This required silence. The assistant was barefoot, lest her footfalls interrupt Hasan’s conversation with my work. I sat, pressing my knees together, pretending to sip the bitter coffee, and tried to exude confidence.
Juliet had loaned me an outfit and jewelry (she had her flaws as a sister, but staying mad wasn’t one of them). I was dressed better than I’d ever been—black tuxedo pants, red patent leather pumps with a chunky heel, a sleeveless ivory top with a slightly draped neckline, and a gray “jardigan” (new term for me, but Brianna had told me it was very on trend). Dangly gold earrings, one plain gold ring on my right forefinger.
It was how I thought a successful artist should look. Cool, simple, wealthy (thanks, Jules) and sophisticated.
Hasan, tastemaker of the New York art world, broker of some of the most lucrative deals for artists today, wore Levi’s, a white T-shirt and Converse sneakers and somehow outclassed me by a thousand points. I owned the same outfit many times over. Should’ve worn it so we could bond over our matching look.
In the week since he’d e-mailed, I’d worked twenty hours a day, making seven more flower paintings. Iris, rose, peony, carnation, tulip, poppy and maple leaves (to show my range). At six this morning, I’d finished drying the last one with my blow-dryer, put them in my portfolio, left Brianna a note about Pepper’s new propensity to eat worms, and drove down here two hours early, killing the remainder of time by sitting in my car, sweating with nerves and pressing tissues into my armpits.
I’d never been at this kind of meeting. Never been that chic woman who had something New York wanted to see. This was it. I was, as they say, having a moment.
If only my father could see me now. The thought made my throat tighten with emotion.
He wasn’t getting better. I pressed my lips together, hard. I’d think about that later. He’d want me present, to soak it all in. I wanted that, too, but somehow, I felt hollow. Maybe because he wasn’t quite here to share it. Juliet had wished me the best and hugged me, and Mom said she thought the paintings were “real pretty,” but the hollow, fake feeling remained.
After all, I wasn’t even wearing my own clothes.
I should’ve come in wearing one of my teacher dresses, which were invariably flowered or striped, because my students were little kids, after all, and loved bright colors.
I missed them. I missed St. Catherine’s and Sister Mary and Carter and the gang, but it seemed more and more that my New York life was a light post on the highway that I could only see in the rearview mirror. A life left behind.
I missed Noah.
Last night, he’d knocked on my door at ten o’clock, stood there awkwardly as Pepper pounced on his shoes.
“Listen,” he said the second I opened the door. “I’m really sorry for what I said. I know how much this means to you, and I’m pulling for you. Okay?”
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He nodded. “Knock ’em dead tomorrow.”
“Did Mickey send you?”
He laughed at that, but his eyes were sad. “No,” he said. “All my idea.”
“Thank you, Noah,” I said. “It means a lot.”
He nodded once, then left before either of us made things more complicated.
So here I was, lunch planned with Hasan afterward.
He made another turn, another stroll, little humming noises coming from his throat. I kept my mouth shut to maintain an air of mystery and also not babble like an idiot, which was, of course, my way.
I glanced out the window, and there I was, looking in. Not me, not really, but some kid—God, so young, probably not even twenty. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt and had dyed, messy black hair, a bull nose ring and pierced eyebrow. Yep. Me, fifteen years ago. I smiled a little. He gave me a nod, then kept going.
I remembered that feeling. That outside-looking-in feeling. The someday-that-will-be-me feeling. I had it right now, even though I was literally on the inside.
The paintings . . . well, they were frickin’ beautiful, no doubt. How could they not be? They were flowers. The colors were rich and deep, the technique well executed. All week long, I’d painted with every damn emotion in the world—fear about my father, anger and love for Noah, ambition, hope, peace, contentment, joy, terror, uncertainty.
But looking at them here, where they might well sell for tens of thousands of bucks apiece, I had to admit it. Noah was right.
They were couch paintings, and they weren’t me. They were the me of college, trying to be something I was not. I’d been telling myself I stumbled onto something with the vagina flower painting, but I hadn’t. I’d done an O’Keeffe and added a few squiggles, and it was a cheap trick. These seven at least, had been done with some passion and energy. But they still weren’t me.
That stupid sunset was. The one I’d practically flung off the easel to make these porn flowers.
“It’s . . . interesting,” Hasan finally said, looking at me. “When I saw the painting at the party, I was struck by its intensity and authenticity. These . . . I just don’t think they have the same impact, and I’m trying to figure out why.”
Well, shit. “Hm.”
“There’s something missing in these, whereas the lilies and sweet pea painting had such a stark disparity, such a contrast between the lush sensuality and the void of emotional despair. It was a battle between chastity and vulgarity.” He shook his head. “I’m just not feeling that same emotional upheaval here.”
Oh, the fuckery. “Interesting.” It seemed like a safe word. Chastity and vulgarity? The void of emotional despair? Words that had never once entered my brain as I made the brownstone painting. These seven? The entire tornado of human emotions.
“Tell me about the lily painting, Sadie,” Hasan said. “What was in your heart when you painted it? How can we capture that mood again? Because that painting was special, and I think, if you can tap into that darkness, that fury and sexuality once again, we would be onto something here. Perhaps you know I consider myself not just a collector, but a mentor as well. Someone who nurtures the expression of passion and emotion.”
Jesus. Had this kind of talk always sounded so ridiculous?
“What was in your heart, Sadie Frost?” he asked again, putting his hand against his chin.
I nodded. “My heart. Yes. Well, Hasan, to be honest, money was in my heart, because I was getting six grand for that painting. Also, copying was in my heart, because anyone could see it was a Georgia O’Keeffe knockoff. I just played with some texture in the oils to make it a little different. Aside from that, I didn’t have much in my heart at all.”
“Oh. That’s . . . that’s disappointing.”
“Hasan. I’m a hack. I painted those lilies to match the owners’ comforter. These . . .” I gestured to the paintings in front of us. “These are me trying to please you. Maybe I should’ve used some fabric swatches as inspiration.”
He frowned. “You clearly have talent. Did you bring anything else?”
I hesitated. Why not? My dad would want me to. I wanted me to. At least I could show this guy something that was authentically mine. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”
In the last pocket in my portfolio was the sunset picture, the one I’d painted the day of the storm. To me, it was the best thing I’d painted. Ever.
Except for Noah’s clouds.
I pulled it out and watched him take it in. And I took it in as well. I could almost feel the calm of that day, hear the birds, the distant shush of the ocean, feel the damp salt air of springtime.
“Eh,” he said. “Any art student could do that. That’s not the kind of thing my clients are looking for.”
“I didn’t think so. Thank you for the opportunity.” I started gathering up my sexy-beast flowers.
“I’m sorry, Sadie,” he said. “I’ve wasted your day.”
“It’s okay. Real
ly. These aren’t me, these flowers. That sunset is, and I understand SoHo is not the place for sunset pictures.”
“Would you still like to have lunch? Perhaps I could give you some guidance about where the market is these days.”
“I think I’ll get back to Connecticut. But thank you.” I shook his hand, and left.
It was official. I was never going to be that artist.
But I’d had the chance. The big break. I’d been considered by a major gallery owner who had loved something I did. That was more than most artists got, regardless of their talent and training and outlook.
So I’d done it. I’d made it through the doors, and that—much to my surprise—was enough. There was a spring in my step as I lugged the paintings down the street. I wasn’t going to make it, but I hadn’t sold my soul, either.
I’d give the flower paintings as presents, maybe even keep one or two. Maybe send one to the lesbians, since they were so nice to play a part in getting me today’s chance.
But right now, I wanted to go home. I wanted to go home and play with my dog and sit on my battered front porch and watch another sunset.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
John
He knows what is happening. Barb is going to take care of him forever now.
He is sliding away, not toward, and he still has not said the right words. The flower word that will save his wife. The other words he wants to say. He needs his girls to be here, and Barb, and when that happens, he has to be ready. He has to be here.
But the world is grainy and blank, and the feelings come without words. He keeps trying, but he is slipping down the mountain he was trying so hard to climb. The snow is too heavy, and he is so tired. Days pass, and he is unaware. Sometimes everyone is here, sometimes he seems alone, sometimes he is asleep and sometimes in the snow. He has to say the words. He has to tell his Barb about the long-ago.
And then one day, he wakes up on the patio, in the chair that lets his legs stick out straight. It is warm and his daughters and wife and his friend with the warm rain voice are all here.
This is his chance, he knows. It will not come again. He knows that, too.
He grabs the arm of the person closest to him. Juliet, his oldest, his perfect girl, and she jumps. “You!” he says. He forces his mouth and his brain to work together. “Poor,” comes out, the word tortured and heavy.
The women look at each other, confused.
“Pour?” Sadie asks “You want a drink?”
“No!” He looks at Juliet again. “Prow. Prow.”
There is a silence, and the word slips away, Juliet’s word, and John’s eyes are wet because she didn’t understand, and now the word is gone.
“Proud,” Barb says. “He’s proud of you.”
She knows. She knows! John nods and takes Juliet’s hand and kisses it.
“Oh, Dad,” she says, and her eyes are raining, which is not the right word, but he has made her happy and sad. It was her word, and he gave it to her, at last.
Sadie kneels in front of him and says words, but they’re blurring and tumbling in his head.
“Joy,” he says, touching her face.
“Joy,” she repeats, nodding. “Yes. Joy.”
His heart is so full, and his eyes are raining, too.
Just a little more now. The snow has held off, but the clouds are heavy with it. “Bar,” he says, and his wife comes closer. Sits on the chair next to him. She waits for her word, too.
Bathroom. The closed door. Crying. Sorry. I should have gone in and I didn’t.
But the words are too many and too hard.
“Rose,” he says. “Rose.” The flower word! He said it at last.
“That’s real nice, John,” she says, patting his hand, but she doesn’t know that this is the word that will set her free.
“No! Rose . . . Heel.”
Everyone freezes. The snow is coming, and is this why no one is moving? Just a little longer, that’s all he needs.
“Rose Hill?” says his friend, and he nods again, his head wobbling on his neck. He is an old man now. He closes his eyes just for a second.
“What do you mean, Dad?” Juliet asks. “You want to live at Rose Hill?”
He nods again.
“And not live here anymore.” She is clarifying, his older girl, and he knows that is her way.
He nods. Oh, he is tired now, but he forces his eyes to open.
Sadie’s face is crumpled and sad. Juliet is crying, yes, that is the word. Janet is smiling her nice smile, her rope-hair so tidy and twisty.
But there is one more word Barb needs to hear. One more word for John to tell her before the snow comes, because he knows the snow won’t stop this time.
“Barb,” he says, looking at her. He takes her hand, bringing it against his face. “Barb.”
Sorry. Forgive. Love.
“Divorce,” he says, and it is the right word.
They talk then, and he can hear their voices but not understand their words.
It doesn’t matter. He knows he made it. He said the words they needed, and they understand.
The snow comes, but it is warm and light, and he falls into it, knowing he has once again been a father . . . knowing that, for the first time in a long time, and for the last time ever, he was a good husband.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Barb
John was going to Rose Hill. There was room for him, and the facility took every kind of insurance and made up the rest of the cost, thanks to its endowment.
He wanted a divorce. Now, after all these years, when he needed me more than ever, he was divorcing me. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it, but . . . well, my eyes teared up every time I thought of it.
That thing men say when they’re cheating . . . that their wives don’t understand them. The real problem is, we do. And I did. John had said divorce to give me the last thing I wanted from him. When he’d taken my hand and said the words, something happened. He knew we’d failed at marriage, and he was letting me go.
Closure. They say you can never really have it, but here it was.
I wasn’t sure if I was going to file the papers, but my attorney had said we should discuss it. Financial reasons, that kind of thing.
Even if we did get divorced, I’d still look after him, of course. I wasn’t the kind of person who’d turn her back on a sick man after fifty years, no matter what he’d done.
We visited Rose Hill, and John hadn’t wanted to leave. It was a beautiful facility, and when I saw LeVon, I started to cry.
“I’m so glad he’s coming here,” LeVon said, hugging me. “I’ll get to see you all the time.” Gosh, what a comfort that was!
Janet was there, too, since she visited her brother four or five times a week. John’s face lit up when he saw her, and I had to shake my head. Leave it to that old dog to find another woman, even in his current state.
But I was grateful. I didn’t have someone else, of course, and I didn’t even know if I would ever want that. But for the first time in decades, I felt like my husband had really seen me and understood me.
LeVon had suggested easing John into life at Rose Hill, so one night, just before Memorial Day weekend and the big town anniversary, I drove John up there and got him settled, then left. It was harder than I expected, coming back to my quiet, lovely house.
I went out on the patio and thought maybe I’d call the girls, but then decided against it. Juliet had her own family, and I’d just seen her two nights ago at her place. Besides, this is what the future would look like. Quiet and peaceful, maybe a little bit lonely. But beautiful, too, out here on the patio, a glass of wine in my hand.
“You home?” came Caro’s voice.
“On the patio,” I called.
“I brought wine.”
“I already have some, but grab y
ourself a glass, hon.”
She came out a minute later and sat next to me. “How are you? Did it go all right at Rose Hill?”
“Oh, sure. He seems to like it there a lot.”
“But how are you, Barb?”
I smiled, feeling tears prick my eyes just a little bit. “Doing good. How about you? I feel like we haven’t talked about you in ages.”
She sighed and settled back. “Ted and I are done for good now.”
“Is that right? What happened?”
She shrugged. “Is it callous of me to say I don’t know and don’t care enough to analyze it? We didn’t have anything to say to each other these past few years, and I thought, why am I bothering? It’s not like we’re married.”
“Is he sad?”
“No. He’s dating a forty-eight-year-old.”
“Oh, that’s just gross, now.”
“Tell me about it.” She sighed. “I might get a condo, Barb. The house seems so big these days.”
“Move in with me.”
She smiled. “That’d be so much fun, wouldn’t it?”
I sat up straighter. “Caro. Move in with me.”
She shifted to face me. “Don’t you want to be alone?” she asked. “After all this time? Date somebody, maybe? Join Tinder? Get laid?”
I laughed. “Does that sound like me?” I thought a minute. “I’ve been thinking a lot about marriage these days, Caro. What it means, what love is, commitment, all that.”
“Sure you have. It’s been a rough few months.”
“The thing is . . . well, I’m not a lesbian, you know? I don’t think so, anyway. No, I’m not. You’re beautiful, of course, don’t take it personally.”
She threw back her head and laughed.
My throat grew tight. I always loved her laugh, her smile, those dimples and the way her eyes crinkled, making her look forty years younger. “Caro, I think you’re the love of my life. No one’s been there for me like you have. You’re the best friend I ever had, the person I can really talk to. You can make me laugh at everything, even my husband cheating on me.” I reached over and took her hand. “I can’t think of anything nicer than us sharing a house.”
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