“Do you live out here?” I asked.
She shook her head. “New York. What about you, are you still in DC?”
“I’m between DC and here.”
“How come I haven’t seen your books anywhere? I’ve looked.” Her eyes were sincere. I knew she wasn’t trying to hurt me, but it hurt all the same.
“I don’t have anything published.”
Her champagne glass was loose in her hand like it might fall. “What do you do for work, then?”
“I’m a journalist.”
“Ah. Dangerous.”
I rested my forearms on the balcony’s railing, but the metal was scorching. I pulled back, turning around to polish off my wine. I wasn’t sure what I’d been hoping for. To rehash the past, pick through mushy memories like overripe fruit? To make up? I laughed at that last thought.
My hand fell to my side. I could see her noticing my ring, but she didn’t comment on it. It was unremarkable, after all. She had one too. I felt briefly superior for having chosen a dark stone instead of the classic clear diamond. Silly. Stupid. But I held on to this tiny rebellion with both hands.
The fabric trailing her back whipped in the breeze when she turned. I could see the chocolate brown in her eyes. Leaning into me, wine on her breath, she whispered, “Did you see it?”
“See what?” But by the lift of her mouth, I knew.
Ever the hostess, she placed a featherlight hand on my back, guiding me inside. We wove through the crowd until we found ourselves before a painting that took up an entire wall. My knees almost dropped to the cool linoleum.
Of course I’d thought about the portrait. I was certain she’d destroyed it or left it to rot in some storage bin. I didn’t allow myself to hope. But here it was.
The first thing that shocked me was that it wasn’t a portrait at all but a landscape. A dark purple sky, white moon in mist, cliff covered in moss. Her brushstrokes were inconsistent—languid here, rushed there—revealing almost too much about the painting’s creation. But she was saying something, wasn’t she? Maybe: A human with human flaws and fears and impatience made these lines, mixed these colors unevenly so streaks of pink appear in the purple sky. Maybe: I will not disappear from my own work, there I am, in that uneven stroke.
I was shocked, too, by the silhouetted woman at the cliff’s edge. Was that me? It was like Nia had painted her (me?), then, at the last minute, cut her out, leaving behind her black shape, her shadow, like a heap of smoke. It was unsettling. It didn’t fit the gorgeous landscape; in fact it was a blemish on it. That seemed to be the point, this woman who was out of place.
I trembled like someone fevered.
Nia had kept groping until she found her final vision: this beautiful landscape painting that was also an unnerving portrait. She was an artist. And there I was, a faceless figure, trapped forever on that cliff.
I tripped backward. A man touched my elbow. (“Do you need some water?” “No, no, thank you.”) When I turned around, Nia was gone. Her disembodied laugh hunted me from across the room like the final scene in a horror flick.
Lightheaded, I fled through the pretty glass doors, my body assaulted by sun. Staggering down the dirty sidewalk, I must’ve looked like just another woman who’d lost the thread of her life, scrambling like a wild animal to pick it back up.
Chapter 80
She wanted to meet for dinner before she left for New York. I didn’t want to go, but my husband, ever the free spirit, said I should go just “to see.”
She was twenty minutes late, and when she did show up, she arrived like a weather event. I watched from the hotel bar as the revolving door stalled, her stuck and shoving it with her shoulder. A handsome man rushed to her aid. Free, she emerged from the glass cage, laughing. He was clearly trying to find an angle to shoot his shot, but she was already walking toward me.
“Oh, you got yourself a drink,” she said. “Smart.” Flagging the bartender, she ordered an espresso martini, then dropped her purse on the counter and turned to smile at me.
We studied each other, recalibrating our perceptions to fit this new setting.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m great.” She accepted her martini, singing “thank you” to the bartender. “Life’s a ride, isn’t it?”
I wondered if the whole night would be filled with empty expressions like this (“Everything happens for a reason!” “Love wins!”). I smiled, not knowing what to say. It was a particular pain, the realization that someone you once knew was a stranger you’ll likely never know again.
“So,” she said. “You’re married.”
“Mm-hm.”
