“Are you laughing at me?” I ask lowly, narrowing my eyes.
“Of course not,” she replies, blinking innocently.
I frown.
“Some husbands would greet their wife before picking fights with her friends,” Maple notes, tapping her nails against the hard surface of her sketchbook. “I don’t suppose you could be one such husband?”
“I don’t suppose so,” I agree, turning my most Maple-melting smile on her. “Since when are the hotel people your friends? I thoughtIwas your friend.”
Maple averts her eyes to avoid the melting. “You are my friend,” she says. “But I’m branching out. Etta and Mary are nice, and I like them. Please don’t scare them off.”
Etta or Mary snorts, while the other Etta or Mary bites her lip nervously. “We’re not going anywhere,” Etta or Mary says defiantly, rolling her eyes. “Least of all because of some man.”
“You really consider us friends?” the other Etta or Mary asks as her eyes well with big, fat, dramatic tears. “Truly?”
Nowmyeyes roll. “Yes, yes, it’s very touching. Maple is generous with her love. Unfortunately. You’ll do well to remember that the lion’s share ismine, a fact that I’d like to capitalize on now.” I turn toward what appears to be Maple’s latest project, drawing her attention away from her newer, lesser friends. “What are you working on, my very best friend in the entire worldjust as I am yours?”
I realize what I’m looking at before she can answer, and suddenly Etta or Mary’s eyes are not the only wet ones in this room. “Oh,” I say. “That’s our wedding.”
Maple sighs. “No. That’ssupposedto be our wedding. Something is wrong with it.”
I don’t see anything wrong with it. She’s captured the hazy, dreamy memory with an accuracy that I wouldn’t believe possible if I weren’t looking right at the evidence. The cloudy floor, the shining star lights, the floating candles—they’re all there, surrounding blurred tables and shadowy figures that pale on the fringes of the vision. In the center of the painting stands a husband and wife, staring at each other with love and adoration. He wears a tuxedo. She wears a gown of starlight. Her hair flows down her back, a dark wave of night sky in the twilight of the room. Tucked behind his ear is a flag in a startling shade of red, but even that can’t detract from the perfection of the scene. It’s true to life with a slash of artistic expression, and I am amazed at her talent anew.
“I want this,” I declare. “I want a hundred of this. I want enough to put one in every room of our home, and in every room that I ever have to spend any portion of my life in. My goodness, Maple, you’ve captured it beautifully. I love it. I love you. Goodness,goodness, I love it, and I love you.”
She huffs, unimpressed. “Maybe when it’s finished, I’ll let you have it. But not until it’s done.” Her eyes slide away from the work to prod at me. “How did your reflection go?”
I wince and shake my head. “I am not reflected. I am only pain.”
She laughs humorlessly. “Same.” Her eyes drag back to the painting, and she sighs. “What iswrongwith this thing?” she mutters.
Having been unable to figure out what’s wrong with me, I understand her frustration acutely in this moment, and I’m moved to seriously consider what might be the issue with her painting. From her perspective, anyway, because from mine, it is the eighth wonder of the world.
I tilt my head and consider the canvas with a more critical eye.
My nose scrunches.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Etta or Mary says from the counter. I glare at her with my patentedwhy are you speaking during this meeting, you insipid underlingglare. If it works during corporate borefests, it can surely work now.
Etta or Mary wilts.
I turn back to the painting, and my attention draws immediately to the pop of red. It doesn’t feel right to me, but I can’t pinpoint why. I’m hesitant to bring it up if it’s a purposeful choice, and of course it is. One doesn’t accidentally throw a glob of fire engine red at a golden-dusted blue masterpiece.
I cannot find anything else off in the painting. The proportions are correct. The lighting is consistent. The couple looks just like us. The foreground isn’t distracting, and the background balances well. It’s just the flag that mars the soft glimmer of the image.
Ugh.
I’m going to have to mention the flag.
I mention the flag.
Her nose wrinkles. “It’s not the flag.”
Ah. Right. Well. Then it’s not the flag, I suppose.
“Maybe…” I think fast, straying from the physical of what’s in front of us to the emotional of what’s behind it. “Maybe it feels wrong because it’s a story still being told?” I offer. “And I know you said it’s not the flag, but maybe you’re waiting for the moment when red turns to gold—for the moment when a wedding becomes a marriage.”
Her brows furrow. “You’re suggesting time as a solution?”
