Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing) (36 page)

Home?

Do I still have one? Maybe the bank’s already repossessed it. I ought to have called Iris but I’m operating in
what I don’t know can’t hurt me
mode. Before I left, I called to tell her about Claudia and how I had no idea when I’d be back and she promised to hold off the bank’s SWAT team as long as she could. I haven’t heard, so I assume she’s succeeded … so far.

But Tom’s right. It’s time for me to go home. Claudia’s on the mend, Sophie’s pulled her shit together, and I need to go and gather up mine. I glance toward Tom. He’s looking at me, smiling. He has such sweet creases at the corners of his eyes. His beard lies peacefully on his jaw and his hair no longer curls over his collar. Even his eyebrows are less shaggy. Carrie must’ve forced him to visit the barber before flying over.

“What brings you here?” I ask.

“Emergency script conference,” Tom says. He pulls an envelope from his pocket. “I brought you this.”

A letter from the loan shark?

“But how did you know I’d be here?”

“Before leaving, I rang Lizzie. She said you were staying a while longer and suggested I deliver your mail in person.” He nudges my arm. “Well, go on. Open it.”

The return address doesn’t ring any bells. I don’t know anyone named Bessie Walker, do I?

Oh, my God. The contest.

I rip the envelope and pull out a single sheet of paper. Scan it, then read it again more slowly.

London

February 2012

I want to capture this moment and keep it in a bottle like a firefly on a hot summer night, press it like a wildflower and display it in a shadow box on the wall.

I can’t remember the last time I felt so special, so rewarded for my efforts. Stuff like this happens to other people, not to me. I usually come in last, like the time Sophie and I ran the three-legged race at Parents’ Day. We fell so many times, the headmistress gave us a consolation prize for being good sports. A book of French poetry. Great for squashing the spiders that lurked in the school’s basement locker room. I turn toward Tom, eager to share my joy, but I can’t because if I open my mouth, my heart will leap out and clap its hands.

Tom squeezes my knee. “Congratulations.”

Congratulations?

“Hey, wait a minute,” I say. He looks as thrilled as if he’d won the prize himself. “How did you know?”

He winks and gives me a thumbs up, and my pleasure evaporates. He must’ve been one of the judges, maybe the
only
judge. I choke down my disappointment. For a second or two, I thought
Archibald’s Aria
had won fair and square. Now I feel, somehow, as if I cheated.

Tom says, “My agent’s partner judged the picture book division, and before you go off half-cock and accuse me of nepotism, I’ll admit I knew about this, but I had nothing to do with picking the winner. In fact, I didn’t know you’d taken first place till I saw your illustrations on Judith’s desk last week.” He grins at me. “She wants to represent you.”

My mind struggles to keep up. “Who does?”

“Judith Tate, your future agent. She loves opera and parrots, and she’s absolutely mad about Archibald.”

Tom rambles on about royalties and copyrights and how Judith’s already talked it up to an editor, and she expects them to offer around ten thousand for Archibald and maybe I should think about developing him into a series. Tom’s words ricochet around my head like popcorn. Probably all that whisky I drank.

Ten-thousand dollars.

Reality check here. Ten thousand, minus agent’s commission and taxes, won’t put much of a dent in my debt. But I don’t give a shit because it’s doing wonders for my ego. So is the win. I read the letter again.

Oh, my God. First place.

Tom hugs me and I don’t want him to let go.

Sophie cracks a bottle of champagne and we toast my success. I pinch myself because I still can’t believe it. Is Tom stretching the truth? Can I be sure he had nothing to do with all this? He’s flying home tomorrow night, says he looks forward to having me back on the beach, and how about we drive to the city and meet with Judith?

“We’ll take her to lunch and you can sign the contract,” he says.

Jeez, I’m going to
do lunch
with a New York agent?

What on earth will I wear?

On Monday, Hugh rents a van and he drives to Cornwall with Sophie to fetch Claudia’s cat, her clothes, and a few pieces of furniture. I remind Sophie to bring Alexandra as well. I stay behind and finish painting the downstairs bathroom. Better that way. I’m not quite ready to face Claudia’s cottage.

After lunch, I take the Underground to Guy’s. Claudia sits by the window in the patient’s recreation room, bending over a card table. Two spindly brushes stick up from behind one ear like a TV antenna. A jar of muddy water sits at her elbow and tubes of watercolor lie in twisted shapes beside her sketchpad. Paint rags spill from her pocket. She looks up and grins, her face a smorgasbord of color, and my heart does a victory roll.

She’s going to be okay, she really, really is.

I tell her about Archibald and she whoops with joy, then shows me her latest creations, caricatures of the nursing staff, her doctors, and the woman who trundles in with her meals every day. She will give them as parting gifts when we bail her out of the hospital on Wednesday.

She takes my hand. “Thanks to you, I can afford to keep my cottage. If you hadn’t helped get my squirrels off the ground, it’d be on the market by now.” She leans toward me. “I want you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“That one day, you’ll go back there with someone special.”

“Fat chance of that,” I say.

“I wouldn’t be too sure, if I were you,” she says, and her lips curve into a saucer of a smile.

Does she know something I don’t?

Sophie’s downsized her business so that she can spend more time at home, taking care of her mother. Claudia, of course, insists she doesn’t need taking care of, so they squabble about this all the way home in the car, along with Claudia’s decision to volunteer at the animal rescue center.

“Just what you need,” Sophie says. “More bloody stress.”

“Rubbish,” Claudia retorts. “I can’t sit around all day twiddling my fingers, doing nothing.”

Like I said, she’s going to be okay.

Proudly, we escort Claudia into her new room. Narcissus and early daffodils bloom in pottery bowls. The smell of lemon polish wafts up from the floor and the sprigged curtains I hung this morning frame a view of Sophie’s back garden where winter jasmine tumbles over a brick wall. Alexandra’s portrait hangs above a bleached pine dresser. Claudia’s quilt and soft linen sheets cover her brass bed. On the armchair, Max dozes amid a nest of pillows. I bend and stroke his silvery fur, tickle his ears. He opens one blue eye, yawns hugely, and goes back to sleep. Does he remember me?

I look at Alexandra and wonder the same thing.

Sands Point

February 2012

My train pulls into Sands Point at six o’clock. I gather up my luggage and climb down the metal stairs, feet crunching on crusty snow as I cross the tracks and step onto the platform. Lights twinkle above the lone ticket window. A brisk wind tugs at red balloons tied to the guardrails.

Leftovers from Christmas?

Paper hearts cut from pink doilies adorn the timetable board, and two plastic cherubs dangle from a push pin. A wizened carnation droops from the stationmaster’s buttonhole.

Valentine’s Day.

I’d forgotten all about it, probably because the greeting card companies haven’t brainwashed people in England the way they have here. I drag my suitcase into the waiting room. A basket of candy sits on the table beside a pile of Amtrak schedules, and I’m about to scoop up a lollipop for Anna when someone taps my shoulder.

“Jill?”

I turn and come face-to-face Gary Kesselbaum. I haven’t set eyes on him since he trashed my proposal for last year’s festival. He carries a brown leather briefcase; an umbrella is tucked beneath his arm. Was he on my train?

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he says.

No sense telling him I haven’t been home. “Why?”

“Do you still have those designs?”

I have no intention of making this easy. “The ones you turned down?”

His face reddens. He sets down his briefcase and removes his glasses, wipes his forehead with a handkerchief the size of tea towel. “Stop by my office next week.”

Not till you ask me nicely.

Avoiding his eyes, I take my time choosing two lollipops and a Snickers bar. May as well make him sweat a bit more. Even though I’m desperate for work, I’m damned if I’ll lick his boots. And he’d better bloody apologize, too.

Behind me, Gary clears his throat. “Jill, your presentation was excellent, really first-rate, and I’m sorry about last year, really sorry, but it was out of my—”

Sorry?

Yes!

I turn and flash him my warmest smile. “Gary, I’d be delighted. How about next Tuesday at ten?”

Harriet’s car waits at the curb, engine running, puffs of exhaust scorching a hole in the snow. She pops the trunk and I heft my suitcase inside. I blow on my hands to warm them and kick the snow off my boots before climbing into the passenger seat.

“Welcome home,” Harriet says. “We missed you.” She leans over and kisses my cheek. “How’s Claudia?”

“Doing great.” I glance in the back. “Where’s Anna?”

“Saying a fond farewell to your cat,” Harriet says. “I left her with Bea at your house. We turned up the heat and I bought you some eggs, milk, and bread.”

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Want to stop at the market for anything else?”

I shake my head. Scrambled eggs on toast and a cup of tea are all I need right now. Harriet guns the engine. We slide across the parking lot and fishtail onto the road, only to get stuck behind a snowplow.

“Damn.” Harriet thumps the steering wheel.

“In a hurry?” I ask.

She grins at me. “Not really.”

We follow the plow down Bay Street. Familiar landmarks drift by. The Contented Figleaf, Denison’s Hardware, Tuttle’s Market. Former clients. Will they come back now the chamber of commerce has bestowed its blessing on me? If they do, I might have a chance of jumpstarting my business. In the center of town, Harriet stops to let pedestrians cross the road and I spot a green-and-white sign in front of the vacant building next to the post office.

Coming Soon. Village Realty.

Must be that new real estate company owned by a woman who used to work for Elaine. She bailed out just after my meltdown. I remember liking her because she didn’t fit the pattern of Elaine’s clones. Wore glitter socks with Tevas and drove a pink Jeep. Maybe I’ll list my house with her, after I have a go at selling it myself.

One well placed ad in
The New York Times
, Lizzie always said, and I’d have a herd of buyers out here, waving money at me.

In February?

I’d get a better price in April or May. Can I hang on until then? I make a mental list of stuff that needs to get done.

Bulldoze the attic, ransack my closets, plunder the garden shed. Toss out those
National Geographics
I’ve been hoarding since 1978. Haul crap to the dump, donate books to the library and clothes to the Goodwill. Do I really need two sets of dishes and what about that bentwood rocker I keep meaning to mend, but don’t? And then there’s that exercise bike I bought and used once, the basketball hoop we never got around to putting up, skateboards and ski boots long outgrown but still in good condition. Jordan’s old guitar. Alistair’s football pads and helmet, size large.

I’ll need to organize a tag sale.

Find another house, another job.

Another life.

Harriet swings onto my dirt road. No lights at Tom’s house, just a low-wattage floodlamp aimed at the front door. Looks kind of nice, welcoming. Maybe I should get one of those. Hold on a minute. What’s the point? You’re selling the cottage. Remember? Suddenly, I can’t wait to be inside. Alone. I hope Harriet and Bea won’t be pissed off if I shoo them out right away.

Beatrice flings open my front door, laughing as if she’s just heard a good joke. She reaches for my hand and squeezes it hard, then Anna rushes up and latches onto my legs like a clip-on toy. I wrap her in a hug and she puts her feet on top of mine and we shuffle together over the threshold. Why is it so dark in here? I’m about to reach for the switch, when out of the gloom Zachary saunters by to see what all the fuss is about. He rubs against my ankles, gives me a look that says,
okay, so you’re back, big deal
, then slinks into the shadows. Harriet hauls my suitcase up the porch steps.

Somebody giggles.

“Sshhhh!”

I glance at Beatrice. “Who’s that?”

“Surprise!”

Sands Point

February 2012

Bea hits the light switch and suddenly I’m surrounded by people. Lizzie and Fergus spill into my narrow hall; Carrie and Tom, with Molly astride his shoulders, stand behind them. Paige emerges from my kitchen; Joel and the kids bring up the rear.