by Kieran York
“You’ll be fine, Danielle. Now, continue on your marathon.”
“Most artists are marathon painters.”
“Yes, but your muse has reappeared after thirty years.”
“She’s not exactly chasing me.”
“Seduction is overrated. You loved her in your youth. We savor love with an adolescent narcissism. And youth has a significant effect on later life. You’re a living example of that right now.”
When we ended the call, I wondered if painting others was how I warded off the loneliness that cordoned me from humanity. I felt drained, but sleep was irrelevant. Even if I attempted sleep, my mind would continue painting long after I’d left the canvas.
The contents on the canvas remained inanimate. Molly’s face hadn’t awakened. I worked on Molly’s expression at the very second she glanced my way. I needed to replicate her smile and capture that millisecond when her eyes glinted with recognition. I’d call it Reunion’s first Glimpse.
As I feverishly filled the canvas with that immortal moment of Molly, I suddenly felt invincible.
Chapter 10
I had finished the painting with the final touches of my blender brush. After signing my name with the strip liner in burnt umber, a sigh rushed through my entire body. I was happy but also apprehensive.
Applying varnish had been an afterthought. Then I succumbed to a couple of hours of midmorning sleep.
After I showered and dressed, I touched the canvas to see if the varnish had dried. It had. I was again appreciative that I didn’t subscribe to the impasto method of heavily slathering paints.
I examined the painting to ensure there were no minuscule errors. Then I backed up once more to peer into the face. It was Molly.
By the time I was ready to loosely wrap it and leave my hotel room, I was satisfied. Gingerly carrying the canvas by wrapped edges, I set off for the gallery.
While I was walking, my stomach growled as a reminder that I hadn’t eaten since last night. I was about to pass a nearby Tasty’s fish-and-Chips Shop when fumes of grease and malt vinegar hit me. I made a U-turn into the shop. A wonderful Brit meal would be my treat for having worked so diligently last night and into the morning. That concept, I hoped, would appease my guilt for having ordered fish-and-chips. I normally ate healthy.
I topped off my meal with an English ale then lifted the canvas to my side and struck off for the gallery. At nearly two in the afternoon, I arrived at my destination.
After greeting Fiona and Max, I unwrapped the painting. I watched the faces of Max Parker, two of his employees, and Fiona. Fiona gasped. Everyone seemed transfixed.
Uncomfortable with their silence, I asked, “Comments? Is it awful or awfully good?”
In unison, they answered it was terrific. The manager and his small crew took photos on their phones and then made a dash for the office. Fiona quietly continued staring at it.
I finally broke my own silence. “What’s wrong? If they’re disappointed and trying to be nice about it…” I paused to gather words. “Well, which is it?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Fiona incredulously glanced back at me. “This is the most brilliant work you’ve ever done. It’s the genius I’ve always believed in. You were so near to creating masterpieces. And now you have.”
“All my life’s work has been rubbish until now?”
“No, of course not. They’re all extraordinary. I wouldn’t handle you if you weren’t magnificent. You know enough art history to know that not all Renoir’s, Rembrandt’s, Cassatt’s, Van Gogh’s, and Picasso’s works are masterpieces. This painting, what is it titled?”
“Reunion’s first Glimpse.”
“Naturally, you realize how remarkably phenomenal my client list is. Once in a rare while, a painting makes me shiver. I like to think I can pick a true masterpiece. I could be standing nude in the Arctic and not experience this goddamn shiver, Danielle. Better than any of the others. Yes.”
“You’re putting me in some pretty grandiose company.”
“Only time makes masterpieces, so who is to say? But your Reunion has everything. I was shocked when you painted Farewell. I thought it might be the best work you’d ever produce. But this? This is even better.”
“Do you think maybe I’m moving into a different period of work?”
“Most definitely. And if you’re judged on only the last two you’ve painted, you’ll have written a new phase for the modern art world of portraiture. It’s that good. I can’t believe you didn’t work with a live model.”
“My heart memorized Molly. Her smile of recognition. Last night, my hands recreated that memory. Her contemplative eyes spoke in verse.”
“What were you considering as to price? This is one of those blessed times when you truly can name your price.”
“It isn’t for sale.”
“You just sold Farewell for a hundred-thousand dollars. Galleries and museums, along with private collectors are interested. Max told me publications are sending reporters. A TV crew wants to set up an interview with you. You can ask any price.”
“Fiona, answer me this honestly. If I asked a million for it, do you think it would sell for that?”
“I honestly do believe it might.”
“Then it isn’t for sale. Not at any price, if you believe it will sell.” I bowed my head so I wouldn’t look into her eyes. I knew they would be pleading with me.
“Danielle, please think this over. If we get an offer with status to secure your entry into the world of the finest museums, you’ll need to reconsider. Will you at least think about working with me on this?” I felt her staring hard at me.
“Let’s just show it and see if there are offers.” I stepped away, not taking my gaze from Reunion. I didn’t believe I could part with it. Anymore than I could bear to part with Molly. In her case, the choice wasn’t mine. With the painting, it was to be my own determination. No one could look into that painting without believing they had located part of Molly’s soul. Perhaps they would simply come to love her as I did.
I turned away from the painting as my eyes began to well with tears.
Chapter 11
For over an hour, I made myself available to speak with several of the gallery’s patrons. Then I escaped the public relations side of the art world.
Once on the sidewalk, I rummaged in my oversized bag for my cell phone. Esther hadn’t called, and I was wondering what my doppelganger had been up to all day. Strongly suspecting she’d done a daytrip, I glanced at my wristwatch. She would probably be back by now, I supposed, so I called. She answered and agreed to meet me for a snack. I needed to tell her the latest.
I arrived at Crumpets and Brew coffee shop before Esther and ordered for both of us. The cappuccinos and pastry brought the word “divine” to a new level.
“This sounded urgent,” Esther said as she sat down.
“Did you happen to drop by the gallery?”
“Yes. I thought you’d be there, but I just missed you.”
“Must have nearly crashed into one another. Did you see the painting?”
“The minute I arrived. The entire staff had gathered around it, and Fiona is very high on Reunion. I’m an absolute flop at judging art, but I loved it. I’m with Fiona. It’s even better than Farewell. And I was nuts about that one.”
“I know she wants to sell it for some wild, off-the-charts price. She might have her chance at really making some money with me, but I haven’t been cooperating. I don’t want to be banned from her stable of artists.”
“I think she understands why you’ve got a ‘not for sale’ ticket on it. She didn’t say anything negative to me. She gushed on and on about the painting. Which is not to say she won’t try to encourage you to sell it. I agree with her. You need to strike while the fire is flaming.”
I changed the subject. “So what mischief did you get into today?”
Esther carefully spooned a big dollop of foamy milk from the cappuccino’s bonnet in a not-so-sub
tle stall tactic. “Not a lot,” she finally answered.
“Before I forget, Roxie e-mailed me about Aggie becoming the alpha dog.”
Esther agreed. “She is the alpha in our home. Sadie and I are her true followers.” Esther had rescued Sadie, a lovely German Shepherd and Keeshond mix, several years ago from a shelter. She had been a stray found in a field where heartless youths had been using her as target practice. Obviously guarded about trusting human beings, she immediately bonded with Esther. The shelter’s staff was amazed. And naturally, Sadie and Esther left the shelter together and remained together. From the same shelter, Esther rescued Aggie, an adorable Miniature Pinscher-Dachshund mix.
“Clover rules in my home,” I said. “But she now defers to Aggie. Seems Sadie and Clover have been enchanted by Aggie. Roxie is getting a kick out of it. All is well, she said to tell you. Sadie and Aggie are eating and pooping on schedule.”
“Great. The alpha dog thing bothers me. You need all the alpha in your life you can get. You lead a hermetic life. Clover is a help by being alpha commander. Heck, you probably need a bossy woman to help Clover out with you.”
We shared a laugh and sipped the foam from our cappuccinos.
I thought for a moment. “Admittedly, I am a homebody. I’m missing the late harvest from my garden. The squash, pumpkin, and other autumn remnants are extraordinary. Some of the herbs are still hanging in there. Roxie said she took a couple of pots inside and covered the rest with tarps when it got cold last night. She loves herbs. That girl can paint and cook.”
“No wonder Sadie and Aggie haven’t missed me,” Esther said. “What else did Roxie say?”
“Clover has been attentive to the beagle next door. His name is Buddy, and she flirts with him constantly.”
“Eyelashes aren’t the only thing Clover and Fiona have in common. Any other news from back home?”
“Only that Roxie’s been regularly visiting the gallery’s website and approves of my latest work.” I took a bite of the delicate, flakey, peach Danish. “Delicious.”
“Absolutely. I taste a light hint of rum.” After a brief pause, Esther exhaled loudly. With a breezy formality, she murmured, “Met a woman.”
“Met a woman!” The cappuccino spilled over the cup’s edge as I lifted it to my lips. I grabbed my napkin and wiped it up. “Where did you meet a woman?”
“They do make up half the population,” she said with her typical sarcasm.
“I can’t wait to hear this.”
“I was at a feminist bookstore. Got to talking with her, and we instantly hit it off. She said she’d show me London’s lesbian nightlife. Her name is Carrie. The bookstore people seemed to know her and like her.”
“What does she do for a living?”
“She didn’t mention an occupation. We talked mainly about books.”
“What do you know about books?” I furrowed my brow. “Other than astronomy ad nauseam?”
“Contrary to what you think, you can find a date in a bookstore. And I wasn’t even in the astronomy stacks. We both enjoy love poetry.” Esther smiled with a wistful expression.
“You don’t enjoy love poetry or any other poetry.”
“I do. I just never spout it around you.”
“Ode to Gertrude Stein?”
“Danielle, come on, pretend you’re correct, and I’m not a bleeping poetry expert. But I do know enough poetry to impress a woman who loves poetry. Okay?”
“Okay. What does she look like?”
“Taller than I am. Thinner than I am. Younger than I am.”
“Younger?”
“She’s about forty or so. Reddish, longish hair. Brown eyes. Great smile. Smart dresser.”
I laughed. “Fiona isn’t the only cougar in London.”
“So Carrie’s younger. I always say youth may know what to do, just not always why they’re doing it.”
“Let’s hear what you know about her so far.”
“She claims to be at the helm of a firm called Insults Incorporated. Kidding, of course. She reminds me of a British version of Roxie. Rox is always calling people pork heads and numb nuts. Well, Carrie is like that.”
“If that’s the case, keep my name out of her mouth.” I made a circular motion with my hand. “Go on.”
“She has these names she comes up with for people around her. She does them in a cockney accent and it’s hilarious. Her actual speech is cultured English. For example, I heard her call one guy a fritter goon. She called me wonder bum. When I turned her down by saying I was too old, she called me Daisy Doom.”
“Glad she speaks interstellar.”
“Right. And she argued that all of her friends are over fifty.”
“So did you tell her you’re well over fifty?”
“Why would I start telling the truth about my age now? If you look a decade or two younger, lie. Then people will think you look your age or slightly older. And they will credit you with having had a difficult, arduous life. That’s my theory at least.”
“Why wouldn’t it be? You’re entire career is the study of billions of years clustered up in the skies. What’s a decade or two?”
“Precisely,” she said. “After all, we’re in London a few more days. Might as well enjoy the lovely women while we’re here.”
“You wanted to meet someone and have. I think it’s great, Esther.”
“Sure, it’s junior high school revisited. But what’s wrong with flowers, chocolate, and sweet greeting cards? I like romance.”
“I’m certain she’s never heard of a high school sock hop. Where are you going on the date?”
“We’re having dinner. She knows some women’s clubs. I haven’t been to a gay bar for years. Why not?”
“Not a reason I can think of.”
Esther tapped the table, which was one of her ploys to change topics. “And I take it there’s been no call from Molly?”
“I doubt if she’ll call,” I said with a sigh. “She’s not interested. It’s abundantly clear to me. But to stop loving her is a different matter.”
“Are you going to be painting another picture of her tonight?” She saw my reaction. “I don’t mean it that way. I know you still love her, call or no. And I know the next portrait you paint will be of her.”
“I hope I’m going to be sleeping early tonight. I’ll order room service and then crash. If not, I certainly might paint another picture. I have no idea about the subject. I do know that I’m about out of canvases, so now would be the time for this painting frenzy to stop. Or I should pop over to an artist’s supply shop and pick up a few things. I not only need canvases, I should replace some paint as well.” I glanced at my watch. “If I leave now, I might be able to make it before the shop closes.”
“I can tell by your mood that you’re not ready to stop painting. You’ll be swinging your brush again.”
I laughed. “I think you’ll be swinging much more than I shall.”
Chapter 12
An amazing art supply store was located only a fifteen-minute cab ride away. The canvases I’d brought with me were small, a manageable 24x36. I’d already used two and had one remaining. But I wanted a larger, wider format to paint the street market. I wanted to capture the look of wonder when Molly lifted the book. Maybe that was the quality I fell in love with from the start. I also wished to capture her nostalgic expression when she’d picked up the miniature cup and saucer set. It seemed simplicity pleased her as much today as it had so many years ago.
I’d buy the canvases and supplies first and have them delivered to the hotel. I’d then go by the market and take a few photos with my camera phone. A couple of days ago, my focus had only been on Molly. But now I wanted to recreate the scene. I would call this work A Scene from Our Story.
Long title, and I planned to use a long canvas: 44x56, or perhaps a 40x60, or maybe even a 48x60. Once I was at the shop, I prudently decided to buy all three sizes. I would know which size when I was ready. Just as I seemed to know colors when I
mixed the proper combination of pigments for the work. I would pick up the proper brush. My intention was realized in art but certainly not in areas of my romantic life.
There was very little I appreciated more than sauntering through an artist’s supply shop. After selecting canvases, I placed them at the counter. With shopping basket under my arm, I roamed the aisles of supplies and picked up the paints I needed to replace, as well as a dozen brushes. Looking down at the basket, I thought about the mystical conversion creation offered. These paints would become an image of my love of England and my love of Molly. Alone with my imagination, I would seek sanctuary from a heartache through the placement of these colors.
After I made my purchase, I gave instructions for the store to deliver the canvases to my hotel lobby’s check-in counter within the hour.
My next stop was to be the street market where I had seen Molly. I snapped a multitude of photos for later reference. I needed to make sure I had a feel for the recessive light. I wished desperately that Molly had been there smiling at me. And she wasn’t. Thirty years ago I would watch her smile carefully, believing if I blinked it might vanish. And then one day it had.
As I was finishing my shopping, Esther called from her cab on the way to her date. She was more than slightly nervous. I told her to find out if Carrie was single and available. I chided her about the old saying that when the cat ate out of the dog’s bowl, the cat could expect to get its whiskers bit off. She laughed and said she missed Sadie and Aggie.
Since the dog’s bowl story hadn’t eased her nerves, I asked, “What did you decide to wear?”
Bingo, I thought, as she started in on an inventory of her wardrobe. “My nutmeg taffeta twill jacket. I liked the matching blouse but decided on the tangerine one. And cinnamon slacks.”
“Hmm. Am I picking up on a citrus and spice theme?”
We giggled.
“Well, have a great time, Esther.”
“Are you’re going to stay holed up in your hotel suite all night? Painting?”
“Blissfully, yes. So don’t become ratty just because I’m staying out of trouble and doing what I want.”
