The Promise Girls

by Marie Bostwick

  Chapter 39

  Joanie placed her hands on her sister’s shoulders, then turned her around 180 degrees, so Meg was facing forward.

  “You can look now.”

  Meg lowered her hands from her eyes and stared into the mirror. Seeing her expression, Joanie’s face fell.

  “You don’t like it.”

  Meg examined her reflection, eyes traveling from the double ruffle hem, to the wide waist sash that tied into a bow at the back, to the scoop neck bodice with the three-quarter-length sleeves, gathered into puffs at the shoulders.

  “It’s not that I don’t like it. It’s just . . . It’s not me.”

  “But it is! It’s exactly like the first one, a perfect replica. I used the same pattern, just made it a little bigger.”

  “No, I get that part. You did a beautiful job, Joanie. The dress is exactly the same. But the thing is, I’m not.”

  Meg turned around to face her sister, an apology in her eyes.

  “I’m not a nineteen-year-old girl discovering life and the first breathless blush of romance anymore. And if I ever thought Laura Ashley looked good on me”—Meg grabbed two fistfuls of white taffeta and held the enormous skirt out even wider—“I was tragically mistaken.”

  Joanie frowned. “It does have a kind of Bo Peep vibe going, doesn’t it? Maybe we could lose the sash? And get rid of the puffed sleeves. I know!” she said, her face brightening. “We could lose the sleeves altogether.”

  “I think it’s going to take more than that. I’m a different person than I was seventeen years ago. We all are. I think it’s time we acknowledged that. Sit down.”

  “You’re making me nervous,” Joanie said, taking a seat. “No good conversation ever begins with somebody telling you to sit down.”

  Meg lowered herself onto a nearby ottoman. The dress poofed into taffeta clouds around her waist. “Don’t worry. It’s nothing bad. But the thing is, ever since Mom showed up—”

  “What did she say to you?” Joanie snapped. “I told her not to—”

  “Let me finish,” Meg said, raising her hands to interrupt her sister’s interruption. “Minerva didn’t say anything to me. She’s been so busy running all over Seattle with Trina and Walt that I’ve barely had a chance to speak to her. It isn’t anything she says, it’s more what she does. Who she is when she thinks nobody is watching. It’s made me think about . . . well, a lot of things. And at the top of the list is that this wedding reenactment is a bad idea.”

  “What!” Joanie gasped. “Oh, Meg. Don’t say that.”

  “I didn’t say I don’t want to go through with the ceremony. I just don’t want to reenact it. You know why? Because even if I wear the same dress, and carry the same flowers, and eat the same wedding cake—it won’t be the same. It can’t. Too much has changed.

  “Remember when I told you that only my happy memories were returning? That wasn’t really true. As soon as I came home from the hospital, I started to remember that I was unhappy before the accident. Hurt. I couldn’t remember why. I still don’t. But I remembered how it felt and that it had something to do with Asher. That’s why I tried to keep him at a distance at first, because remembering hurt too much.

  “But then I started to spend time with him and . . .” Meg looked down at her dress, smoothed out one of the taffeta poofs with her hand, smiling. “And I fell in love. Again. How could I not? He’s Asher.

  “But that’s where the problem started. Things were so good between us. Too good, really. We had great fun, great sex, a great daughter. Everything was perfect. Why would I want to mess with that?

  “Only one reason . . . Sometimes in life, we experience perfect moments and think, ‘I wish I could freeze it, preserve it, like a picture in a frame. I wish it could always be like this.’ But that’s all it is: a wish. Blow on the dandelion and the seeds scatter to the wind. Trying to make a life out of perfect moments is like trying to paint a picture with only one color. It might be absolutely beautiful, your favorite, but if it’s the only one you’re willing to use, there’s no contrast, no shading, or shape, or image. You can paint with that color for the rest of your life and it will never mean anything.

  “That’s what I was trying to do when it came to Asher, paint with only the colors I liked, the happy colors, the safe ones. It took the fear of losing him completely for me to figure it out, but I finally did. I love Asher, with all my heart. There are still things I don’t remember about our life before, maybe some that I never will, but what I know about our life going forward is that I’m willing to use all the colors, the full spectrum, dark as night to bright as dawn and everything in between.

  “When I married Asher, I thought our life together would be perfect. I thought he was perfect. I couldn’t imagine that he could ever, ever do anything that might hurt me. Now I know better. And that’s why I can’t repeat the vows I made to him back then, Joanie. That moment has passed. But I can renew my vows to Asher. I’m ready to do that. And I want to, so much.”

  Meg looked at her lap and shook her head.

  “But not in this dress.”

  Joanie started to laugh. So did Meg. Before long, they were wiping tears from their eyes.

  “Fair enough,” Joanie said, grabbing her measuring tape from a nearby table. “How about a sheath? Maybe with a crocheted lace overlay?”

  “Better. But before we worry about dresses, there’s something else I wanted to say, about Minerva.”

  Joanie lowered herself slowly back into her chair, the measuring tape hanging loose in her fist.

  “The accident was a kind of a rebirth for me,” Meg said. “I hadn’t painted in years and I was deeply unhappy. Then I woke up, and that was all gone, I didn’t remember anything or anyone. It was like the first day of my life.

  “When I started to paint, it was like some sort of instinct kicking in. And I was so happy doing it. I didn’t worry about technique, or style, or whether what I was doing was good or not, I just poured everything out on the canvas for the sheer joy of doing it. I wasn’t trying to impress anybody. I just wanted to create. I had to. It felt like that was the reason I was born.”

  “Well, I think that’s true,” Joanie commented. “You’re doing the best work of your life. You were born to be an artist.”

  “Yeah, but you know something?” Meg said urgently, leaning far forward on the ottoman so she could lay her hand on Joanie’s knee. “I think everybody is born to be an artist. Creativity is as natural to the human condition as respiration, but people spend their whole lives holding their breath. Why? Fear. Fear of failure. Of judgment. Fear of disappointing ourselves and others.

  “The day after Minerva showed up, I went to my studio after lunch like I always do, but I couldn’t paint. I was second-guessing myself with every brushstroke, worrying about the end result instead of just enjoying the process and pouring myself out onto the canvas. It was the same thing the next day.

  “I told myself it was better that way because I should be spending my time helping Asher with the business. Nobody was paying me to paint. What right did I have to waste time on some silly hobby when we have so many bills? I spent the whole next day in the office, didn’t even try to paint. But by the end of the day, I was starting to snap at Asher, taking out my frustration on him.

  “When I woke up the next day, another one of my memories returned, something that happened right before the accident. I was in the car, talking to Minerva on the phone. I was so, so angry. I don’t remember why, but I do remember Minerva saying I should start painting and that the reason I hadn’t was because I was creatively blocked.”

  Joanie, unable to contain herself, started in on Minerva and the value of her opinions, as well as Avery and the disloyalty of double agents.

  “Stop,” Meg said. “Don’t go picking on Avery. Or Minerva. It’s not her fault I couldn’t paint, then or now. I know you hate hearing it, but she was right. I was creatively blocked. As soon as I remembered that she’d said it, I knew it was true. So
I went looking for the source of that block and I found it. On the Internet.”

  Meg reached down and picked up her purse, which she’d left sitting on the floor next to the ottoman, then reached inside, took out a folded piece of paper, and started reading aloud.

  In her new exhibition, Periphery, which opened at the Clairmont Gallery on Friday, Meghan Promise failed to live up to her name. Her brushwork is clumsy, and her themes and perspective uninspired. Her attempts at artistic irony, particularly in the series Dog and Bison, are kitschy rather than clever, highlighting the immaturity of a painter whose reputation as a prodigy is pure hype and wholly undeserved.

  Promise, one of the subjects of the 1996 book The Promise Girls, penned by her mother, a woman whose emotional instability would be revealed within weeks of the book’s publication, created a momentary sensation in the public imagination and those who had little connection with or understanding of the art world. Though a handful of critics lauded her, the remainder were less impressed and divided into two camps: those who said it was too soon to tell if hints of the teen’s promise would someday be fulfilled, and those who dismissed her as a talented amateur, the product of a slick marketing campaign and shameless promotion by a Machiavellian mother.

  On Friday, the question was settled once and for all.

  The world loves an underdog. And when that underdog is a child who, through no fault of her own, suffered hardships at the hands of her own mother and as a result of undeserved public attention, the artistically unschooled cannot help but cheer. However, much as we might wish it were otherwise, when it comes to painting, talented amateur is the descriptive that can be most accurately ascribed to this formerly famous flash in the pan.

  If Meghan Promise’s first solo exhibition turns out to be her last, the professional art world shall suffer no loss.

  “Oh, Meg . . .” Joanie said. “Why did you go looking for that? It was so long ago.”

  Meg nodded. “Seventeen years ago. I moved up here to escape Minerva, but I was also trying to outrun that review. Even though I kept painting after we got married, it was just a matter of time. I used Asher, and motherhood, and the business as excuses, but there was only one reason I stopped painting—fear. I was afraid that the reviewer was right, that I was nothing more than a talented amateur. Poor me! How tragic!”

  Meg clapped a hand to her breast and heaved an exaggerated sigh, her actions bringing a confused smile to her sister’s lips.

  “Do you know what amateur means?” Meg asked.

  “Well . . .” Joanie responded slowly. “A nonprofessional, I guess.”

  “Exactly. Some people, like snotty art critics, use the word amateur as a slam, a shorthand term for second-rate, a dabbler. But all it really means is someone who does something without being paid; the word itself carries no implication of quality or lack of it. Amateur is taken from the Latin word amator, meaning ‘lover.’ An amateur is somebody who does something purely for the love of it, because doing so brings them joy.

  “Sure, I’d love to impress the professional art world and see my work hanging in galleries and museums. There’s nothing wrong with wanting more. But if that never happens and the worst thing anybody can say about me is that I love to paint so much I’d do it for free, bring it on!” Meg laughed. “The reviewer was right. I love to paint so much I’d do it for free. What’s not right is letting fear stand in the way, of anything.

  “And so I’ve made up my mind,” she said emphatically, hopping to her feet, taffeta folds falling in a soft whoosh to her ankles. “Today, I proudly declare my status as a talented amateur, a passionately dedicated lover of art, of Asher, of my family, and my life.”

  Joanie jumped to her feet and started clapping her hands. “Good for you, Meg! Bravo! That’s brilliant.”

  Meg grabbed her skirt and dipped in a quick curtsy. “I thought so. And to think, all it took was a skull fracture and thirty thousand dollars in medical bills for me to figure it out.”

  “Worth every dime,” Joanie said.

  “Thank you. I’m glad you feel that way. But since I can’t arrange a car crash for you—even if we could afford the hospital bills—I guess it’s up to me to give you the knock in the head you so desperately need.”

  Meg spun around, back to her sister.

  “Undo these buttons, will you? We’re going on a field trip and I’m not going dressed like this.”

  Chapter 40

  “What are we doing here?” Joanie asked when Meg parked the car in front of Capitol Hill Consignment, a store that sold used furniture, mostly from the modern era, but with an occasional antique thrown into the mix.

  “You’ll see,” Meg said, grabbing her sister by the arm and dragging her through the door.

  “Ah, you’re back. And you brought your sister. Good,” said Mrs. Levitt, the owner, when she saw them. “Someone else was looking at it after lunch. But, I said I would hold it for you until five and I kept my promise. Right this way.”

  Joanie mouthed a silent question to her sister, but Meg shook her off and followed along after Mrs. Levitt, gesturing for Joanie to do the same.

  They wended their way through a maze of overstuffed chairs, polished dining room sets, bedframes arranged according to size, reproduction Tiffany lamps, and a large and somewhat alarming display of mounted deer antlers. Joanie kept looking left and right, wondering why Meg insisted on bringing her here. There wasn’t room for so much as a coatrack in Meg and Asher’s house. Joanie didn’t need any furniture either. Even if she had, she couldn’t afford it. For the next few years, every spare dime had to go to Walt’s college fund.

  But as they rounded the corner of an enormous oak armoire, Joanie knew what Meg wanted to show her.

  “Here it is,” Mrs. Levitt announced, sweeping her arm through the air like a game-show spokesmodel. “A 1908 R. S. Howard upright grand piano. Oak satin stain. Perfect condition. As you can see, though it doesn’t take up any additional floor space, it’s taller than a standard upright. This allows for greater reverberation, giv—”

  “Giving them a richer sound, comparable to a grand piano,” Joanie said, finishing Mrs. Levitt’s sentence before turning to her sister.

  “No, Meg. No, I don’t play anymore. I haven’t for years.”

  “I know. And I didn’t paint anymore. But now I do. And it’s given me my life back. Sit,” she commanded, pushing Joanie down onto the bench.

  Meg lifted the piano’s honey-colored lid. Joanie spotted the price tag: $2,500.

  “Meg, listen to me. I’m not in the market for a piano. Even if I was, I don’t have twenty-five hundred dollars.”

  “Neither do I. But Mrs. Levitt and I have come to an arrangement. I’m giving her four of my paintings, the rhododendron series, and she’s giving me the piano, which I’m giving to you.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Levitt confirmed. “It’s a good arrangement for everyone. Your sister is a beautiful painter—a true artist.”

  “No,” Joanie protested. “I’m not letting you give away your work just to get me a piano that I don’t want and can’t play. It’s too much!”

  “But it’s not like I’m being all that generous. There’s something in it for me, too, you know. Remember how I said I want this wedding to be different from the first one? One of the things I’d like to change is the music. No guitars. I want you.”

  “I am not going to play for your wedding.”

  “Fine. Then play for yourself. For the sheer joy of it, for love. Like you used to. And you did love to play, Joanie, once upon a time. I remember. I’ve been watching you for these last weeks, ever since Hal came. You’d barely even listen to the radio before he came. Now you’ve always got music playing—Beethoven, Bach, Rachmaninoff, Liszt. And sometimes, when you don’t think anyone is watching, I see this look on your face. It’s like you’ve been completely transported. It’s still in you, Joanie. That love. You can bury it, but you can’t kill it.”

  Joanie shut her eyes tight, like she was win
cing in pain, trying to block out her sister’s words.

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. Try. Please? Do it for me. No, do it for yourself.”

  Joanie didn’t open her eyes, but didn’t move either. Gradually, the pained look faded from her face. She took several slow, deep breaths, relaxing her shoulders, calming her heart, then moved her feet to the pedals, testing them with her toes. She lifted her arms and arched her hands, leading from the wrist, hands hovering, then slowly lowering them to the board, feeling ivory against her fingertips, satin and slick.

  “Go ahead,” Mrs. Levitt urged. “It’s a wonderful instrument, you’ll see. The keyboard has a nice action still. Don’t be afraid. I played as a girl, for six years. But I took it up again a few years ago. Now that my children are gone, I have a little more time. I was surprised how much I remembered, even after all this time, but—”

  Joanie tuned her out. She refused to hear anything, not Mrs. Levitt or those long-ago voices that lived on in her head, Minerva’s voice, the director at the Curtis Institute, her own.

  She pressed her fingers against the keys, playing the first two bars so softly that Mrs. Levitt didn’t hear her at first and kept talking. Meg clutched at the older woman’s arm, silencing her.

  The opening section of the Liebestraum was to be played poco allegro, a little quickly, but Joanie had always favored a slightly more languorous interpretation and she did so now, partly because she loved this section so much and found the fluid, repetitive slurring of the right hand so calming, but also because she was feeling tentative and needed time to find her footing.

  It didn’t take long. Ten measures in, she forgot to think and surrendered herself to the music completely, swaying slightly as she reached and stretched her hands, caressing the keys, finding the heart of the piece, finding that part of herself she’d abandoned half a lifetime before and thought never to reclaim again. And yet, it was the sweetest of reunions, with no apologies, penance, or repercussions, only the rediscovery and resurrection of a lost love. She remembered every note, chord, and rest, or rather, her fingers did. She didn’t need to think, only to release her fear and let the music flow from her.