Driving against traffic, I returned to the center of town. Officer Gill wasn’t there; he would be at the station, wanting in on any excitement to be had. I stopped at the crosswalk anyway before turning right onto Cedar. Then I kept a moderate foot on the gas, block by block, quarter mile by quarter mile, pushing against the walls of the past until they began to recede.
My window was still down. The fresh air was a must. This late in the day it was cold but so, so different from the city air of those memories that the farther I drove, the better I felt. One turn had me driving past the pretty yellow farmhouse that, even with fallow fields gone soggy, made me smile. Another turn opened beside the facsimile of a mountain that Devon called its own. It had no black diamonds, just a double chair to lift skiers to six downhills, and the Magic Carpet where every child in town learned to ski. There were no takers today. The only remaining snow lay in fraying mounds under the evergreens that bordered the slopes.
With the reassurance of familiar sights, my mind began to clear. I had a good life here. It was carefully rooted and logical. Guided by that logic, I knew that Jay calling Edward the new owner was a euphemism. Edward was in venture capital. He would simply be representing a group, which was exactly what people in town were saying—that a group had bought the Inn. A venture capitalist might head that group or simply be here laying the groundwork for its takeover of the Inn. Whatever, his presence would be temporary.
That didn’t explain why he had grown a beard or wore muddy boots. It didn’t explain why he hadn’t let me know ahead of time that he was coming. That was the most upsetting. Did he seriously think I wouldn’t be hurt seeing him? We had been married for five years and together for another two before that. Even through the devastating days at the end, he had never been callous. What had first drawn me to him, twelve years ago, was his ability to communicate.
***
His back was to me as he stood across the room. It wasn’t a large room; art galleries on Newbury Street were never large. But the good ones carried weight, meaning that museum curators attended their openings. I recognized one of them now, talking with the friend whose work I had come to see. Her medium was colored pencils, which she bought by the thousands, sharpened, cut and arranged point out, end out, flank out—any which way—to recreate parts of the humanbody. Since my own medium was clay, I was considered more conventional, although conventional wasn’t a word my parents would use to describe me. Tonight I wore a calf-length drape of a dress that was definitely more artist than patron. It had been created by another friend, who had given it to me in exchange for a set of mugs for her mom. The silk was a breathy-pale coral, painted with flowers and lines in surprisingly gentle burgundies and browns. It was sleeveless, had a deep V in the front, and clung at the bodice before falling in slim drifts to uneven points that overlapped the top of my boots. The boots were cowboy-style, but of slouchy leather with a bronze sheen. I wore an armful of bangles, a narrow scarf tied as a headband, and goose bumps.
In fairness, the goose bumps were there before he turned. But they spiked when his eyes caught mine. They were a startling light blue, almost iridescent. On a purely artistic level, they intrigued me.
Not wanting to stare, I quickly retreated to the sculpture before me. Minutes later, I felt a warmth at my shoulder. “Are you the artist?”
As pick-up lines went in my circle, it was clichéd. But his natty suit said he wasn’t in my circle at all. His voice was deep and serious. I dared only the briefest glance at him before saying, “Don’t I wish. This hand is amazing.” With a soft jangle of bracelets, I raised my hand to a similar pose, much as I had done when the artist was making the piece. My hand—her hand—was relaxed, raised and turned at the wrist, fingers extended and graceful in an almost pious way.
We stood side by side. He held a wine glass as he studied the piece. “How many pencils are in it?”
“Seven hundred and thirty-three.”
He sputtered a low laugh. “That was a rhetorical question. How do you know the answer?”
“I know the artist. I watched her make this.”
“Seriously?”
I looked up at him then. We were still arm to arm, but his eyes were on mine. I felt a fast link. “Very. We knew each other at Ox-Bow.”
“Ox-Bow.”
“Chicago. Actually, it’s in Saugatuck—that’s Michigan—but it’s affiliated with the Art Institute of Chicago. It’s an artists’ colony. We were both fellowship students.”
“So youarean artist, just not of this piece.”
I knew the difference between polite indulgence and genuine interest. My father was a master of polite indulgence; I rarely knew what he actually thought. This man was different. There was something…bare… about his face.
“I work in clay,” I said. “The challenge for me would be replicating the sheer feeling of this.” I nodded toward the hand. “Look at it—wrist, knuckles, fingernails, all in perfect proportion and pose. It comes to life.”
He said nothing.
Awkward, fearing I’d lost him, I asked, “Don’t you think?”
He remained serious. “I do. But I’m pretty dumb when it comes to art. I’m here just tagging along with a friend.”
That made sense. His hair was neatly cut, his suit dark and sedate, his loafers polished. The only thing even remotely artistic about him was his tie, which had tiny flowers—ironically—in the same coral as my dress. I wondered if someone had put the outfit together for him. I had a friend who earned money doing that. Her medium was gouache, but she worked at an exclusive men’s shop to pay bills. If this man used someone like her, the tie might be as far as he dared go.
Too late, I realized I was staring at it, at the pale-blue shirt that stretched fractionally with each breath, at the nearby lapel that was drawn into an elegant curve by the hand in the pocket of his slacks. Too late, I realized that we were facing each other.
The silence went on a beat too long. Trying to make a joke of staring, I said, “You look very grown-up.”
He snickered. “As in boring?”
“No. I meant serious. Disciplined.” Even the hand that held his wine glass suggested it. Long fingers supported the stem while his thumb and forefinger cradled the bowl. But there,there, was a tiny betrayal. That forefinger tapped the bowl once, then again, like the discipline only went so far.
I must have been staring again because he said, “Uh, oh, sorry, would you—?” He raised his glass and glanced at the server who was circulating with a tray.
“No. But thanks. You’re not drinking yours. Not into champagne?”
