by Kieran York
“Go paint, silly. Don’t let your paints dry out. Your work isn’t done.”
After the call to Roxie, I considered what a wonderful surprise it would be for her not to have to pay off student loans for the next twenty years. She had indeed reported that all three of the dogs needed to be let out for their potty break.
I took a brisk walk that helped clear my head. I first stopped at an elegant jewelry shop I’d passed by several times. I ordered five gold pins with ladybugs on the decorated side. On the backs, I had four of them engraved with “Ladybugs Rock Member” and individual names. On the other, “Ladybugs Rock Mascot” and Fiona’s name. The manager assured me they’d be ready prior to the closing evening of my art show.
I continued on to the market. Through an open-air market’s buzz and swirl of motion, I searched for the stall where Molly looked at the book. I remembered mostly watching her with indifference toward what she was holding. When I approached the stall, I examined the various large books with predominantly white and black covers.
“Excuse me, sir.” I called the stall keeper over. “I don’t suppose you recall an American woman here a little over a week ago.” I described Molly and expected a negative response.
“Ducky, I do remember just such a woman. Classy. Looking at an art book, she was. I say that my brother likes to draw. She tells me she had a friend in her past who paints. Anyway, an art book.”
“Do you recall which one? And do you still have it?” I tried to temper my excitement.
He pawed through several stacks of books on the opposite counter. He pulled one from the bottom and handed it to me. “This, ’en. I remember. Thought I would flog it off to her, but in the end, she said no. Then she says too many memories.”
I swallowed hard. The book was the biography of my favorite artist, Cecilia Beaux. I thumbed through a few pages. I wondered if Molly had viewed the same paintings I had. She had held it to her breast, nearly embracing it.
“I’ll take it,” I said. I pulled out my money and handed him a twenty-pound note. “Perhaps she put it back so that I might have it.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.” He handed me coins and a note. “You stumped up too much lolly, ducky.”
“Please, keep the change. Your good memory was a great help.”
I left that stall and made my way to the next. There I searched out the small teacup set that Molly had examined. After finding it and purchasing it, I took a cab to Fav’s Restaurant where I’d met Molly both times.
I requested the table where we had sat the last time I was with her. I ordered as I was being seated. I selected the exact salad, tea, and wine that Molly and I had when we met.
I called Roxie again to ask whether she’d had any problems shipping those additional paintings. She told me no, and the shipping company had been in touch. They would be there in a couple of hours. Roxie would call Fiona after the shipment was crated and on its way. Roxie said she assumed Fiona stayed awake all night running her business. I chuckled, stating it was probably not all night and probably not all business.
I also suggested that Roxie get some of her own artwork together. I told her Fiona would be coming to Colorado and would tell her exactly how terrific her art was. Knowing Fiona, she would assist Roxie in any way she could. The key was that Roxie’s art deserved attention.
With phone still in hand, I ordered a dozen yellow roses delivered to Bethany’s office. I had neglected her dreadfully. I knew better. My grandparents always taught us never to neglect treasures. They had taught their children that as well. But I forever questioned why the others, my aunts and uncles, had learned it, and my mother hadn’t. There were two possibilities. Perhaps she had never learned it. Or perhaps she had and didn’t consider my brother and me as treasures. Even after decades, I questioned both incoming love and outgoing love.
The waiter brought a lush salad while I was examining the book I’d purchased. Although many artists had made distinct impressions on me, Cecilia Beaux had the most influence on my work. Naturally, a confluence of artists lent to my style and technique. But I’d been smitten with Beaux’s work since first seeing it all those many years ago. Molly hadn’t forgotten. I wondered, had she actually put the book back thinking I somehow might find it? Probably not, but I had.
I replaced it in my shopping bag and carefully took out the little cup and saucer. Standing only about two inches high, the cup had elegantly inscribed flourishes in delft blue. Blue was Molly’s favorite color. This was her favorite restaurant in London. Carefully I placed the little teacup down on its saucer. Gazing at the teapot on the table, I smiled and poured a spot of tea into the miniature cup. I toasted, saying in my mind, “For you, Molly. I’ll forever love you.” Tears formed in my eyes as I sipped.
Chapter 49
For the next three days, I painted relentlessly. Having told Bethany that, per Fiona, I was under extreme duress to paint, I gave her the option to stay with me at the hotel while I painted. The option was hardly a good one for someone in a newly formed romance. She elected to stay, informing me I needed someone to wash my brushes. She also joked that I needed a handler-slash-keeper.
Between watching me work and being ignored, Bethany more than proved her dedication. She spent her nonworking time at my side. What I failed to tell her was that looking across the room and seeing her smile actually fortified my massive resolve to complete the final three paintings. She did, as promised, clean my brushes. She also ordered food for us and rubbed my sometimes-aching shoulders.
I hadn’t the words to tell her how she inspired me to continue. When she thanked me for the roses, I failed to mention she deserved flowers every day. Being with me, understanding me, and loving me couldn’t be easy. A quickly whispered “thanks” when she poured tea and brought it to me seemed only barely gracious. As I finished Ladybugs Rock London, I hoped she could see the gratitude in my eyes.
As hours and days dwindled, I was working on Perpetual Smile. It was beginning to get the exact look Molly gave me as she turned back while getting into the limousine. I had superimposed a tote bag that hung from Molly’s shoulder. The small cup and saucer peeked out from it. In her arm was the book she’d perused. They seemed not only appropriate but also necessary. I made a mental note to send the little tea set to Samantha and to tell her the story about Molly’s cosseting it at the market.
By Friday midafternoon, I had completed Perpetual Smile to my satisfaction. It was my final painting to be included in the show. I called the gallery to have the canvases picked up. The gallery had already selected the frames. The grand finale, after the show’s closing, would be the Ladybugs Rock party.
Bethany had gone back to her apartment to get ready. She said she would meet me at the gallery at seven. Fiona had called several times to verify and set prices. Her price list included a few that were in the gallery, a dozen sent from Colorado a couple of days earlier, and the works I had produced within the last week.
The final time she called, she was doing the tally and realized I’d completed a total of ten pictures during the two weeks I’d been in London.
“Maybe you should think of relocating,” she said with a taunting lilt to her voice.
“This has been an extraordinary time in my life. I’ve never been the world’s most prolific painter. I’m certain there’s no way I can keep up this pace.”
“Picasso did.”
“I probably won’t. So don’t bet the farm on it.”
“Well, it’s wonderful, Danielle. I’m thrilled. And I’m personally purchasing the Ladybugs Rock England painting. I’ve never been a model before.”
“Maybe some of the nightmarish harridans painted by that German artist are meant to be you.”
“Oh, fuck you,” she said as casually as if she were asking me to tea. “You’re such a character.”
I held the phone back and looked disbelievingly at it. “I’m the character?”
“I’m not character material. Bitch, yes. Character, no.”
“You haven’t told me if you like your image in Ladybugs Rock England.”
“I do. I wouldn’t buy it if I didn’t like it. In fact, if you didn’t make me look damned good, the painting would be exhibiting in South Dirt Road, Colorado.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Precisely. Enough said. I’m paying full price, too. I didn’t off-price it.”
“That was good of you. What was the price?”
“Two-hundred grand.”
“Do I have to make change?” Would I ever get used to the seemingly excessive price tags on my work?
“I took my fifteen percent off the top. Don’t worry, I’ll make it back if I ever want to sell it. And then some.”
“If? You’d consider selling it?”
“You’re right. I’ll probably have it off the frame and tucked in my casket with me. Until then, I’m putting it in my main living room in my Manhattan penthouse. Not everyone is a fucking Ladybugs Rock mascot. Which reminds me, I booked The Scripted Banquet for our party.”
“Nothing but the best for your Saph buddies.”
“Don’t be late.”
“Fiona, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I hung up. Because I was in fact running late, I called the jewelers and asked that they deliver the five gold ladybug pins to the hotel. The manager assured me he’d checked the engravings, and the order was exactly to my specification. I jumped in the shower, dressed, and nibbled on a salad I’d ordered. The gold pins arrived, and the manager was right. They looked terrific.
Esther was ready and would drop by my room so we could walk together to the gallery. When she arrived, she gushed over my newest outfit, a pant and jacket set finely tailored in powder blue. She modeled a new apricot-colored, elbow-sleeved cardigan. Matching slacks along with nutmeg accessories gave her a look of perfect autumn style.
She pointed to my shoes. “You could have used a little more of a stacked-heel, but I truly love the outfit. Flattering.”
“You like it because I didn’t pick it out. Bethany shopped for me yesterday while I put the finishing touches on one of the paintings. She has style and class. I’d have bought some dowdy duds that would never have met with your approval.”
“This exceeds expectations. With Bethany around, there’s hope that your frump stage may be a thing of the past. You look wonderful.”
“Thanks, you look wonderful, too. But then you usually do.” I suddenly stopped. “You haven’t mentioned my relationship with Bethany. You aren’t working on me tonight?”
“Nope. Talked with her earlier. She thinks you’re right. You wore her down with your complete indifference and probably all the crap about still loving Molly.”
“She also probably got fed up babysitting me while I painted. See, women don’t want to be left behind by someone so compulsive about art.”
“You’re right, Danielle. Someone else will snap her up. Now that she knows she can fall in love again, she’ll find someone who cares about her.”
I felt a sudden stabbing to my heart. “She didn’t talk with me about this.”
“There’s no reason to. You’ve made your position very clear.”
“I don’t want her doing anything that commits to my life. She was talking about giving up her job, her home, and everything.”
“Why shouldn’t she? She’s eligible for a handsome retirement. She has savings, company stock, nearly free airline service. More than enough money to provide for her upkeep wherever she wants to live. Health care, security, pension, everything she needs. I’m certain she knows the words to our national anthem. And Canada’s. And England’s. She’s flexible with the world.”
“Money isn’t a problem. I could provide for her, and I would.”
“With the recent surge in your income, you might feel as though her stash can’t compare to yours. You might suspect that she hasn’t paid the price of being by your side when things were slim picking. Well, consider this. She spent two decades of her life backing a singer who was just on the edge of becoming a great opera star. Bethany didn’t waver. She paid the price to the arts. She’s an honest human being.”
“I know she’s not after my money or notoriety, Esther. I’ve never believed she was.”
“Of course not. When you met her two weeks ago, her bank account was undoubtedly far more substantial than yours. Your retirement fund was nonexistent, bank account slim pickings. If you recall, you were hard-pressed to scrape enough together to get your poor old car’s radiator fixed last month. You were happy to get fifteen grand on a sale in Albuquerque. That was the state of your fortune when she met you. She didn’t set out to profit from your sudden, meteoritic rise in capital. Or celebrity.”
“That’s not it at all. I don’t care what she has or doesn’t have. I’m falling in love with her. But I’m frightened…” I started crying. “Oh, hell, my makeup’s going to run.”
“It can use a brushup anyway. Danielle, what are you really so terrified about?”
“Being left behind,” I finally confessed. I went to the dresser mirror and spread a quick layer of makeup around my eyes. “I know it isn’t rational, but I expect everyone to run out on me now.”
She took me in her arms. “The only running Bethany does is when she’s in training. She would never run from you. The question is, will you be there for her.”
I grabbed my handbag, stuffed the jeweler’s sack inside, and turned back to Esther. “Until I’m sure, I won’t consider anything permanent.”
“Nothing in life is permanent. You should know that by now. Let’s go. Fiona will flay your bum if we’re late.”
We took the elevator down and walked out onto the street. “What does Bethany see in me?”
“I haven’t got a clue as to what any woman would see in you,” she said dramatically. “You’re an abysmal disappointment to me. Buzzards have been circling your sex life for years. Not only have you hidden out, but women weren’t exactly stampeding to you. Finally, you meet the perfect woman, and you disconnect. You’re a damned black hole of neediness. You’re this accretion disk that exhausts people. Especially women. Particularly me.”
“Sorry for burdening your life,” I said sarcastically.
“Danielle, you’re burdening your own life. Repeatedly, you’ve told me your grandfather’s saying about tough times. That if you take a hit, get back on your feet, make a fist at life, and then go on.”
“I remember. I’d nearly forgotten.”
“Listen, I want an answer. Are you in love with her?”
“I’ve told you. I do love her. I’m just scared.”
“Sweet cakes, you better put on those big girl panties and grow up. For whatever reason, she loves you. She doesn’t need you or your fortune.”
“I do care for her.”
“You are the most insecure ingrate I’ve ever met. Care for her? Days have dwindled down to almost the time of our departure while you sit on your pity pot. Now we’re down to a day. Our plane leaves tomorrow morning, and you’ve run her off.”
“It’s better if she leaves me now than it would be later after we lived together.”
“It isn’t like you, Danielle. You’re being cruel. One of my exes used to say that it’s nice to be important but more important to be nice.”
“Was that because you weren’t being nice?”
She glared at me. “You are best in small doses.”
“And you’re bitchy in large doses!” I reached for the gallery’s door handle. We entered, and I studied the crowded room. The final closing party Fiona and Max had planned with patrons, art critics, and media, was in full swing. “I don’t see Bethany.”
“She’s probably come to her senses and is doing something incredibly important with her life. Like watching BBC.” Her dour expression changed. “Ah, but I see my sweet little crumpet.”
Esther walked toward Carrie. I went back outside to fill my lungs with air. I’d never experienced claustrophobia before. I never knew how uncomfortable i
t was to be alone in a throng of people. Emotions were an extension of us. We were all balled up in our own hemisphere, and we struggled. If not dashing toward a cluster of fellow human beings, we were making attempts to extricate ourselves from society. Not much of it was rational. In two weeks, I had spent the most irrational, profoundly painful, and upliftingly joyous moments of my life.
Outside I breathed deeply. I glanced at the gallery front with fancy scripted placards resting on easels that announced my work. My offering to humanity. Me. Well, that was another question. I may well have been affiliated with those canvases that were smeared with paint and my heart. But me?
Touching the large placard, I felt the inked ridges of my name. Maybe an important part of life was the self-discovery of knowing we might one day find our true selves. Locating the me in each of us was revelatory. As important, was finding the others in me. I suddenly balled my hand into a fist, raised it up, and gave it a couple of whirls.
Chapter 50
Upon reentering the gallery, I spied Fiona.
“You’re actually on time,” she said as she took my arm.
She introduced me to what seemed like hundreds of people. I maintained a degree of pleasantry. I glanced in each direction as we walked. Pieces of conversations penetrated my mind. One critic told me I caught emotional flashes in my paintings that he’d never seen before. Another said my work resonated.
When finally alone with Fiona a moment, I asked, “What the hell are they talking about?”
“You. Unlike the people who know you, they think you’re terrific.”
“You’ve been talking with Esther again, haven’t you?”
“Yes. To quote her, you’re impossible. Carrie is more generous. She says you’re causing everyone a great deal of agro by being a sarky bitch.”
“Have you seen Bethany?”
“I’ve seen her. Just not tonight. But I don’t think you’ve ever really seen her, Danielle. Funny, because you paint her beautiful soul with such authenticity. Within Bethany’s Smile, it seems apparent you understand her integrity and love for you.” She shrugged. “Guess not. I’ve always maintained you’re a crazy Saph. Now more than ever.”
