The Widow's Season

by Laura Brodie

  The real question was her clothes. She owned two black cocktail dresses, both cut higher above the knee than seemed appropriate for a widow. But she was not a widow, only a dark pretender. She spread the dresses across her bed and stepped back to consider them. Spaghetti straps would not do. The faux widow required, at a minimum, a bra. The second dress was tight, with elbow-length sleeves that hung from the ends of her shoulders. With black stockings and high heels she would look more seductive than sorrowful, but her only alternatives were ankle-length tea dresses in floral cotton.

  Nate’s Mercedes pulled into the driveway as she held the dress against her breasts. Wrapping herself in a towel, she knocked on the window and waved at him to come inside. Black lace underwear suited the dress, and a necklace of glass rubies with matching earrings that hung like drops of glittering blood. She held her perfume bottles up, allowing lamplight to shine through the gold and sapphire glass. Allure, Obsession, Tender Poison. She sprayed Vanity on her throat and wrists and into her hair, and walked into the bathroom, where she opened the wall cabinet.

  Here were the Prozac and Lunesta, waiting for their time to come. Sarah pushed them aside and revealed a silver case untouched for almost a year. Placing it on the counter, she lifted the lid and began thumbing through mascara, eyebrow pencils, and old lipstick. A dusting of Smoky Glow seemed best for her cheeks, a layer of Auburn Mist for her eyelids. She highlighted her brow bones with a subtle gold glitter, used a crimson pencil to outline her lips, and colored between the lines with Beaujolais Nouveau.

  Inside her bedroom, she shuffled through her chest of drawers and found a black velvet purse. Some tissue, a comb, forty dollars, and she snapped the golden clasp. Looking into the mirror, she rubbed her cheeks with the heel of her palms and sighed. It would have to do.

  Nate was waiting on the sofa, absorbed in a coffee table book of Kandinsky paintings. He wore a white-ribbed turtleneck and a dark sport jacket, looking very much like a stylish sea captain.

  “Ahoy there,” she said as she walked into the room.

  “Wow.” Nate closed the book and rose to his feet. “You look terrific.” He reached inside his jacket. “I have something for you.” His fingers opened to reveal a red rosebud backed with a tip of fern.

  “How sweet.” She laughed as he pinned the flower above her left breast. “I feel like I’m going to the prom.”

  Nate took her coat from the closet and held it as she slid her arms through. Then he opened the front door and bowed his head. “After you.”

  They arrived fifteen minutes into the opening and found the gallery already packed; a wave of noise greeted them when they opened the door. Sarah hadn’t been near a crowd since the memorial service, and the presence of so many bodies in one space seemed unnatural, but retreat was not an option. Heads had turned; friends were converging.

  The first to reach her was the English department chair, a grand-fatherly man who took her hand within his two warm palms. “My dear, such a beautiful exhibit. It’s marvelous.” Next came a pair of nurses who raved about the paintings and insisted on how much they missed David. Behind them Sarah saw the Fosters, the Warrens, the Doves, Carver and his little girl, and the red-haired soci ologist from Margaret’s widows group.

  When Nate pulled her coat from her shoulders she felt completely exposed. Her dress was too short, her heels too high, her throat too pale and bare. But Judith, God bless her, emerged from the crowd in a see-through chemise that revealed a black lace bra and freckled breasts.

  “What a stunning entrance! You two light up the room.”

  While Nate left for the closet, Judith took Sarah by the arm. “The turnout is amazing, and they love the work.”

  Sarah scanned the room. These were the people from the memorial service, whose repetitive condolences had filled her with contempt. Then, she had been absorbed in the isolation of mourning, wanting nothing more than her bed, her cat, and an oversize bottle of Chardonnay. But now there was comfort in this return of the faithful. The electric friction of so much silk and cashmere gave an odd impression of life’s continuity.

  Sarah tilted her head. “Is that Bach?”

  “That’s my surprise.” Judith led her by the elbow. “Come and see.”

  Beside the bay window overlooking the garden, Judith had arranged a flute-and-guitar duet. Sarah recognized the guitarist as their student housesitter from the previous summer. The girl smiled and nodded before turning back to her fingers, which tapped at the frets in a percussive accompaniment.

  “Margaret deserves the credit,” Judith explained. “She told me you played flute all through college, and that you and David always liked classical music.”

  Sarah nodded as she listened to the layer of breath that hovered above the flautist’s melody.

  “Can I get you both a drink?” Nate was back at her side.

  “Another white wine for me.” Judith handed him her glass.

  He smiled at Sarah. “Vodka tonic with lime?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Seventeen years of family functions.” He disappeared into the crowd.

  “President Wilson is here with his wife.” Judith steered Sarah away from the music. “You must speak to him. He’s thinking about getting something for the lobby in Cabot Hall.”

  A tall, gray-haired man stood in one corner, orbited by a small cluster of faculty. Beside him stood a woman in a red dress with gold buttons, looking perfect for a Republican tea. Two female students in black neckties offered hors d’oeuvres on silver platters, and the gold-buttoned woman was gushing over a piece of coconut shrimp. She turned as Sarah and Judith approached.

  “Oh, Sarah.” She reached out with ring-laden fingers. “This is such a lovely tribute. We miss David so much.”

  Sarah wondered if Myra Wilson could even recall David’s face; the only time she had ever spoken to him was to ask advice about tennis elbow. Meanwhile, Jim Wilson stood six inches above his wife, his perpetually rigid posture an apparent job requirement.

  “I didn’t know David was an artist.” His eyes scanned the walls. “When did he have the time?”

  Sarah detected the slightest hint of accusation in the words, the tone of an obsessive boss who has just discovered a shirker. “Twenty years of spare hours,” she said. “A few of these paintings go back to his medical school days.”

  “Beautiful work. I’m considering one of the bigger landscapes for our commerce school. That winter scene in the woods reminds me of Robert Frost. ‘The woods are lovely, dark and—’ ”

  “Tell us,” interrupted his wife, “who was that man who came with you?”

  “Yes.” One of the professors joined in. “We were just saying how strange it was to see the two of you arrive. It looked as if David was your escort.”

  Sarah gestured toward the bar. “That’s David’s brother, Nate. He’s an investment adviser in Charlottesville. Very successful. Here, he’s coming.”

  Nate edged through the crowd with a wineglass and two cocktails triangled in his fingers.

  “What did you get for yourself?” Sarah uncurled her vodka from his grasp while Judith took her wine.

  “Chivas Regal on ice.”

  “Nate, this is Jim Wilson and his wife, Myra. Jim is the president of the college.”

  “Of course.” Nate gave the slightest of bows. “David appreciated your support for the new student health center.”

  Well done. Sarah smiled. She hadn’t imagined that Nate paid attention to David’s work.

  “I hope we can break ground in the next year,” the president replied. “Our endowment has taken a hit in this economy. I understand that’s your line of work.”

  “Yes, we are all trying to weather the storm.” Nate flashed Myra a clever grin as he lifted his sparkling Scotch. “What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”

  Sarah excused herself to get some food, confident that Nate was in his element. He always knew how to handle the rich; by the end of the conversation they would be askin
g for his business card.

  She small-talked her way to the middle of the room, where a noisy group was milling around a twelve-foot table. A fountain of flowers spilled from the center, and seemed to have strewn the food with edible pansies and Johnny-jump-ups. Sarah dipped a skewer of chicken into the peanut sauce, and sprinkled it with fresh cilantro.

  “Hello, love, don’t you look smashing.” Margaret emerged from the crowd and slipped her arm around Sarah’s waist.

  “The food is wonderful,” Sarah said. “Everyone loves it.”

  “They love the paintings. Have you noticed, they’re almost all taken.” A gold sticker-star on the corner of a frame indicated when a painting had sold, and as Sarah glanced around she saw that the room was a sparkling galaxy.

  She shrugged. “Everyone wants their memento mori.” But inwardly she was pleased. She had never been to a show where more than half of the paintings sold on opening night. David would be delighted.

  “By the way . . .” She took a long sip of vodka. “Judith wants to go out for a celebration after the show. You’re welcome to come.”

  “Thanks, but Judith is a bit much for me. Anyway, this is all the celebration I need.” Margaret raised her glass.

  “Would you like a refill?” Nate was at Sarah’s side, taking the half-empty glass from her hand. “I’m getting to know the bartender very well.” He nodded toward Margaret’s glass. “Would you like another?”

  “No thanks, I’m all right.” She raised an eyebrow as Nate walked away. “Well, well. Isn’t he helpful?”

  “He’s been very kind.”

  “Has he?” Margaret eyed him across the room, chatting with the wives at the bar. “He is a beauty, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Sarah focused on a plate of bruschetta. “It’s his vocation.”

  The chiming of a wineglass drew all eyes to the middle of the room, where a student waiter had set a small footstool at Judith’s feet. As she stepped up, Judith spread her arms to embrace the entire crowd.

  “Thank you all so much for coming. I think I speak for everyone when I say that the one thing that would make this evening complete is if David could be here to share in his triumph.” She raised her glass. “A toast to our friend, our physician, and one of the most amazing hidden talents in our community, David McConnell.”

  “Here, here.” Glasses flashed around the room.

  “I know that you are all as impressed as I am with these beautiful paintings. For those of you who want to get one and haven’t had a chance, there are just a few left.” She gestured toward some of the larger oil paintings, then pointed vaguely in the direction of the sketches. “I myself have been so impressed with David’s work that I have decided to display a few of his best pieces at my gallery in Washington. So if any of you are coming to D.C. in December, I hope you’ll stop by Wisconsin Avenue and see the exhibit. It will feature some of the finest new artists from across the South.”

  Another round of applause.

  “And now I want to propose one more toast for David’s family members who are with us tonight. You all know our Sarah.” Glasses shimmered in her direction. “And if you haven’t met David’s charming brother, Nate, please take some time to introduce yourself. Where are you, Nate?”

  Nate waved from the bar, and Judith pointed one of her long red fingernails. “A toast to Sarah and Nate McConnell.”

  Sarah blushed as the glasses rose.

  “Sounds like she’s married you off,” Margaret whispered.

  Seeing Nate approach with more drinks, Margaret left Sarah with a kiss on the cheek.

  Two hours and three drinks later, Sarah and Nate were standing in the foyer, saying good-bye to the last few guests. Nate had been entertaining Sarah with childhood memories, old stories that took on new colors when seen from the younger brother’s eyes, and for the first time in a year, she felt content. Part of it was the alcohol; the room tipped like a ship’s deck whenever she crossed the floor. But she was also high on happy adrenaline. Every work had sold, every visitor seemed buoyant. Glancing around at the star-touched art, Sarah felt that perhaps David had done the right thing; in death, he had transformed himself from doctor to artist.

  Judith was tallying profits on a pocket-size calculator. “Why don’t you go ahead to the bar, I’ll meet you there.” She flicked her wrist toward the front table. “And take the roses with you. It’s your night.”

  They left the vase in Nate’s car, then walked two blocks down the street to a noisy bar, where a large crowd was celebrating at a corner table. The group applauded as Sarah and Nate entered, ges turing toward two open chairs, and Sarah sat down beside a young Asian woman whom she recognized as the new physician at the college. Sarah liked the idea of a female doctor for the students.

  “Mei-li, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” The woman smiled. “The next round is on me. What would you two like?”

  “Kahlúa and cream on ice,” Sarah said.

  “Same for me.” Nate nodded.

  The room was loud and smoky; Sarah couldn’t distinguish the separate voices fanning out around her. Faces spoke in her direction, offering a mixture of congratulations and condolence, and all the while she smiled and nodded, sliding into her own thoughts, where the scent of tobacco mingled with Royal Copenhagen.

  When Judith arrived she sat opposite Sarah and Nate. Leaning across the table, she took both of their hands into her own thin fingers and practically shouted: “I want you both to come to Washington when the exhibit opens. I have a tab at the Mayflower for visiting artists. You can stay for the whole weekend.”

  Sarah continued to nod and smile, savoring the cold and sweet Kahlúa. She imagined the Capitol in December, white columns cold as the ice at the bottom of her glass.

  “Would you like another?” Nate asked, and she smiled in reply.

  Sarah remembered laughing as she walked into her house that night. Nate placed the roses on the living-room coffee table, then spread her coat and his jacket over the back of a chair while she collapsed on the sofa.

  “You should drink some water.” Nate headed for the kitchen and was back in a moment with two tall glasses.

  Just like his brother, Sarah thought, always tending to the body’s needs. She drank the first one dutifully, two-thirds down, then he gave her his own.

  “Thank you for being so sweet.” Sarah rested her hand on Nate’s kneecap, and he lifted her fingers to kiss them.

  What happened next she couldn’t say. Was it her own hand that reached back behind his ear, stroking his hair? Or was it Nate who pulled her forward, placing her fingers at the back of his skull and shutting his eyes? Either way, she found his head cradled in her palm, her mouth inches away from his beautiful eyelashes. It was a pity, she thought, for a man to have such lovely lashes when so many women were doomed to mascara. They were like butterfly wings, opening and shutting.

  She remembered next the taste of his lips—Kahlúa and Scotch and wine—and the lingering smell of smoke as he pulled his shirt over his head. His chest was smooth as a boy’s, and she could feel his heart beating against her lips, her tongue, her breasts. He lowered his mouth to her neck, and the flowers on the upholstery merged with the table of roses. The room was an immense, fragrant garden, full of butterflies, and she smiled as the petals melted into liquid.

  • 19 •

  Sarah woke the next morning in her bedroom. From the angle of sunlight she guessed that it was early dawn, and images from the previous night came rushing back in broken pieces. Her temples were throbbing, and as she lifted her fingers to rub them, they brushed against an arm.

  “Oh, shit.” Her right hand settled on her face and covered her eyes.

  Nate was asleep, lying on his stomach, his naked thigh pressed against her hip. Slowly she pulled her body away from him, lifted the comforter, and placed her feet on the carpet. A trail of clothes extended from the door to the bed—her stockings, underpants, dress, bra. One by one she gathered them, whispering “Hell, he
ll, hell.” She entered her closet and dropped the evidence into the laundry hamper, then chose some jeans, a sweater, and sneakers. Back in her room, she opened her dresser and flinched at the scrape of the wood, but Nate’s breath remained steady. She grabbed some underwear and socks, then walked to the door and pushed it open with her shoulder. Before exiting, she took one last look at Nate. His arm extended down her side of the bed, empty fingers inviting her back.

  She dressed in the kitchen, still cursing her stupidity. What had happened to her life, that she could have slept with her brother-in-law? She pictured Vivien Leigh in the arms of Marlon Brando—the lonely, drunkard widow, with her madness and desire. All life was a repetition of the archetypal stories.

  But Nate hadn’t forced her. He hadn’t even “taken advantage.” The images now racing back were all too consensual.

  She couldn’t stay for breakfast, couldn’t fix Nate pancakes. Not at the table once occupied by David’s ghost. Instead, she took down the memo pad hanging by the telephone:

  Sorry I had to leave so early. Help yourself to breakfast.

  She slipped the note on the table beneath a bag of bagels, clutched her pocketbook, and headed for the door. On the living-room coffee table, two sweating glasses were making gray water rings, but she did not stop to pick them up. The damage was already done.

  Sarah was grateful for the empty streets at seven on a Saturday. With her mind wrestling between recriminations and delight, she was scarcely conscious of the lines between the lanes. Around the college track, the early risers were out walking, old men with elbows flapping like chicken wings. Run, she thought. Run away from death. And what was she running from? From life, from sex?