The interviewer’s eyebrows scrunched together.
“But then, I would also try to make them feel valued,” she added.
“How do you work under pressure?”
“I’m good under pressure.” She sounded like she was lying.
“What’s your worst quality?”
Really, all Meredith wanted to be doing at the moment was lying in bed. “I lose my patience quickly.”
Eyebrows raised.
“Not with clients. With myself.” God, she was such an idiot. She was ruining the interview. And they probably would have given her the job, too. Martin had said it was a sure thing. “I’m a perfectionist,” she tried to begin again. “I try to achieve the impossible with every project.”
“Well, I think that’s all the time we have. Thank you, Ms. Love, for coming today. We’ve got a few other interviews, but we’ll be in touch.”
Handshake. Boot out the door.
Meredith was standing in the upstairs hallway of her childhood home. Movements from below told her a person was downstairs. Supernaturally, she knew he had a gun. She went to the head of the old, creaky staircase. She could see the front door, at the bottom of the stairs. She heard footsteps downstairs. She put one foot on the staircase. A cold sweat broke out across her chest and lower back. Her body was in two places at once: she could feel her bed sheets sticking to her wet back and she could see the lower, left corner of the front door from her place on the staircase. She edged down another step. And another. Creak. She paused. Did the noises downstairs pause as well? She took another step. Creak. She heard running. Footsteps running for the stairs. She could taste the metal tang of blood in her mouth. She tried to back up the stairs. Swinging around the corner, obliterating her view of the front door, was a man in a ski mask, aiming a gun toward her face. Suspended for a second, she could only stare at the eyes in the white-lined holes of the knitted mask. She jerked backwards abruptly and woke up in her bed. Her jerk woke Ben. Or maybe she had yelled in her sleep.
“God, you’re soaking wet.” Ben said. “It’s okay. Just breathe.” When he realized she couldn’t, he expanded his coaching. “Inhale. Hold. One, two, three. Exhale. Good. Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale.” The breathing calmed her. As she followed Ben’s instructions, she considered his ability to wake from a sound sleep and automatically care for her. His instinct was to give. Hers was to take care of herself, first. She was not a people person. The picture of the gun popped back into her head and she shuddered.
Chapter Sixteen
They were up again at six for a run. As reward for his kindness during the night, Meredith refrained from whining. The sky was dark, with small, elongated puffs of pink stretching across. Smudges of gold lay on top of the pink. Meredith watched the sky as they ran, wondering how she would paint something like that. Even if she tried, it wouldn’t look real. “People wouldn’t believe it. They’d say I was a fluff painter.”
“What?”
“If I painted the sky like this. They’d say my paintings were sentimental.”
They continued in silence. Their feet pounded on the pavement.
“Have you been to Abiquiu?” Meredith asked.
Ben shook his head. “Isn’t that where Georgia O’Keefe lived?”
“Yeah. There’s a valley there, in Ghost Ranch. It’s surrounded by red rock. At sunset, the angle of the light makes it look like the rock is glowing from within.” In the distance, a car was coughing, trying to summon the energy to roll over. “I camped there for a week. You can take classes. Not once, but twice while I was there, I saw a double rainbow over the rocks during the sunset.”
“Wow.” Ben, the ex-smoker, kept conversation to a minimum during their runs.
“If I had painted it, no one would have believed it. I just sat there, watching it disappear.”
They rounded the corner and hit the cool down, a brisk, four minute walk that led them back to Meredith's driveway.
“Why don’t you take a class now?”
“What for?” They reached her driveway and bent down simultaneously to stretch.
“To give you an outlet.”
“I’m unemployed as it is. The last thing I need right now is to start spending money on classes.”
“Listen, moneybags, I think you can afford it. It would be a way to enjoy the free time you’ve suddenly got. Make some good out of the bad.”
Meredith paused in her stretch. Her hamstring was loose from the run and she held her position, feeling the muscles up her leg and into her back start to tighten in the cold air. She breathed her way through it, loving the subtle buzz that came from stretching.
“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”
She looked up at Ben. “Did you jump out of a children’s book?” He opened his mouth and she held up her hand to stop his next pearls of wisdom. “I’ll think about it.”
“You can’t change your life, but you can change your attitude,” he said.
Ben’s suggestion was certainly better than another trek through the want ads. Meredith had started giving herself a daily task. Today’s was making two cold calls from the list of jobs she’d obtained from the career center. The list sat on the kitchen table. Just catching the sight of it gave her cramps. She’d had diarrhea for three days running and it looked like today would do little to break the pattern.
There was a continuing education catalog in her recyclable pile. She dusted it off and sat down in her rocker with a cup of tea. Mendra padded over, considered her lap, and then moved instead to the windowsill.
Classes were already in session. A Chinese landscape painting class caught her eye. But really, what she needed was a class on oils.
Five minutes after ten o’clock she called a gallery in town and asked if any of their oil painters offered classes. She was given two names. She called the first one right away.
“Hello?” The voice didn’t sound sleepy so she forged ahead.
“Hi. May I speak with Jorge Marquez?”
“Speaking.”
“Hi. My name is Meredith Love. The New Mexico Light Gallery gave me your name. I understand you teach oil painting.”
“To a limited number of students. I want to give back. That’s why I teach. But teaching takes an enormous amount of energy. I can’t squander my resources on students who aren’t serious. If you’re taking a painting class to get you out of the house or to learn to paint a landscape that matches your living room sofa, I suggest you try Rachel Heart.”
That was the other name on Meredith's list. She paused, unsure what to say.
“I was educated classically,” he continued.
“Where did you go to school?” She pitched her voice to be inquisitive.
“An art school in New York.”
“Uh,” she paused.
“Have you ever taken an art class before?” he continued in a tired voice, as if he’d asked one hundred people that morning the same question.
“I got my bachelor’s in painting.”
“Oh. At the University?” he hardly attempted to conceal the condescension in his voice.
“At Pratt Institute,” she said apologetically. But the moment the words were out of her mouth, Meredith felt a current of satisfaction surge through her. Pratt was a great school. One of the best.
“Oh. That’s where I went to school.”
She smiled. “What year?” she asked.
“I prefer not to date myself,” he said, but the oomph had gone out of his voice.
“I’m not looking for instruction, so much as a place to come and paint with other painters,”
she added heartlessly.
Jorge Marquez seemed to have nothing to say.
Probably torn between the needs of his ego and the need of a serious student, Meredith thought.
“Yes. Well, I’d need to see your portfolio, of course.” His ego was apparently winning out. “And I yours. But what I’m doing right now is calling a variety of artists in town to narrow down my choi
ces. If I decide to take it the next step, I’ll be in touch. Thank you, Mr. Marquez, for your time. Good-bye.”
She hung up. And I yours? “Where the hell did that come from?” she asked Mendra. But she couldn’t help smiling. She’d forgotten how egotistical artists could be. It came from deep insecurity. Artists were like lighthouses, constantly passing a beam of light over the rocky surface of conversation, looking for just the slightest hint of criticism. Whenever she interacted with artists, she could feel the strobe light sliding back and forth, analyzing every word, attaching God knows what demon to every comment. She sighed again. She was no one to talk.
The second phone call was easier.
“Rachel Heart here.”
Meredith explained again who she was and why she was calling.
“Well, Meredith, with a last name like Love, you and I should get along beautifully. I’ve got a class just ready to start. There’re seven of us now and I never take more than eight. The slot is yours if you want it. How much training do you have in painting? Or is this your first delve into the pool?”
“I’ve got a bachelor’s in it, but I haven’t painted in years.”
“Wonderful. About the degree, I mean. How lovely to have devoted four years to the pursuit of painting. Oils? Acrylic? What’s your specialty?”
“Oils.”
“Good. That’s what we generally do in this group, except one gentleman who insists on watercolor. I keep trying to get him to take one of Anne Parish’s classes instead. But he keeps coming back every semester.” Her voice was warm. “Our first class is tonight. Your timing is perfect, really.”
“Tonight. Oh.” Meredith felt disappointment. She couldn’t possibly be ready for a class by tonight.
“Have you got another commitment on Wednesdays? The class meets every Wednesday, six to nine.”
She had no other plans. But to prepare for a class with such short notice. “I guess I’m not quite ready to rush in so quickly.”
“Just bring paints, charcoal, and a canvas. Oh, and odorless turp only, please.”
“I don’t have an easel.”
“Not a problem. I’ve got plenty of them. That’s another reason why eight is the perfect number.”
When Meredith hung up the phone, she had directions to Rachel’s studio in Corrales.
She paged Ben and told him she was going to be in class until 9 that night.
“Wow. You work fast.”
“It’s not my fault. I was forced into this. The teacher kept turning the conversation around and by the time I hung up I had promised her my first son and to be at her studio at six.”
“It’ll be great.”
“We’ll see. She seems a little pushy.” For some reason, moving backwards into this project, going but complaining about it, seemed like the most comfortable approach.
“Should I sleep at home tonight?”
The question, on the surface innocent enough, was really a measurement of where they were in their relationship. Coming to Meredith's even when she wasn’t home smacked of living together. She looked inside to see what her feelings were, but like roaches, they scattered when she turned the light on. She had no idea what she wanted.
“What do you want to do?” she asked.
“It’s your house. You tell me.”
“I can’t say. Probably whatever you want.”
“I never thought of you as the ‘stand by your man’ type.”
Meredith tried to imagine coming home to an empty house versus coming home to Ben. “I’d like to have you here. So, come if you want.”
“I want.” He sounded very serious. She heard his pager go off. He would know that she heard. “I want,” he repeated, softer. And then, “See you tonight.” Before she could reply he had hung up. She wouldn’t have known what to say anyway.
Corrales was a small town, next to Albuquerque. The name was Spanish for “stables,” and the town was known for breeding horses. The Rio Grande river wrapped itself around the town’s old adobes, feeding majestic trees that reminded Meredith of the deep south. A dirt road led to Rachel Heart’s house. As she pulled up, Meredith felt the beginning of a panic attack. Her chest knotted and she couldn’t get her lungs to inhale to their full capacity. She sat for a few minutes, trying to calm herself down. The longer she sat, the harder it would be to get up and walk into the house.
“At the count of three. One, two...” She jumped out of the car before three. Ha! Tricked ya! she told herself as she launched up the path to the door. The front was landscaped with native plants. Rocks played a predominant role in the design. There was a hand-painted tile designating the street number. A potted geranium sat invitingly next to the door. Hanging beside the door was a bas relief of the Virgin of Guadalupe, her blue cloak of stars faded from being outside in the elements. Meredith rang the bell.
The door opened. A woman in her 50’s, hair cropped short, appeared in the rectangle of warm light. She was wearing jeans, a purple cotton t-shirt, and an apron smeared with paint and plaster.
“You must be Meredith.” Her smile was bright. She extended her hand as she opened the door. “Pleasure to have you here with us. I’m Rachel.”
Rachel led her down a narrow hallway lined with paintings of various styles, each lit carefully with its own light source. The hall opened up into a large, white, lit studio. The smell of oils brought Meredith back to her art school days and for a minute, she had to touch the wall to steady herself as emotions and feelings pummeled her from within.
Rachel was looking at her.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been in an environment like this.”
“Take it at your own speed. We’ll be setting up around the model.”
In the east end of the studio, Meredith noted that seven other students were vying for spots around a middle-aged man who was already undressed and posed on a raised platform. A thick, stiff cloth patterned in red and purple was draped over his chair. A wagon wheel, a collection of dried gourds, a cactus in a ceramic pot, and an ancient black typewriter were arranged around the remaining space on the platform.
There were three middle-aged men in the group. They all looked alike, with short, thin hair. Their paint boxes were so neat that they looked like they’d just been purchased. Their palettes were spotless. The three were discussing the best technique for preparing canvas. An older man with long, gray hair pulled into a ponytail was at the sink, filling an empty peanut butter jar. The watercolorist, Meredith thought.
The three others were women. Two were middle-aged as well. One wore heavy make-up and pink sweats. The other had long, straight, salt and pepper hair and dark, clunky glasses. Pink sweats and Probing Intellect, Meredith named them. The last female was a teenager. She was braless. Her left nostril was pierced.
Meredith took a deep breath and chose a spot next to Pink Sweats. Feeling like everyone was staring at her, she opened her messy paint box.
“...won’t change. So I want to make sure we like this pose. Anyone? Comments? Suggestions?” Meredith had missed the important part of the sentence, but it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t have tried to change anything anyway.
One of the neat palette men asked the model to raise his left arm an inch. Neat Palette One, Meredith named him. Neat Palette Two wondered if the model could sit forward more. Neat Palette Three moved one of the lamps to cast a different shadow. Probing Intellect wanted to make sure the model was comfortable. The teenager fingered the pack of cigs that popped out of her bag. Watercolor started marking the position of the lamps and the model’s limbs with tape. Pink Sweats said nothing.
After these initial changes, everyone settled down and started drawing. Rachel put on some classical music. Meredith made some preliminary sketches of the model, whose name was Dendric. He was pale, with dense freckles across his shoulders and forearms. The thought of trying to paint his skin made her slightly nauseated.
“Paint what you want.” Rachel was talking. “Paint what moves you: Dendric. Dendric�
�s knee joint. The beautiful pattern of my stained cement floor.”
Meredith began an abstract painting of the colors in Dendric’s skin and hair, which was red. In her position, the other easels made it hard to walk up behind her. She hoped Rachel wouldn’t make the effort. As if reading her mind, Rachel announced, “Until we start to hook in and fly, I’m going to leave you unmolested. If you want me to talk to you, catch my eye.”
Left to her own devices, Meredith alternately lost track of time and was agonized by the way the minutes crawled by. She enjoyed parts of painting, but she was tortured by doubts and the feeling that her abstract painting was a crock. Finally, Rachel announced, “Twenty minutes left.” It seemed like an impossibly long amount of time to fill, and Meredith considered stopping right then and leaving, but she decided to work on one little corner and suddenly Rachel was calling time and Dendric was rising off his throne.
“We have a little time left. Shall we bring our work over to the show-and-tell wall?”
The other painters obediently picked up their canvases and walked across the studio to hang them on the blank wall Meredith had passed on her way in.
“Remember, this is not a critique. Just a chance to share our own visions with each other. To bump inspiration back and forth.”
With cheeks red, Meredith picked up her piece and carried it across the room. Neat Palette Two had painted just Dendric’s face. Even unfinished, it was a remarkable likeness, although the overall style was a little stiff. Neat Palette One and Three had painted Dendric’s entire body, relying on heavy shadows to carve out his form. Probing Intellect had done a study of Dendric’s arm and left nipple, set off by the yellow green cactus in the foreground. The nipple was strikingly detailed. Watercolor had a practically finished painting. He had captured the model and all the objects in a precise, if undramatic way. Pink Sweats had painted him from the waist up. She had a very loose style that involved a lot of colors. His skin was pink, green, blue, yellow, and red. It works, Meredith decided. The teenager had painted just his eyes and nose. These landmarks of the face filled the canvas. His nostrils were about the size of oranges. Meredith's was the only abstract painting on the wall.
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