Hank was as inspired a cook as he was a language arts teacher.
“You’re too flattering,” he said when Alice complimented the perfect flake of the halibut even though she’d never considered the flake of halibut before. “Cooking has been a good place to channel my energy since I stopped teaching.”
“It’s a blessing and a curse,” Joe said, tapping the small bulge of his belly.
“Were you this superficial when I met you?” Hank teased.
“Were you this expressive with butter? That will be your lasting influence on me, a tire around my middle.”
Alice laughed politely, although she had trouble finding their repartee funny. There was a fourth presence at their dinner, Hank’s illness, which they ignored like a guest who had had a bit too much to drink. Alice never got to joke about her father’s impending death. She never got to avoid it either, to pretend that she was prepared for life without him. Were they better for this time, Hank and Joe, for knowing just how precious and fleeting life was?
After dinner Hank walked her to the door.
“Oh, Alice,” he said. “It was so good to see you.” Alice waited for him to ask again about a story for Joe. Instead he smiled forlornly. There was a finality to his words. It had been twenty years since she’d seen him. Suddenly the idea that this was likely the last time was simply too much.
“I’d like to help,” she heard herself saying. “I just, I’m not sure I can write another story. Not just for Joe. For anyone.”
“Use that fear. If you’re afraid of a story, that means it’s one you need to write.”
“What if I write Joe a story and it brings him someone dangerous?”
“Joe’s never liked dangerous men. After all, he married me.” Alice didn’t laugh. “It’s not your job to worry about the consequences. You write the story. The rest is up to the reader.”
“I don’t know how to help him, though.” The story Hank had asked for wasn’t about love so much as grief. Hank wanted to rush Joe’s grieving process. Joe seemed to want to avoid it altogether. Grief was an essential part of losing someone you loved. Alice did not want to spare Joe this. She wasn’t sure how else to help him. And she felt none of that electric energy coursing through her, telling her the muse was close.
A mischievous look overtook Hank’s face. “I have an idea, but you aren’t going to like it. Will you come by tomorrow?”
The following afternoon, when Alice arrived at the house for Hank’s mysterious plan, Joe was there alone, standing outside the garage.
“Hank’s at the store,” he said. “buying ingredients to make some baked good our midsections don’t need. So, are you ready?” He unlocked the door to garage.
“Ready for what?”
Joe laughed. “Of course he didn’t tell you.”
If you wanted to get to know a hairdresser, you would have them cut your hair. If you wanted to get to know a chef, you would eat their food. If you wanted to know a comedian, you would listen to their jokes. If you wanted to know a bookbinder, you would—no, no more thinking about bookbinders. If you wanted to know a painter you would sit for them.
Joe’s studio was musty and damp, with tapestries loosely hung over the unfinished walls. He approached Alice, nudging her face upward. “You have a confident jawline.”
“Thank you?” Alice could hardly take credit for the confidence of her jawline, the ways it seemed to belie how utterly uncomfortable she felt at being observed.
“Hold still.” He shifted her face again, then stepped away and resumed sketching.
“Do you do a lot of portraits? I mean, other than Hank, do you do portraits for hire?”
“This will be easier if you stop talking.” He flipped page after page in his sketch pad, filling it with renderings of Alice’s chin and profile, which he would not let her see when she asked.
“They’re just studies. They’re for me, as the artist. Better to wait until I have a finished portrait.” Joe stepped back and looked at her. “Actually, let’s try standing up. Good. Now turn to the left. Okay, the right. Straighten your spine. Yes, and do something with your hand. No, don’t put it on your hip. I’m not asking you to pose. I want to see you naturally.”
Alice was standing so straight, her back muscles clenched. Her tailbone hurt from the unforgiving stool. No matter where she put them, her arms felt heavy and in the way. Nothing about this was natural.
“Knock, knock,” Hank said without knocking. He’d just gotten back from the store and carried a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and plate of almond biscotti.
“Hank tries to convince me that biscotti aren’t cookies, but I’m on to him.”
“They are twice-baked bread,” Hank said with mock innocence.
“Still carbs. Besides,” Joe said as his charcoal continued to scratch the sketch paper, “who ever heard of lemonade and biscotti? It’s not a thing.”
