by Lisa Henry
“So?” Marianne asked, curling up with him on the couch the night after Ned left. “You talked, right? You and Ned?”
“No.” Elliott wondered if she had any weed on her.
“I know Paula was stuck to him like a wet Kleenex the night of the party, but after,” Marianne said. “Like, the next day or whatever.”
The next day.
Elliott had gone to work downstairs, and then at the restaurant. He’d thought of Ned. Thought of him pacing around the lakeshore with Paula, looking at a parcel of land overgrown with a tangle of weeds and bracken, and seeing past that into some structure that didn’t exist yet, but might one day. Elliott’s mind had constructed fantasies as he’d worked: The door would open and Ned would walk in. “Sorry,” he’d say. “I had to deal with this property thing first. Can I buy you a drink now, though?”
Except Ned hadn’t appeared, and Elliott later found out from John that he’d already left. He hadn’t even stopped in to say goodbye.
“No,” Elliott said to Marianne. “We didn’t.”
“Oh, Elliott!”
“We weren’t a thing,” Elliott said woodenly. “I tried to tell you guys back at Norland Park. We were never a thing. We hooked up. We’re not dating.” He tried to laugh at the word, but the sound that came out was too uncertain to be mockery. “We didn’t . . . He doesn’t owe me anything.”
Marianne’s expression was one of disbelief.
This time Elliott did laugh. He reached out and cupped a hand to her cheek. “Oh, Jesus, Mar. You . . . The whole world’s a love story to you because you’re in love with the whole world, you know? I’m not like you, Mar. I can’t see the world the way you do, or the way Mom does. That’s not me.”
Marianne’s eyes shone. She pressed her hand over his and leaned her cheek into it. “But Elliott, you love him.”
He somehow kept his voice steady. “Mar, I don’t know him.”
And that was all there was to it.
***
It took a while for the odd, intrusive thoughts of Ned Ferrars to stop coming. It felt a little like grief, in a strange way. The forgetfulness. The way his brain idly wondered what Ned was doing, or remembered how it had felt to kiss him or get off with him against that terrible painting, before suddenly jolting with surprise when the truth hit him on the heels of those dumb fantasies: you’re nothing to each other. Stop it.
Elliott wasn’t sure how Ned had managed to embed himself so deeply into his subconscious, like he belonged there, when the whole time Elliott had known there was nothing between them. When the hell had any part of him started to believe otherwise? For someone who was adamant he wasn’t the same as Marianne, he’d brought this disappointment on himself, hadn’t he?
He kept busy with work, and with working out a family budget so that they didn’t need to dip into their savings. He started pricing apartments or houses for rent in the local area, quickly realizing they were out of reach on a single income—Marianne hadn’t been able to work at the cinema when she was hurt, and even though she was back on her feet now, she was only getting one or two shifts a week there. Elliott wondered a few times if he should call John Dashwood and ask for money, but things weren’t that dire. But also, should he wait for things to be dire? John had promised their dad he’d look after them, and Elliott was tired of being stabbed repeatedly every night by the springs in the mattress of the foldout couch. Wanting a place with his own room and his own bed didn’t feel too selfish.
It was almost a relief to be back to focusing on the practicalities of their reduced circumstances. To be budgeting for groceries and gas, and nudging Marianne toward checking out the courses at the local community college—“No, not necessarily for now if you don’t want to. But for next year.”—and making sure that Greta was doing okay at her new school, and that Abby was keeping busy. Abby was making bead bracelets to sell in the store. Elliott wasn’t sure they’d turn enough of a profit to be worth the hours of work she put into each one, but it gave her something to do in her quiet hours apart from miss Henry.
Marianne, now that her ankle had healed, was learning belly dancing with her friend from Whitwell in addition to her scant hours at the cinema. She brought home stale popcorn at the end of every shift, and they ate it on the couch and watched TV. She didn’t make a lot of money, but every little bit meant they dipped less into their savings.
The weeks passed.
Elliott sensed a shift in the air that was more than the approaching end of summer. They still talked about Henry, but the sharp edges of their loss had worn away a little. The ache would always remain, probably, but the sting was gone. Henry’s light was no longer eclipsed by the darkness of loss. They laughed when they remembered him now.
Very slowly, the Dashwoods were healing.
The bells on the shop door jangled merrily right before closing, and a woman wearing a startling shade of fuchsia wafted inside. Her perfume clashed violently with the jasmine incense Elliott was burning. She was tall and statuesque, made up of the same angles Georgy Kurasov might have painted. Her sharp bob was dyed inky black. It had been bright red the last time Elliott had seen her.
“Elliott Fucking Dashwood,” the woman announced, her voice smoker’s-rough. She glared at him over the top of a pair of undoubtedly expensive sunglasses. “How the fuck are you?”
Elliott spilled a tribe of worry dolls all over the counter. “Odette! Holy shit!”
Odette Jennings was a woman of indeterminate age. She liked that phrase, and bullied writers into using it whenever she was being profiled in the arts section of some newspaper or magazine. Elliott had been to her sixtieth birthday party three years ago, though, so he could do the math. Odette was an art dealer. She had a small but ridiculously expensive gallery in SoHo where Henry Dashwood had sold his work exclusively, and she had been a family friend since before Elliott could remember.
Elliott rounded the counter and moved forward to give her a hug. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I got your address off your brother,” she said, tugging her sunglasses off. “That man knows nothing about art, by the way. Can you believe he asked me why I couldn’t just move Henry’s canvases by U-Haul? What a fucking philistine.”
“That, um . . .” That sounded a lot like John, actually. “Yeah.”
Odette’s expression softened. “How are you?”
“I’m okay,” Elliott said, choosing his words carefully. “I mean, we miss him, you know?”
“Yeah, sweetheart.” Odette’s eyes shone, and she blinked rapidly. “I know.”
“What are you doing here?” Elliott asked her. Barton Lake was a hell of a long way from Odette’s usual haunts. She used to complain when she came to visit the Dashwoods at Norland Park that she couldn’t sleep properly without the sound of sirens. It was rare enough that Odette made it as far as Massachusetts. Elliott couldn’t imagine what the hell she was doing in a small town on the opposite side of the country.
Odette looked smug. “I’m here to make my annual offer for Abigail in Lamplight.”
The Naked Blue Lady.
It had been an ongoing joke between Odette and Henry for years, except this time Elliott couldn’t raise the ghost of a smile. “No. No way, Odette. You know what that painting means to Mom. She’ll never sell it. Especially not now.”
“I know that, kiddo,” Odette said, her voice more like a growl. “I’m not a fucking idiot. I’m talking about her letting me rent it.”
“Rent it?”
Odette tapped him on the forearm with a well-manicured talon. “What say we talk about it over dinner? Is there a decent restaurant in this town? My fucking treat.”
***
Abby and Odette made an odd pair, walking arm in arm down Main Street toward the restaurant, Odette in her sharply tailored fuchsia pantsuit, and Abby in a patchwork skirt and a cheesecloth tunic. Elliott and his sisters let them walk ahead a little. Abby was chattering like a bird, and Odette was listening to her, head tilted t
o try to bridge their height disparity; Abby barely came up to Odette’s shoulder.
“I can’t believe she came all the way here,” Marianne said, flashing a bright smile at Elliott.
“I can’t believe she left Manhattan at all,” Greta said. “Pretty sure that’s a sign of the apocalypse.”
Ahead of them, Odette and Abby entered the restaurant.
“Pretty sure you’re a sign of the apocalypse,” Marianne told Greta fondly, and Greta smirked.
They reached the restaurant, and Elliott held the door open for his sisters. When he got inside, Abby and Odette were already being seated at a table by the window. Elliott followed Marianne and Greta over to them.
“Order whatever you like,” Odette said. “The gallery’s paying.”
Greta reached happily for the menu the server held out for her.
“We don’t need your charity, Odette,” Abby said, but there was a fond smile on her face.
“This isn’t charity. This is a business meeting. Tax deductible. You’re the ones doing me a favor.”
Elliott doubted that very much, but he knew better than to argue with her.
They ordered their meals.
They didn’t talk business at first. Odette asked Greta about her new school, and Greta told her about the water stain on the ceiling panel in her homeroom that looked like Jesus if she squinted at it right. Then she told her about the awful cafeteria food and the particular smell of the school bus, and then, in a more cautious tone altogether, about the art teacher who was really impressed with her drawings.
“Ah,” Odette said. “So in five years I’ll be exhibiting your work, will I?”
Greta snorted and dug into the complimentary breadsticks. “If I ever figure out my style, maybe.”
“Greta’s in her ‘paint everything black’ phase,” Abby said with a smile.
“Anger makes me happy,” Greta said.
In any other company, Elliott thought wryly, a statement like that might be given the side-eye.
The server brought the meals out and refilled their water glasses.
“So, business,” Odette said, stabbing at her fettuccine. “I want to do an exhibit of Henry’s pieces. Part retrospective, part homage. And I want Abigail in Lamplight to be the centerpiece. It’s his best work, and we all know it.”
“It’s not for sale,” Abby said mildly.
“So let me borrow it.”
“You’re a gallery, not a museum.”
“So let me rent it,” Odette said. “Let me exploit it, basically. Abigail in Lamplight will get more people through the door. Even if I can’t sell the original, I want to do some merchandise. Prints, postcards, magnets, tote bags—”
Greta almost choked on her water. “Tote bags? Who would want a tote bag with Mom’s vulva on it? No offense, Mom.”
Abby raised her eyebrows. “I’ll have you know my vulva was in incredible shape back then. Before I pushed three of you melon heads out of it.”
Elliott resisted the urge to look around and make sure nobody had heard them. Sometimes it was better not to know than to accidentally make eye contact with a traumatized bystander.
“The naked body is nothing to be ashamed of,” Marianne said.
Greta wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you should print it on tote bags and take it to Trader Joe’s.”
“I’ve always thought my vulva gives off more of a farmers’ market vibe myself.” Abby leaned over and stole a potato wedge off the edge of Greta’s plate.
Greta squawked in outrage.
“Getting back on track,” Odette said smoothly, “I want you to let me use Abigail in Lamplight for merchandising, and as the focal point of the entire exhibit. It wouldn’t be for sale, and I’d pay you a licensing fee.”
“What sort of fee?” Elliott asked.
“That’s where we negotiate.” Odette leveled him with a stare. “I’m prepared to offer either a standard payment up front, or a percentage of profits on the merchandise. This isn’t something I’ve done before, so I don’t know what sort of returns we’re looking at, but my new assistant, Lucien, is putting together a few different proposals. I figured I’d make sure you’d actually agree to it before he got too far into the numbers though.”
Elliott nodded.
Odette sipped her water and set the glass back down on the table. She left a lipstick stain on the lip of the glass. “I don’t need your decision right away. Of course this is something you might want to talk about in private, but I hope you know I value Henry’s legacy dearly.”
Abby reached out and squeezed her forearm. “We know that, Odette.”
“But if you do agree to this,” Odette continued, “I’d want you there for the opening. I want you to represent Henry.”
Marianne brightened.
“I want to show people his diary entries, his photographs, his family,” Odette said. “I want them to know the Henry Dashwood we all did.”
Elliott pushed his broccoli florets around his plate with his fork, uncertain. His father had been a wonderful, amazing, and deeply flawed person. A gemstone, roughly cut, with a hundred different facets each reflecting a different thing. Elliott was uncomfortable with the idea that a human being could be reduced to diary entries and photographs—the detritus of a lifetime, not the sum of it. He had no doubt that Odette’s love for Henry would shine through in whatever exhibit she put together, but it would never be the full story.
Elliott had never read his father’s diaries. Had he ever written about John, and the guilt he’d felt in leaving him? Had he ever actually felt guilt? Elliott loved his father deeply, but he knew the sort of man he was. Impulsive, selfish, always ready to seize the day. What did that feel like to the son he’d left behind?
Elliott set his fork down and exhaled slowly.
What did it matter, in the end, if Odette’s homage to Henry was biased? What did it matter if it was an act of love instead of truth?
“We’d want a say in what goes into it,” Elliott said. “Into how it’s presented.”
Odette nodded. “You’d get the final say. You’ve got my fucking word on that.”
Elliott nodded.
“I think we should do it,” Marianne said. “Dad would love it.”
Abby smiled at her. “I think you should do it. You and Elliott.”
“Mom?” Elliott asked.
“Greta has school.” Abby shrugged. “Someone needs to stay with her. Putting together an exhibit like that could take a while, isn’t that right, Odette?”
Odette nodded.
“So you’d be hiring my kids too? Just like my painting?”
Odette snorted. “I can give ’em a room above the gallery, a per diem, and a fuck of a good reference that calls them my assistants. That’s all the blood you’ll get out of this stone, Abby. I’m not a fucking charity.”
It was clearly a lie. Elliott couldn’t think of any other reason Odette was here, except to offer them some help in her own brusque way. This wasn’t just for Henry. This was for Abby and her children as well.
Elliott wondered if he and Marianne could really do it. If they were really in the right emotional state to sift through their dad’s things and pick out those pieces that made a picture of him.
He caught Marianne’s gaze, and she flashed him a brilliant smile.
Elliott returned it cautiously.
What would his own retrospective look like? Would it be an eclectic mix of bright colors and beautiful, random things? Would anyone sweep a net through the detritus of Elliott’s life and pick out enough pieces to make something approaching a whole? What would people think if they walked into a space and saw Elliott Dashwood’s life on display?
Elliott couldn’t help but imagine a quiet room full of blank canvases and empty, staring faces.
***
Before she left, Odette spent an evening at the Boathouse, drinking wine on the verandah and glaring at the lake as though it had personally offended her.
&nb
sp; “It’s so picturesque I want to vomit,” she announced.
Paula looked startled. “We’ve had interest from investors about building a resort!”
Odette cocked an eyebrow.
“The Ferrars Corporation,” Paula said. “Have you heard of them?”
“Honey, I’m not saying it’s not pretty,” Odette said firmly. “I’m just saying it’s not for me.”
Elliott steered Paula away, deposited her in Marianne’s company, and fetched a fresh glass of wine for Odette. When he returned to her side, he spotted Greta and Poppy and Violet sitting down by the lakeshore, their faces illuminated by the glow of their phones.
John was late to arrive home, and when he finally joined them, he was accompanied by Colonel Brandon. She looked as uncomfortable as always, holding herself stiffly. She waved away John’s offer of a drink.
“No,” she said. “Not with my meds.”
“Ah,” John said. “And how is the yoga going?”
“Um. Slowly.” Her expression grew even more discomforted, and Elliott thought of the DVD shards rattling around in the case.
John patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Well, listen, I’ve got a friend who’s recommended me a yogi who specializes in rehab. I don’t think there are any DVDs, but I believe the classes are online.”
Colonel Brandon pursed her mouth into a thin line, then sighed. “I’ll give it a try.”
Elliott moved away, not wanting to eavesdrop.
John fired up the grill, and within the hour everyone was sitting around the table eating tofu burgers.
“Tastes just like steak, doesn’t it?” John beamed.
“No,” Colonel Brandon said. “It really doesn’t.”
John’s laughter boomed out into the cool evening air.
The talk eventually turned to Henry’s exhibit.
“Oh, you’ll be in New York?” Colonel Brandon asked Marianne. “My, um, my daughter lives there. I fly out to see her every few months.”
