What about my car?” I ask, even though I’ve already given in.
“I’ll bring you back here afterwards, don’t worry. Tom, see you later.”
“Yes, see you later,” I tell Tom, too. He just smiles and nods at me, meaningfully.
As we drive across town, I feel out of place, at first, but John somehow manages to defuse the tension. By the time we arrive at the restaurant, we’re both laughing and discussing the latest cooking show. Some amateur chef had declared that he “doesn’t understand lettuce,” as if it were a mathematical formula or a complex chemical reaction. It’s just salad! You eat it, maybe with a little dressing... there’s nothing to understand.
“There are some things,” says John, once we’ve laughed ourselves out, “that you really ought to enjoy, without trying to understand them or pondering them too deeply. Just take them as they are.”
At that moment, it somehow seems to me that he is not talking about salad.
Rachel is there waiting for us, sipping from a glass of water. She has good news for me. Her customer liked my landscape and wants to buy it. And she wants to order five more like the first, but a little bigger. If I agreed, the paintings would need to be ready in three weeks.
“Three weeks? So soon? I won’t have time.” My thoughts are totally scattered.
“Nonsense. You’ll manage it. Do you know how much she’s offering to pay you?” Rachel names the figure, and my head goes completely empty. I’m speechless. I’d have to work half a year at the school to make that kind of money. “What’s preventing you? It’s practically summer now, so school will be out. You have more time.”
“First of all, summer break is still a week away. And second of all, I’ve never worked on demand before. Or so quickly.” I bite my lip nervously.
“I have a proposal for you. Come out to our cabin in the mountains for a couple of weeks. There you’ll have all the beauty of nature, and solitude, so you’ll be able to concentrate. Nobody to distract you. And you can take Paul with you for company. You won’t be lonely that way. What do you think? Good idea? John, what do you say?”
John raises his eyes from his plate. “It’s really not a bad idea. Scott and I were planning to go there next month to fish. Scott’s my longtime business partner,” John explains for my benefit. “So you and Paul can be our summer season openers. You’ll get everything ready for us, fill the fridge with food. And we’ll come once everything is set up. You should do it. I’m all for it.”
“No, no, wait, Paul can’t go with me. He has class almost all summer long.” That’s the kind of person I am. Why did I need to say that? Paul and I would have worked it out ourselves. Any minute now they’ll get tired of how disagreeable I’m being and stop trying to talk me into it. By now, I really, really want to go to that cabin in the mountains. Far away from the hustle and bustle of the city. I could hike around, breathe the fresh air, and concentrate on my work.
“Well, he could come see you on the weekends. You’ll be so busy most of the time, anyway.” Rachel smiles and looks at me expectantly. “Come on, Emmy, say you’ll go!”
“Thank you,” I say, finally. “I will, if you really don’t mind.”
“We don’t mind a bit, and in fact, this is going to be good for us, too. I’m going to make a pile of money on you. Talk with Paul and come on out next Friday. Or whenever school gets out.”
Pinch me! I must be dreaming. Just a week from now, I’ll drive out to John and Rachel’s cabin to paint landscapes, for which I will be paid loads of cash. Hmmmm.... What would my grandmother have said about all this? What kind of bad luck would this good luck turn into?
John brings me back to the gallery, where my truck is parked. On the way, he tells me where their house is and how to get there.
“Give me your phone number. I’ll send you the address,” John suggests. “You know, I could get out there on Friday, too. I’ll show you around and help you unpack.”
I remember what Tom said in the gallery about the way John looks at me, and what kind of marriage he and Rachel have. I’m afraid there is some kind of trap here, and something feels not quite right – but I can’t quite identify exactly what. John treats me politely, like a friend. With Rachel, he behaves like a gentle, loving husband. So what is worrying me? What will I do when it’s just him and me in the cabin? Well, what could happen to me there? He wouldn’t throw himself at me like some sex-crazed teenager. He has a wife, and they apparently have no problems when it comes to sex. And I have Paul. I have nothing to be afraid of.
At home, I tell Paul the news. He’s genuinely happy for me. He thinks Rachel’s proposal is a huge compliment. “This means she really believes in you. I’ve always said how talented you are!” And yes, he would definitely come and visit me on the weekends. He wouldn’t have much of a chance to miss me, though, since the university’s summer session promised to be packed full. And at night, he would still be working on his screenplay. John had already read it, and made a whole long list of corrections and comments, too. I fall asleep happily anticipating all the big changes that are right around the corner.
Chapter 10. The Cabin in the Mountains
On Friday, I load our pickup with piles of canvasses, paints, stretchers, and so on and head for the mountains. The cabin is fairly isolated. It’s at the edge of a lake, in the forest. I find the key in its hiding spot under a flowerpot in the garden and I go inside.
This house is nothing like John and Rachel’s mansion in the city. That one
was all glass and concrete, strict minimalism throughout, in a style that was more than contemporary – I’d even call it futuristic. Here, everything is the opposite. It is kind of a log cabin where everything seemed to have been preserved from a century ago. Old wooden furniture, a brick fireplace, wooden floors laid with different-colored boards, and a very traditional kitchen. But here, too, there is nothing extra, only what is vital. It’s strange that Rachel hasn’t changed anything here to fit her tastes. Maybe this was the work of a different designer. Or else she and John just hadn’t wanted to spend time and money redoing this nice old place and decided to leave it as it was. I’ll have to remember to ask Rachel later. A quick examination tells me there’s no television here. The computer works, though, and the Internet connection is good.
Outside, I hear a car drive up. It’s John. He must have come right from a meeting. He’s wearing a conservative dark suit and a tie. Behind his glasses, his eyes are tired and red. His hair is disheveled.
“Was your trip all right?” he asks me.
“Yes, and I’ve already gotten online. My phone works here, too. I was just about to call Paul or write to him.”
“I’ll turn the water and the gas on in the meantime. I picked up a pizza on the way here. Will you eat with me? I just need to go and change.”
I start to unload my truck. Before long, John joins me, dressed in old jeans and a t-shirt. Later, we grab the pizza and a six-pack of beer and head to the kitchen to eat. John says that he had a long, hard day. Before that, it had been a long, hard week. He’s barely staying awake. And so, if I don’t mind, he’s going to show me my room and head to bed.
Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage Page 4
