It takes him half a second to confidently announce, “A year.”
“Oh,” I laugh, “you think we’re going to be friends that long?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
Him questioning why we wouldn’t be reignites that dangerous hope inside. It’s been such a long time since I’ve had a male friend in my life and I’m enjoying Max—probably much more than he seems to be reciprocating. I hold my glass of Diet Pepsi high and toast, “To quid pro quo.”
Without hesitating, he clinks his glass against mine and repeats the cheer.
Tuesday comes way too fast.Emma and I spent Sunday hiking to Table Rock and then making homemade pizza and bingingGilmore Girls. Watching it makes her feel like she’s grown up and she relates to the Lorelai and Rory mom and daughter dynamic, whereas the older I get, the more I find myself siding with Emily, the family matriarch, more often than not. But any time she will spend with me, I’ll gladly take because it’s only a few short years before I’ll be nothing but all cringe to her.
On Monday, Callie and I rolled up our sleeves and got to work preparing a portfolio of my best work, from my career in abstracts before I blackballed myself and since opening my own business doing landscapes.
I change three times before settling on my mid-length emerald green corduroy skirt, crisp white blouse under camel leather jacket, and cute fall ankle boots. Professional but artsy, authentically me. Before leaving the house, I open my top dresser drawer and pull out the one piece of luxury jewelry I own. According to Max, Stella is all about her brand. She strikes me as a woman who wears a kaftan and enjoys fine jewelry at the same time. I hope she will appreciate my effort trying to blend the comfy-upscale vibe together on myself.
The open circle pendant from Tiffany’s & Co. was a gift from Elliott on our first wedding anniversary. He’d saved up for it without me knowing and couldn’t wait to give it to me that morning in bed. I’d never had diamonds of any kind, other than my very simple engagement ring, and I felt like a million bucks owning this piece. Holding up the necklace, the numbers come rushing back to me. He’s now been gonelonger than we were married. Emma’s been alive more than twice the amount of time she knew him. The realization is always a punch to the heart.
The chain clasps effortlessly behind my neck, and I look at myself in the closet mirror one last time. It’s the perfect addition. I like to wear it on special occasions, or in the case of today, when I know the company I’m keeping will appreciate its value. I pat the pendant lightly and tell myself Elliott would be proud of his girls. We’re living our lives and doing good things, even if the days are sometimes long and the years are hard.
Before I allow myself to think about it too long and tear up, I grab my leather tote bag and head out the door. Callie meets me at the entrance of the assisted living center at quarter to twelve. We check in at the front desk and are shown to the dining room, where we are introduced to Jacqueline, pronounced in a very pristine French accent. The room is lively with residents enjoying their time in small groups throughout the space. There’s the clang of silverware and the hustle of staff serving meals.
“It’s wonderful to meet both of you. Please, take a seat.” She’s middle-aged and flawless, tall and stunning in a trouser set. “Mrs. Hutchings should be coming out in just a minute. She was finishing up when I spoke with her a few minutes ago, and she asked me to come and greet you.”
The dining room mirrors the multipurpose room that held Bingo, except instead of getting a view of downtown from the floor-to-ceiling windows, we’re facing the foothills. The rich golden colors that blanket the hiking trails are particularly vibrant on sunny days like this one.
Our table seats four and Jacqueline sits across from Callie and me, her hands clasped, elbows delicately on the table. Wediscuss the weather and comment on the facility longer than necessary. Her eyes keep dropping to a gold watch dangling from her wrist. I begin to wonder what is keeping Stella.
“I’ve worked at GoldenDesert for twenty years now and Mrs. Hutchings has commissioned two portraits during our time together. Three were done in her earlier years. She is interested in one more, so her collection will hold a total of six spanning the course of her life.”
“I have to say, I’m very flattered she reached out to me, but how did she find me? I’m not known in the art community as a portrait artist and you clearly did your homework on me before reaching out at all . . .” I let that hang.
“Of course. Mrs. Hutchings appreciates all kinds of art and since moving to White Pine, she’s become very enamored with a specific piece.” She tilts her head to the long wall opposite the windows. “That one over there.”
Callie and I both let out small gasps at the same time. I had been so drawn to the view out the windows when we entered that I hadn’t taken in the whole room. There, where Jacqueline directs our gazes, is one of the first paintings I did after I shifted gears. It’s a landscape of the Sawtooth Mountains from Redfish Lake, a couple of hours north of the city.
With my world shattered, my career gone, and no idea what to do next, I’d strapped Emma into her booster seat, and we’d driven to the lake one fall day seven years ago. While she played in the sand and dipped her feet in the water, I’d set up an easel and tried to clear my mind. My art teachers had always said landscapes weren’t my calling, but I’d thrown caution to the wind. I’d needed a change.
The piece on the wall was what came of that day and the following weeks. Once I finished, I asked my former intern,Callie, who had recently graduated and joined me full-time, if she could find a buyer. That sale was the beginning of Nola Adler Art’s rebirth.
“Callie, did you know?” I ask her quietly.
She shakes her head in disbelief. “No. The sale had been to a private buyer. They must have donated it.”
“Mrs. Hutchings loves the movement, the colors, the way you captured the light over the lake and make the fall leaves come to life on the mountains, blowing in the breeze. She had me track you down, which led to us learning about . . . well, your career. And while you have never done portraits, she had to meet you. Her hope is to find an artist that will understand how to make her immortal on the canvas.”
“Immortal?”
“You met her at Bingo, correct?”
“Yes. She’s lovely.”
Jaqueline looks at me like I don’t quite comprehend who Stella is. “‘Lovely’ is a term used to describe a grandmother who bakes cookies and waxes poetic about the first snowfall of the season. What Stella Hutchings is is larger than life and this portrait will be her legacy. The artist who works with her will have to understand her—not just the Stella Hutchings of now but the entirety of who she always has been.”
I put off doing too much research on Stella over the weekend, wanting to let her present herself to me and get a feel for how she envisioned this piece of art before I brought any preconceived notions or ideas to the table.But I solidly reply, “I understand.”
“Where is she?!” Stella’s recognizable voice bellows from the hallway.
“Mrs. Hutchings!” a woman calls out.
