I said, “You like it?”
She turned toward me, but I could tell she didn’t even really see me at first, that she was still seeing my piece.
“Like it?”
She paused. “It’s alive, it…” She clutched at her heart with both hands, a gesture that I felt in my own chest. “Speaks to me? No, that’s a cliché. It sings to me.”
The last of the fake smile I’d been hauling around all evening melted into a real one as a shameless bubbling feeling overcame me. I gobbled up her praise like a kid handed a three-scoop ice cream cone with sprinkles.
“I’m Ray Watts.”
Her eyes finally focused on me. My nerves jangled again, for I somehow just knew our future would be written in the next moment.
Her face was transparent. Dismay—oh, an artist. An actual Bohemian.
Reconsideration—but he made that thing. He’s…not bad looking.
Resolution. What the hell.
“I’m buying this piece for my apartment. Can I buy you dinner too?”
Well, she wasn’t shy.
She took me to the fanciest restaurant I’d ever been to—not that the greasy spoons I was used to set the bar very high.
Her West Village place was elegantly furnished, with a stunning view of lights on the Hudson.
More wine, then she showed me her king-sized bed. The way I was living, I was still camped out on an old mattress on the floor. The black dress came off, along with the last traces of law school diction and table manners. I started getting acquainted with the secret person her initial smile had hinted at.
Ray looked up from the computer and out the window. And for a moment, it was still then, still before her leaving, and she was just in the city at work, and she’d come home, and they’d cook a nice dinner together, because that’s something they were really good at, aside from that other thing, of course.
The spell dissolved, and he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. He dove back into the magic.
We were fulfilling some cliché, the bohemian artist kept by a society girl. The old commie hippie in me grumbled about her cleaning lady coming twice a week, and Liz just gave me a look. She’d been to my sty down on the Lower East Side. Once. It was amazing how quickly my scruples fell away once I discovered steak-au-poivre, crème caramel, and a red that didn’t come out of a jug.
Our opposite natures made for good chemistry. And made moving in together a bad idea. Fortunately, we both understood that. Practical Liz, as always, had the solution. She had some bonus money she needed to park. She’d buy a place in Hudson and keep her apartment in the City.
While it was the round window that sold me on the house, for Liz it was that spiral staircase. The house was for sale by the owner, a crusty old painter. When he gave us a tour of the house, those steps were the first thing he pointed to. “That goes all the way to the attic on the third floor. I just repainted it. It’s a one-of-a-kind piece.”
I wasn’t going to argue with him. It was an Art Nouveau wonder—cast-iron vines in emerald, jade leaves sprouting from them, the whole thing gleaming, winding up to the roof like… Liz smiled at me. “Jack and the Beanstalk.”
I said, “I hope there’s no giant waiting up on top.”
The owner said, “Nah. Just my studio.”
Liz looked at me. “Your studio.”
In just a month, the paint started flaking off that staircase. But life was good. During the week, I holed up in the house while Liz did her lawyer thing in a glass tower in Manhattan. Friday, she’d clean out the nearest Gristede’s and drive up in her Beemer and cook me a meal that was every bit as delicious as what was in those restaurants.
Skinny Bodine eyed my belly and said, with fake disapproval, “You aren’t quite looking the starving artist anymore.”
The gallery was her idea. I’d had a few smaller shows since the one where I met her but wasn’t close to making ends meet. One day, we were sitting downstairs, and I was moaning to her about fuckhead dealers. The sculpture that she’d been staring at when we first met was sitting in the corner. She pointed at it. “You sold me. Now sell them,” she said, sweeping her arm out at the world.
“What am I supposed to do? I’ve taken my portfolio around to every dealer. I call all the galleries. I go to—”
“Shh.” She stood and paced. And that woman could pace. Her voice lost a bit of its edge. I’d say it got dreamy, except Liz doesn’t do dreamy. She said, “I was in Umbria a few years ago, in a town called Deruta. It’s famous for its pottery.”
“Of course.” I was lying. Another hoity-toity thing I didn’t know about.
“The artisans’ studios are right on the street with a sales counter up front. As they worked on their pots, they explained to me, in that lovely accent, what they were doing. I felt like I was witnessing magic. And if I bought something, I could participate.
“Keep the studio upstairs. Open a gallery here, and you can sit and do your finish work, sanding and polishing.”
It worked like a charm. It was a rare golden time, making hay with the sun high in the sky. I leapt from bed every morning. I couldn’t wait to yank back the curtain on my studio and get my hands on my latest baby.
I’d long known that consorting with the muse was the sacred thing, not whatever progeny resulted. But Liz taught another indispensable thing. If you want to have real self- respect as an artist, you need proof that you’re a valuable, functioning part of society. And the proof is, bluntly put, sales.
The first day I was open I sold two pieces. I called her at her office, and she said, “Oh Ray, that’s great! Which ones? I’ll miss them.”
I got off the phone and ran all the way upstairs to get back to work.
Ray looked up from the writing again. This time the illusion shattered. And the real Liz, the current one, stormed into his head. Distracted when he called to tell her about the advance. She just couldn’t be bothered. And then there was that terrible sex.
Never Google your ex. What did Bodine know about exes? He might have a ton—a shit ton. But once they were out the door, it was like they hadn’t existed. He’d never mentioned any of their names, not once.
Ray was about to set his hand back on the flaming burner. He hit the bookmark for Google, and in less than a minute, he was seeing Liz. Seeing and burning.
Here she was at some conference. He couldn’t help but flash on the last picture of Susan. She had been at a conference too. Only there was no shadow smudging Liz’s fine face. She was grinning. And so was the guy standing next to her. The bottom dropped out of his stomach. It was time to stop, but he was scrolling down the page. Here they were again, arm in arm. These smiles weren’t look-good-in-the-quarterly-bar-review smiles. They were can’t-wait-to-get-back-to-the-hotel-room-and-fuck smiles.
She was fucking a lawyer. He stared. No. Something told him, this guy was worse than a lawyer. Banker? He was about to scroll some more—maybe he could catch them in bed, really beat himself up—when the phone rang.
Liz. She said, “Is this a bad time?” She always did have a sixth sense with him.
He leapt from the couch, and his feet did a nervous dance. He wanted to howl with demonic laughter. His tongue twisted with sarcasm. He suppressed it by speaking slowly, with a flat affect. “No, this is good. It’s excellent. What’s up?”
“Have you been drinking?”
His eyes flitted to the absinthe bottle at the side of the couch. If only. “No. I never drink before five.”
“Except when you do. I need the money. Now.”
The check’s in the mail? No, the truth. “It hasn’t come yet. When it does, you’ll know.”
“Don’t you get pissy with me. You are drunk.”
He carefully closed the phone. He wanted to smash it into the wall, but once he started down that road, he might not stop until he’d burned the house down. No, h
e wasn’t drunk. But he would be soon as five o’clock rolled around. Now it was barely two.
He stalked over to Jo’s. The sun was bright, thinking about putting out some warmth. He glared up at the sky—it ain’t the thought that counts. The north wind was stuck back in February.
Jo was busy. The room hummed with the lunch crowd, with just a few tables empty. But it didn’t roar like it would if she served alcohol. Which meant he could think. And that he wouldn’t be tempted.
He sat at his table and got right up to his old habit, finger drumming. Jo caught his eye, mouthed, “The usual?” and he nodded, even though he wasn’t hungry.
She brought his sandwich, and he picked at it. Jo finally came and sat.
She said, “I haven’t seen you in a while. What’s up with your window?”
“Kids.”
“They better not try that here. I’ll sic Louise on them.” They laughed. Jo’s partner was five feet tall, gentle, and taught second grade. A man, one of the last lunch customers, waved a check at her. “I’ll be right back.”
She returned and sat. “Last time I saw you, you were headed out with Liz. How’d that go?”
“It was weird. I had the sense that she’s been …seeing someone else.”
“Oh, shit.” But she said it like she wasn’t too surprised. She looked at his plate. “You’re off your feed.”
“Yes, Mom.” He groaned. “I Googled her, and I saw them together.”
“Aw, Ray. Computers! You should stay away from those fucking things. Nobody had to see that shit before they came along. Nobody needed to know.” She lowered her voice. “What did this asshole look like?”
“Like a fucking banker.”
“I’m not surprised. Liz is reacting. This new guy is the anti-Ray. She’s trying out rich and straight just to see what it feels like.”
“Reacting to what? What did I do?”
She closed her eyes for a moment and got a faraway, sad look, like she was revisiting some old heartbreak. She opened her eyes and put on her best sympathy smile. “Try to see it from her perspective. She falls for this artist, for his art. Helps set him up in a nice gallery. Suddenly he doesn’t feel like doing the art any more. And soon he isn’t selling anything, because he isn’t producing. And—no offense—but while this is happening, he’s not the cheeriest guy on the block.”
“But you don’t understand—the art left me. I couldn’t help it.”
“I understand. Liz doesn’t. She can’t. You guys are different. Different can be good. But too different…”
“Then why the hell did we just end up in bed?”
“Oh, no.” Her face curdled in horror. “That was a very bad idea.”
“I didn’t figure out she was with this guy until after.”
She shook her head. “Naughty Liz. But naughty you too. You should know better.”
Despite himself, he started laughing.
“I’m not joking!”
“No, it’s just the thought of you and Bodine agreeing on something.”
“On what?”
“He told me, ‘No sex with your ex.’”
She made a rude sound. “A stopped clock’s right twice a day.” She and Bodine did not get along. He was a techie, she a Luddite. She wasn’t thrilled by all the girlfriends he’d been through, and he knew it. She bit her lip.
He said, “What?”
“Uh, I shouldn’t say this. But if Liz has this guy but bothered to come all the way up here just to sleep with you, maybe she’s having doubts.”
Crazy hope welled in his chest and must have shown on his face.
“Oh, Christ. My fat mouth.”
The hope collapsed. “No, she didn’t come here for that. She came here for money. I owe her for the mortgage.”
“What are you going to do?”
Should he tell her? If it happened it would be public soon enough anyway. “I’m writing a book.”
She brightened. “A book. I saw you writing. You seemed more…energized.”
Her nice way of saying less depressed. He smiled.
“What’s this book about?”
“I’d love to tell you all about it, but I can’t. Writer’s superstition. You’ll be the first to get a signed copy when and if it comes out.”
“I can’t wait. If it’s half as brilliant as your art….”
Ray gave her a hug, then went home. It was still freezing out. Jo was right. The writing was good for him. Tangled up as it was in the mortgage, Karl’s taboo, and God knows what publishing hassles awaited him, the actual craft of it gave him a purpose, made him feel more alive.
He headed upstairs and glanced at the closed bedroom door. A vivid picture of Liz and her new fuck buddy flashed in his head—here, in their bed. His nails cut into his palms, and he clamped his teeth together. When Liz was with him in there that last time, he’d sensed she was with this asshole because of her vibe. She was holding a part of herself separate from him in a way she’d never done before.
He’d recognized that vibe because Susan had been exactly the same when she started cheating. Putting some vital part of herself high on a shelf, and he kept reaching. Was still reaching after all these years.
For Susan? Liz? Did it matter?
He wanted to Google Liz again, just like you worry a sore tooth with your tongue. Instead he climbed up to the couch and searched again for Susan. He studied the picture of her at the convention. No question, something was missing from when he’d known her. Her spark. But time could extinguish the brightest sparks.
Susan Brandon must be common name, because each Susan on the page was different, from eight months to eighty, blond, brunette. He scrolled down. And there was an earlier photo of his Susan. In front of an office building with five others, squinting in the sun. Her expression was impossible to read.
He scrolled. Two pictures of her next to a shorter woman with dark hair. In one, she was really smiling. In the other, they grinned at each other, conspiratorially. A friend.
He navigated back to her last picture, that group shot. Compared to what he’d just seen she looked positively haunted. He checked the dates on the earlier shots. They were from two and three years ago. What had happened to her in the time between? It looked like she’d lost something.
One of the photos with the friend was captioned. Joan Telford. What was that company Susan worked for? Mutual of Central New Jersey. He closed the computer. Called and asked for her.
Joan had a nice voice, younger than her picture.
“This is Ray Watts. I was a good friend of Susan Branford’s.”
“Oh, Susan. I haven’t heard her name in months, but I think of her all the time.”
“I just found out about what happened.”
“Really?”
He could feel her distancing herself. What kind of good friend is so out of touch that they don’t hear for over a year? Open up to her, and maybe she’d respond. “I hadn’t spoken to her in a long time. We were married once.”
“Oh. She never said anything about you.” But she was warming up. “I’m sorry. No matter how it ended between you, it must be hard.”
“Thank you. So you were friends?”
“I’d like to think so. Yes, yes, we were friends.”
“I called because I can’t stop thinking about how she died. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I can’t think about it at all. It’s so awful. I just try to remember her alive, always with a kind word for me, and so…there. You must know what I mean.”
So present. “I do. This is a strange question, but was there anything going on with her in the last months, before…”
“How did you know?”
Know what? “I don’t. Just guessing. I found some photos of her online. In the most recent one she looked different than in the earlier ones.”
<
br /> “You’re perceptive. What do you do?”
“I, uh, am an artist.”
She laughed. “I just had a terrible thought. About her husband. Artist fits her a lot better than pest control. I just met you on the phone, and I’m already liking you better than—what’s his name?”
“Phil.”
“He came to an office party. Don’t get me wrong. He was nice enough. But he didn’t seem her caliber.”
“I spoke to him. He seemed a little dull.”
She laughed. “As dishwater. She certainly wasn’t.” Joan sighed. “Losing her was going to be hard no matter how you sliced it. What’s harder is the depths I sensed in Susan that she never revealed to me. And now I’ll never get to know that Susan. We had lunch fairly often. She spoke about her kids, hassles at work, the usual. She was always big on eye contact. And I returned her looks, hoping for a glimpse of that hidden part of her.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” Ray had been trying to open to Joan to get her to talk, but now it was coming automatically. He was starting to like her.
She said, “Tell me. What was she hiding in there?”
The House, looming above him, Susan rushing in the door, more than any of them making sure she wouldn’t be late.
He shook his head, wrenching himself back to the present. He said, “I can’t…”
“What?”
“Just our history.”
“I understand.” She paused. “Even when she wasn’t doing the eye contact thing, she always looked right at me when I spoke.”
She did. Joan had known Susan. “She was a good listener.”
“The best. But in those last months, she’d sometimes look away. Often enough that I knew something was going on. I asked if her kids were okay, and she said fine. And Phil…Susan laughed and said, ‘Phil’s Phil.’”
“How was her marriage?”
Never Speak: A Mystery Thriller (The Murderous Arts Series) Page 9
