All the while, Henrietta stole as much time as she could to paint and paint and paint. It had become a kind of mania. A part of her worried about what Larry would do when he found the paintings, but another, larger part of her knew that she could never stop.
During the summer of 1974, Henrietta enjoyed a moment of joy. She was sure that Larry was about to leave her.
There was a woman he’d met—the daughter of an older gentleman who’d come to town to oversee the development of a new ski resort. The woman was slightly younger than Henrietta, with buttery hair and long, milky arms and legs. During a town-wide barbecue, Henrietta watched from a faraway picnic table as her husband flirted with the other woman and threw his head back in laughter at whatever she said. A few women from Nederland came to sit down and talk to Henrietta, to assure her that Larry was “only flirting” and that that was what men did.
“I can’t imagine she’ll go for him,” one of them, a woman named Marge, muttered to Henrietta. “I mean, she’s so young and wealthy and beautiful.”
Henrietta pulsated with sorrow. “You don’t think?”
Marge looked taken aback. “Don’t tell me you want your husband to leave you?”
Henrietta cupped her knees and continued to watch Larry. “Do you ever wonder what you would have done if you hadn’t gotten married?”
Marge considered this, ducking her head to see if others around them were eavesdropping. But even the women who’d been in their conversation as recently as two minutes ago were talking about other things like shopping in the city and recipes for quiche with ham.
“Henrietta,” Marge murmured, “I don’t mean to pry. But people don’t always speak kindly about your husband. I would never ask you outright. But you’d tell us if you needed help. Wouldn’t you?”
Henrietta blinked at Marge. She wondered if Marge was in the sort of marriage where you were allowed to be honest, where you were allowed to laugh at the dinner table and tell stories from your childhood, and where you were allowed to dream together about the future.
“You know, if it’s really about the children,” Marge said, “I know of a doctor in Boulder who could help. Do you know if it’s you or Larry who’s the problem?”
Henrietta let her shoulders crumple. It was clear that Marge and everyone else thought that her and Larry’s problems began and ended with the children they couldn’t have.
“Let’s have dinner together, the four of us,” Marge went on, as though that settled everything. “Matthew and I can tell you all about our experiences with the Boulder doctor. We can bring Larry into the very real dream of a medically minded future. I know he’s old-fashioned. So was Matthew. And now, we have Beatrice and Lon, and we couldn’t be happier.”
Beatrice and Lon were Marge and Matthew’s four-year-old twins, one of whom had shoved a pretzel stick up their nose earlier during the barbecue.
But Henrietta couldn’t imagine saying anything to Marge but, “Of course, thank you for offering your help.”
“That’s what friends are for!” Marge said.
Two weeks later, Matthew, Marge, Beatrice, and Lon came to Henrietta and Larry’s cabin for dinner. Henrietta worked tirelessly on a roasted chicken feast with garlic potatoes, brussels sprouts and homemade bread. It was rare that Henrietta and Larry hosted anyone at their place, and Henrietta was surprised by how joyful she felt as she showed the kids the little nooks and crannies of the house, as well as the trails through the forest that offered the best views of the staggering mountains. When they sat down to dinner, Lon and Beatrice peppered Henrietta for details about “the magic in the mountains” and “fairies in the woods,” and Henrietta regaled them with a beautiful fairy tale that she made up on the spot.
Of course, when Larry cut her off and chuckled with, “Henrietta always has her head up in the clouds,” she stopped the story short and promised Lon and Beatrice she’d finish itlater. Lon and Beatrice were accustomed to being told to “stop dreaming at the table.” They recognized something in Henrietta that they themselves still carried as children and dreamers.
After dinner, Larry told Matthew that he’d give him a tour of the house and grounds so that Henrietta and Marge could clean up and tend to the children. When Matthew and Larry disappeared, Marge squeezed Henrietta’s hand and said, “Matthew’s going to talk to Larry about our doctor in Boulder! It’s happening! It’s all going to be all right!”
Henrietta couldn’t find a way to smile. She let the hot water run in the sink and tried to listen for where Larry and Matthew were in the house or on the grounds. What were they saying about her body and her future? What plans were they making? Marge eventually got the kids to calm down in the living room, where they played a little game they’d brought and laughed sparingly. Henrietta wondered if her own children would sit quietly in the living room while their father did whatever he wanted. She wondered what she was doomed for.
But that was when they heard Matthew, crying out with enthusiasm.
“Larry, you never said a thing about them!”
Marge looked at Henrietta quizzically. She flapped her kitchen towel in the vague direction of the back hallway. “What’s that about?” she murmured.
Henrietta shrugged. But a feeling of intense surprise and fear washed over her. Was it possible that the only good thing in her life was about to backfire on her? Life couldn’t be so cruel. Could it?
“What’s that?” Larry responded to Matthew, his voice ringing through the house. “Oh. That. Of course.”
“They’re exquisite!” Matthew declared. “Honestly, Larry, I can’t believe you’ve kept all this quiet. There must be twenty ofthem back here. They’re divine. Wait a second. Marge needs to see this. She loves art. Marge? Come back here. Quick.”
Marge’s eyes widened, and she flattened the towel on the counter and headed to the back of the house. Henrietta felt frozen. She continued to listen, her heart shaking, as Marge exclaimed, “Larry Johannes. You’ve got to be kidding me! Are you the next coming of Van Gogh himself?”
Henrietta thought she was going to collapse. Slowly, tentatively, she forced herself through the living room, past the quiet children, all the way to the back of the house, where she’d hidden her paintings and her paints and her empty canvases from the prying eyes of her husband. She’d been so sure he never opened that closet door. But Matthew, Larry, and Marge stood around, gazing at the painting of the little girl on the mountaintop—the same little girl Henrietta had seen skirting through the woods, on her way somewhere, her face filled with secrets.
Henrietta almost couldn’t bring herself to look at Larry. But when she let her eyes flicker over to him, she saw a face beaming with pride. Her knees buckled. For a moment, she imagined that Larry was finally seeing her talent for what it really was. For a moment, she imagined that he was curious about her active and creative mind.
But then he spoke—not to correct Marge and Matthew, but to emphasize how right they were about his brilliance.
