Searching For Meredith Love

by Julie Christensen

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  During the month her show was up, Meredith moved among her friends and colleagues like a mini-star. She ate dinner at the pub seven times. The presence of her paintings on the walls gave her a rush every time she saw them. On Saturday nights, when the bar was crowded, she parked a few times out front and just sat in her car, watching the bar people move among her people.

  She sent an invitation with samples to the local art critic. “If he writes a review, don’t let me read it till you’ve read it first,” she told Kira. “He’s not a critic. He’s just a frustrated artist. He got an art degree from some piss-ant school in the south.”

  Kira nodded.

  “I’m telling you this so that when he slams me, we’ve already established that he has no taste.”

  “Then why do you want him to review your work?”

  “Publicity.”

  “I’m glad to see that you’ve kept your integrity intact.”

  Every Sunday she bought the paper and checked the arts section. The art critic never mentioned her.

  Within her body of work were two crowd pleasers that almost everyone liked best. They didn’t require as much thinking as some of her more complicated pieces. Like children with talents and flaws, Meredith loved them all. But she felt a special gratitude toward the people who liked her more difficult pieces.

  Several people had mentioned buying her paintings at the opening. She’d gotten her hopes up, but no one had called. Of course, she had dreams of selling every piece, the way Picasso did as a teenager at his first show, in Barcelona. She’d had more realistic but still greedy moments, when she’d hoped to sell three. Taking her work down with Victor, a month to the day of putting it up, she wished she’d just hoped for one sale.

  “That’s superstition,” Sarah admonished her at lunch, when the three of them met later at a Greek restaurant. “You need people to see your work seven times before they’ll decide they need to own it. That’s a statistical fact. And everyone who sells knows it. Look at clothing catalogs. The first time I see a certain shirt, or pair of shoes, I may hate them, but a year and a half, or six catalogs later, I’m calling the 800 number with my credit card ready.” She took a sip of water. “You’ve made a terrific plunge. Now start paddling.”

  Peter and Meredith had been grabbing bites to eat about once every week and a half. It started when he invited her to dinner at the pub. “So you can see them anonymously. No one will know you’re the artist.”

  Since then, they’d casually eaten meals together now and again, if both of them found themselves leaving work at the same time. One time he’d called her and invited her to breakfast on a Sunday morning. “It’s supposed to be a great place to eat. I haven’t tried it yet. Want to premiere it with me?”

  The week after her work came down, he offered to go with her house hunting. She'd decided to take the plunge start looking at homes in Corrales. She had an appointment with a realtor to see four “cottages.” “Sometimes it helps to have a second person to play off," Peter told her when he offered. "Your call.”

  She paused only a moment before nodding. “Yeah. That would be helpful. Thanks.”

  The realtor’s name was Martha Torres. Her business card said that she specialized in adobes. When Meredith had described her dream house, Martha had said, “One-bedrooms are hard to come by. You’ll be better off looking at things a little larger. When people build, they build with a family in mind. Plus, it'll be easier to sell down the road.”

  The afternoon was cool and sunny. Meredith felt euphoric from the weather and what she was about to do. Corrales was along the Rio Grande, so it was green. The roads butted up against fenced-in land. Many of the enclosures boasted horses, which ran with their car, swooping away as they reached the limits of their property.

  The first house reeked of cat. “The carpet will go, and the scent will go with it,” Martha told them.

  The carpet would definitely go, Meredith thought privately. It was a bright red, speckled with unidentifiable stains. Whether the cat smell would disappear or not was questionable.

  The second house was a charmer. “This is a two-bedroom,” Martha explained as they pulled up the driveway. "It’s got a lovely tower where the upstairs is housed. I know it’s larger than you wanted, but since it’s almost in your price range, I think you should see it.” The house sat under a big cottonwood tree. The front wall was a rolling, curvy adobe style. The second story did indeed rise up over half of the house like a tower. Inside, there was a definite rambling feeling. The dining room had a fireplace, as did the bedroom. The kitchen was even large. As Meredith wandered through the rooms, picturing herself waking and falling asleep, her excitement turned to panic. She had to have this house. She returned to the dining room, where Peter and Martha were discussing garbage pickup. Peter took one look at the brightness in Meredith's eyes and reached for her arm. With a squeeze, he turned her to face him and said, “Let’s check out the yard.”

  Outside, next to a weather-beaten altar devoted to the Virgin Mary, he let go of her arm.

  “I love this house. How do I make an offer?”

  “You haven’t seen the other two. They might be better.”

  “No. This is it. I can feel it.”

  “Meredith, keep cool. This house has been on the market for six months. It’s not perfect. The windows are going to let in every breeze in the winter. The heating system is coils in the cement floor. Lots of times they go bad. We need to check all of that out.”

  “I’ll want it anyway. I’ll fix that stuff. This house was meant to be mine.”

  “It’s over your price limit.”

  “I was very conservative in my limit. I have some wiggle room. I have to have this house.”

  “Don’t play all your cards at once. Martha seems like she’s here to help you. That’s why it’s easy to forget that her number-one goal is to get as much money for this house as she can.”

  Martha came outside. “How are we doing here?”

  Meredith felt guilty acting indifferent. “It’s very nice.” she kept her voice low, so the house couldn’t hear.

  “Shall we check out the other two houses?” Peter asked.

  As Martha and Peter left the yard, Meredith paused and told the house, “Wait for me. I’m coming back for you.”

  The other two houses were nothing special. Back in the car, Peter said, “Gosh, Meredith. I think my favorite was the second one, in terms of layout.”

  Meredith knew what he was trying to do. With a resigned sigh, she said, “It’s got a lot of work that needs to be done on it. Those windows are old. The heating bills must be enormous in the winter. The cracked asphalt in front will need to be repaired. I wonder how updated the electrical wiring is.”

  “It’s awfully charming, though,” Peter remarked. “Can we swing by it again?” he asked Martha.

  Martha must have known the structural flaws, because she focused on its history, which was rather unique. A Native American had built the house in 1906. He was a horse breeder and he’d only had enough money for the land. For the first two years, he’d camped on the property, put up fences for his horses and begun the long project of building his house. He made the adobe bricks himself. After awhile, a new family moved in from the East Coast. Boston. That family became friends with the horse breeder and the second summer he had help. The father had been an architect back East, and he was generally credited with the beautiful but functional design of the place. The following year, the entire family died of yellow fever, except one daughter. She and the horse breeder eventually married, which caused a ruckus in the community. But over time, people forgot to be angry about the interracial marriage, and the Native American’s horses were so fine that they soon made enough money to build a bigger house, which was just up the street. There, they raised a family, but their first child, a girl, was born right in this cottage, in the bedroom.

  “Is there no dishwasher?” Meredith asked.

  “No,�
�� Martha conceded. “But there’s a space for one. And look again at this utility closet. It’s so big, it’s really like another room.”

  By the end of the day, she'd made an offer and scheduled a home inspection.

  “You would have been giving yourself away,” Peter explained as they drove back to Albuquerque. “Then she would have told the owners, ‘Don’t sweat it. If you don’t accept her bid, she’ll come up. I can see it in her eyes.’”

  “So instead we trick her with a little good cop, bad cop.”

  Peter laughed. “Yeah. I guess it was.”

  “But why did I have to be bad cop?”

  “Because! You’re the buyer.”

  Meredith sighed.

  “And you played it very well. I had tears in my eyes from her story and you say, ‘Is there no dishwasher?’ That was a classic line.” He laughed as he drove.

  Meredith felt herself glow under his praise.

  “Hey, do you want to grab some dinner?” Peter asked. Meredith could tell he was nervous.

  “Sure,” she said, even though she would have preferred to go home and decompress. As nice as Peter was, spending a full day with him seemed like overload. But saying no would have hurt his feelings.

  “Did you like that restaurant you and Charlene ate at?”

  “Yeah. But isn’t it kind of expensive for dinner?”

  “That’s not an issue. We have something very big to celebrate. You’re practically a homeowner.”

  Tiny alarms were pinging in Meredith's head. He’s making this into a date, she thought.

  Well of course he is. Is that such a big surprise?

  But now that it’s here upon me...

  ...you want to chicken out.

  I just may not be ready.

  Bak, bak, bak, bak!

  She had two martinis at dinner, which helped. Peter was evolving across the table. Now that he actually had her on a date, he was becoming a little more confident. Slick. Which just means he’s as nervous as you are, but covering up.

  They chatted about the house. About the fact that she hadn’t sold any paintings in her show.

  “My brother sometimes doesn’t sell his sculptures until three months after the show. Art is a big investment for people to make. They want to make sure they’ll always love it. It takes time to come to that place.”

  She only kept one ear on the conversation. One minute the sight of his deft signaling of the waitress and smooth ordering disgusted her. The next minute he’d ask her a question that showed sincere interest in her and she’d think, I can do this.

  Remember how cute he is, she thought as they drove home from the restaurant. The bill, which she’d hadn’t seen, had to have been close to $200. The entrees alone started at $38. They’d also had drinks and coffee. She was feeling guilty about the expense, even though Peter had barely glanced in the black bill holder before sliding his gold Visa in and handing it back to the waitress.

  They were headed back to Peter's house. Earlier in the day, Meredith had driven there and he had driven them to Corrales. (“Let me come get you, Meredith.” “No, I’ll meet you at your house. I insist.”) He lived in a modest home behind the University. The neighborhood was full of physicians who prided themselves on a humble lifestyle, despite salaries that could have given them larger yards and living rooms, not to mention two-car garages. Peter pulled up past her car into his driveway and turned off the engine. Facing her, he asked, “Would you like to come in for a night cap?”

  She knew where that was leading. As she opened the door, she said “Thanks, but no. It’s been a long day. I should get going.”

  Peter unbuckled and climbed out.

  At her car, she tried to build up some courage for whatever might be about to happen, but couldn’t. She just wanted to jump inside and speed away. “Thank you for coming with me.” She took a deep breath as Peter walked across the yard to her car. They were both standing in the street, next to the driver’s door. You have got to get over Ben, she told herself as she fingered her car keys. “Thank you for dinner,” she told him. Peter stood opposite and propped one arm up against the car, next to her shoulder. “I hope it wasn’t too expensive,” she added.

  “Meredith,” Peter said.

  She knew this was her last chance to stop the crossover from friends to more. He was standing very close to her, but he wasn’t going to do anything unless she gave him the go ahead. She said, “Thanks. I had a nice time,” and like a magic doll, he came to life, bringing his hands up to her face and kissing her softly on the lips. He was very gentle, tracing small circles on her neck and jaw line with his fingers as he kissed her.

  After a minute or two, he pulled away to look at her, smiling. “God, I’ve wanted to do that. Dreamt of doing that.” He leaned in to kiss her again. This time, he used tongue.

  She thought it was funny, how fast guys go to tongue, when only a generation earlier, some people never even kissed with their tongues. She wished he hadn’t said anything. Or smiled. He seemed so desperate. Dreamt of kissing me. Please.

  It’s romantic.

  It’s needy.

  Peter had pushed her up against the car. His tongue was an active little guy, moving in and out as he gently bit her lips. Well, he’s definitely enjoying himself, she thought. She opened her eyes. His were closed, like a little boy making a wish. She wondered what the temperature was. It felt like sixties. She wasn’t chilly. She could smell Peter's cologne and some of what he’d eaten for dinner. Don’t think of that, she told herself. Focus on the cologne. She ran her fingers through his hair. He moaned slightly and pushed up against her more. This could go on all night, she thought. She decided to give him ten minutes.

  She wasn’t sure how to wrap things up after what felt like an appropriate time. She slowed her mouth down. He kept going, full on. She pulled away and came back with a tongueless kiss, the equivalent of “Okay, well...” in a phone conversation. A cue to let him know she was ready to go. He kissed her back, with his tongue. Time passed. She couldn’t see her watch, but she suspected they’d been at it at least fifteen minutes. A car drove by, its headlights just missing them. She wondered how often Peter dated. He could be dating someone right now. She thought of the hostess from the French restaurant. She hadn’t been there tonight. He was slowing down. Slowing down. Stopping.

  He pulled away, a sheepish grin on his face. “Wow.”

  “Yeah,” she answered.

  He leaned in, nuzzling her neck with his face. “Do you want to come in?”

  “I can’t. It’s been a long day. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” He kissed her again. “Good night.” They kissed again. When he came up for air, she seized the moment and stooped to unlock her door. He leaned in to kiss her again when she was behind the wheel.

  She drove away while he stood in the front yard, watching.

  Meredith woke up knowing something big had happened, and then she remembered kissing Peter. For the first thirty minutes of her morning, while she made coffee and brushed her teeth, she wondered what in the world she was doing. There were so many reasons why getting involved with Peter was bad. He’s your boss, she said to her reflection as she washed her face. He likes you much more than you like him. You’re using him to get over Ben. A quieter voice that she’d been trying to silence reminded her that dating Peter might destroy any chance of Ben taking her back. He would tell her that Peter was who she’d wanted all along. “But he’s not,” she said aloud, as she measured out coffee. “And anyway, Ben’s not coming back.”

  What were good reasons for dating Peter? She couldn’t think of any, except that she enjoyed his company and she wanted to get over Ben, which felt like it belonged on the bad list.

  Only after she’d drunk half her coffee and was flipping through a pile of bills did she remember that she'd made an offer on a house. “Oh my God.” She'd made a legally binding offer! If the owners accepted, there was no going back. That part of the day, the house, felt like
a dream. That house was an omen of some sort. She knew she was meant to have it. She wasn’t a religious person, but she looked up to the ceiling and prayed. “I’ve got to have that house, God. Please.”

  She finished her coffee. The phone rang. It was Peter.

  “I had a great time yesterday.”

  “So did I. Thanks for coming with me house hunting.”

  “Anytime. Listen, are you free tonight?”

  “Actually, tonight’s not the greatest. I’ve got a ton of bills to pay.” She wracked her brain to come up with a better excuse. “And I promised myself I’d get my house cleaned this weekend. Tonight is my last chance.”

  “I could come by and help. I’m pretty good with a mop.”

  Meredith laughed. “What about tomorrow? Are you free then?”

  “Yeah. Tomorrow would be great.”

  She hung up with Peter and called Kira immediately. Her line was busy. For ten minutes she hung up and redialed until the line was finally clear.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Meredith.”

  “Oh my God. I just hung up with Jeremy. We’re having dinner on Tuesday.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. He says he wants to talk.”

  “Wow. How do you feel?”

  “I don’t know. I think I’m in shock.”

  “What could he want? Do you think...”

  “You know what? Let’s not talk about it. I won’t know till I see him. Why speculate?”

  “Okay.” Meredith paused. “Well, let me tell you what’s happening with me. Two things. First of all, I may be buying a house.” After Kira had all the pertinent details, she said, “Here’s the second thing. I kissed Peter last night.”

  “Holy shit! How was it?”

  “I don’t know. Okay, I guess. It was fine. I got a little bored.”

  “Let me give you a tip,” Kira began. “Next time you get ‘bored,’ try opening your eyes to see how hot your boss is.”

  “I did open my eyes. And please don’t call him my boss.”