Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage (15 page)

That day, dead tired, I head back to the hotel. Once I climb out of the car, I get soaking wet trying to dodge all the puddles in the parking lot, which does nothing for my foul mood. I text Paul. “Got a job in Vancouver. Leaving Seattle for there.”

The next day, Sue meets me at the office. She ooos and aaaahs and adores what I’ve done, and then she calls Montgomery and ooos and aaaahs over the phone, too.

After Sue hangs up, she tells me the client himself will be showing up soon to see the results of my work. Toward the end of the day he makes his appearance. This time he’s dressed in workout clothes rather than a designer suit. He must have come straight from the gym. Montgomery examines the mural for a while without speaking, and I start to worry that he doesn’t like it. I explain that in the daylight it looks much lighter and brighter, and he nods – and then smiles! That grin, paired with his damp hair and gym clothes, makes him look about twenty years younger. Despite myself, I’m soon wondering how he looks without those clothes on. Not bad, I suspect. Montgomery isn’t tall, but his body is nicely proportioned and he obviously spends a lot of time at the gym. I can’t see an ounce of extra weight on him. Looking at this perfect specimen of masculinity, I can’t help grinning myself.

“Thank you, Emmy,” he finally says. “I made a good decision giving you this job. This is exactly what I wanted here.” He casts a serious look my way, no longer smiling. “Let me thank you by taking you out to eat tomorrow evening. I’ll pay you for your work then, too, all right?”

“Uh, okay,” I manage to respond, already wondering what I can find in my suitcase to wear to dinner with a business big shot. Why is he inviting me to eat with him anyway? I can’t bring myself to ask that question out loud.

“See you tomorrow, then. I’ll come pick you up at 6:30. I can get the address from Sue.” Apparently he’s not used to being refused. Who would ever think to contradict him? His voice is authoritative, with every phrase pronounced like an order. It makes you want to stand up straight and salute.

We say goodbye, and I still don’t quite know what to think. He liked my work, and that’s great. But why this restaurant business? Why the hell did I agree? I should have just grabbed the check and lit out for Vancouver. Now I need to stay here one more day... and what
am
I going to wear to the restaurant?

The next morning, I call the school and tell them I’m not coming back in the fall. The principal makes it quite clear to me what a jerk I am, and tells me she never expected anything like this from
me
, of all people. What a nightmare! I feel awful, like I used to when my grandmother found out I got a bad grade, or that I lost another of my high school jobs. I hate disappointing people. On the other hand, though, it’s not my job to make all humankind happy. Okay, so my former boss is mad at me. Meanwhile, Montgomery likes my paintings and my mural.

That reminds me: I need to go buy something new to wear to go out tonight. Something small and black. I’m really not in a mood for shopping, though. I think what is really bothering me is that I seem to be in the habit, now, of stripping men bare naked in my head. That’s never happened to me before! I really miss sex, too, more and more all the time....

I head out to buy a dress, and maybe an umbrella. On my way there, I realize that I haven’t heard from Paul since I wrote him that I’m going to Vancouver. Where has he disappeared to? Working too much? Has he already forgotten about me? Has he been to see Rachel? That last thought feels like a stab through my heart. It leaves me gasping for breath. For some reason, my thoughts go back to the first time Paul and I ever sat in a cafe and talked.

“I’ve been noticing you for a while,” Paul told me then. “I just could never make up my mind to go talk to you. You had this air of concentration to you, or maybe you seemed partly somewhere else. I really did want to talk to you, though.”

“I noticed you a long time ago, too.” That was me, answering. “I really wanted to draw you.”

“Well, you did,” grinned Paul.

“You mean this?” I ask, pointing to my sketchbook. “These are just sketches. Not that interesting. You could pose for me, though, if you ever have the time.”

After that last phrase, I freeze. What would he say? Was I being too brazen? Everything in me wanted to stay here with him, the two of us, talking or not talking, doing whatever – as long as we were together.

“You can come to my place. I have an apartment not too far off campus.” Paul keeps his eyes on me, but those scarlet splotches have appeared on his cheeks. Then he lowers his gaze, takes out a piece of paper, and writes down his address. The next Saturday is the first time I go visit Paul.

I’ve remembered that day many times since. I recall how I walked inside, and immediately felt at home. How everything was so simple between us. How, after two hours of me drawing and Paul posing, we left to take a walk to a nearby park. How Paul took my hand, and how nice, how
right
, my hand felt in his. How we talked about something unimportant, I can’t remember what. I do remember that Paul smiled a lot, and I tried as hard as I could to make him laugh, so I could see that smile again. Then I remember, as we said goodbye, how Paul kissed me, gently, on the cheek.

I can almost feel his lips on my cheek now, and I touch my fingertips to that place.

I get out my phone and text Paul.

Me: Where are you?

Transfixed, I stare at the screen for a long time, but he doesn’t answer.

When I find a store, I go in, numbly, and start trying on dresses in my size. Cinderella was so lucky, I think. She had her fairy godmother for times like this, who could just wave her wand and come up with exactly the right color and size. Suddenly the phone starts vibrating in my pocket. It’s Paul. I go outside so I can have a decent conversation with him.

“Hi,” I say. “Where have you been?”

“Hey,” Paul responds. “I’ve been working. Then, after your last message, I needed some time to think about it.”

“Why?” Now I’m rushing to justify myself. “Imagine what an opportunity this is for me! I’ll be able to paint and maybe even sell my work, and I’ll meet the right kinds of people. You know that’s a huge problem for me. I don’t have to go back to work – I’ve already called the school and told them I quit. Vancouver’s not the other side of the world. Maybe you can come see me there.”

I stop talking. My voice is starting to sound sad, pitiful, actually. I’m not looking for pity, and I’m not really ready to see him, either. All the memories are still too vivid.

“You want me to come visit you?” Paul asks. I’m not sure what his question means. Does
he
want that? Is he trying to figure out our relationship? Or is his life going just fine without me, which means everything having to do with me is just a pain? His voice sounds calm and disinterested. No sign of sadness and no specific emotions at all.

I freeze up. I don’t know how to answer. I almost blurt out, “Yes! I want to see you! I miss you!” but instead, my imagination serves me up a picture of Paul and Rachel. His face is in an anguish of ecstasy, he embraces her, she kisses him with her raw, rough lips. No. It hurts too much to even think about that. I’m convinced that if I’m with him, that will always be on my mind.

“Emmy? You there? What are you doing?” Paul’s voice contains a hint of concern now.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, trying to sound reassuring. “I’m here. I’m shopping for a dress.”

“A dress?” He’s obviously surprised. I almost never wear dresses.

“I’ve finished my job here, and my client is taking me out for a goodbye dinner,” I explain hurriedly.

“Ah...” There’s something in his tone of voice I don’t like, a little bit of “I knew it!” “Your client,” Paul starts, then stops.

“What?” Again I’m caught off guard, feeling defensive. “He said he’d give me my paycheck at the restaurant. I couldn’t say no.”

“Then I won’t keep you,” says Paul, in a tone just a little too chilly for comfort, and he quickly says goodbye.

What’s going on? Why do I feel like I’ve offended him? Does he think I’m fooling around with Montgomery or something? With Greg, I mean. I walk back into the store and buy a dress, plus some nice shoes. Back at the hotel, I pack up my things. The whole time, I can’t shake this feeling of unease. I told Paul the wrong thing, somehow. I really should have told him that I miss him. I
really
miss him. Not to mention how bad I feel about Greg and my stupid fantasies. I don’t know him at all, and I don’t really want
him
– I just want sex. I’m tired of not getting any. I’m a woman, dammit, and here he is: not too old, rich, smart, athletic... Still, I can almost hear my grandmother’s disapproving voice. Thinking that way about a man I barely know, and my employer, too! Not allowed.

To distract myself, I go back to thinking about Paul. I want to remember the first time we were intimate. It happened in that same apartment of his, not long after we first met.  Paul kissed me for a long time before undressing me. For some reason, I was in a big hurry, and I practically ripped my own clothes off so I could start in on his. Paul stopped me, though. He grabbed my hand and held on until I looked him in the eye. Then he simply said, “Wait a minute, beautiful. I want to get a good look at you.” I stood there in front of him, completely naked, and he looked and looked, while everything inside me burned hotter and hotter. It was over quickly, almost as soon as we were both in bed. We lay there together for a long time. Paul took my hand, and started running a finger over my palm. I thought he must be tracing out a word on my skin. What I felt was a sense of unbelievable peace. It was as if I had been running for hours, fleeing some sort of danger, and suddenly it was all over, and I was someplace absolutely safe and secure.

I need to stop, or I’ll cry. The regret and loneliness are going to make me weep, alongside the feeling that what happened to us was just not fair.

Fortunately, though, there is no time left to worry. I barely have time to take a shower and get dressed again before Montgomery comes. Greg, I mean. We head out to eat. He has even thought to bring an umbrella, so I make it to his car without getting wet.

“You look fantastic,” says Greg amiably. He seems to have put some effort into getting dressed himself. He’s wearing the perfect suit and tie, and what really gets me is a handkerchief poking just so out of his breast pocket. He has smoothed back his hair, and the unshaven areas on his face also look suspiciously smooth. Has he combed his stubble or something? Whatever the case, Greg has made some serious preparations for our meeting. Why, I wonder? Is he going somewhere else after this, or does he always dress this way to eat with his underlings? For some reason, that last theory doesn’t seem very likely to me. Deep in my gut, my uneasiness winds itself up into a tight spiral. Could he be expecting something more from me than just dinner? Maybe he sensed that I had thought about sex just looking at him. No, no, no, I try to convince myself. Impossible! We hardly know each other. He’s never given me any indication that he has any interest in me, other than as an artist. I’m not attracted to him, as a man, either, I decide.

As we drive, Greg and I chat politely. I try my best to keep up my end of the conversation. We talk about the weather, and about Seattle, which I never did get the chance to take a good look at. I tell him that I’ve found a job in Vancouver and am leaving tomorrow, meaning I’m not going to have any time to tour the city. Greg mentions that he often goes to Vancouver on business, so we can get together up there.

“Vancouver’s a beautiful city, too,” he declares graciously. “You’ll like it there. The climate is a little different than in California, though.” Then we’re back to talking about the weather.

Actually, he talks, and I mumble something in response to avoid keeping silent altogether, even though I’m not listening much. My mood is about as bad as it can get. I decide that after dinner, I’m going to call Paul back and admit I’m having a hard time without him. Making that decision cheers me up a little, and now I find I can listen to Greg without my mind wandering constantly.

Meanwhile, we’ve reached the restaurant. It looks extremely elegant. Honestly, I wasn’t ready for this. The place is full of dim lights, intimate spaces, soft music, candles on every table, and waiters gliding around almost soundlessly. The view out the window (and our table is right by the window) is breathtaking. Could this all be an attempt to win me over somehow? Or did Greg just like my work that much? In fact, that’s exactly what he’s talking about right this instant.

“It turned out to be exactly what I needed. Rachel was absolutely right when she said you were a real discovery.”

“Rachel?” I ask. I had thought that Tom had done all the legwork. “Do you know her?”

“Sure,” Montgomery – I mean Greg – smiles. “We’ve been friends for a long time. She helped me put my modern art collection together.” He looks pensively out the window, probably thinking about his collection or the trouble he went through putting it together, or maybe regretting all the time and money he spent on the whole process. It’s hard to say, because the expression on Greg’s face is barely changing at all. He is serious, composed, and focused. Dispassionate, I think, is the most precise word for a man like this one. Suddenly I remember how he smiled when he first saw my mural, and how much younger that grin made him look. I wonder how closely he knows Rachel? In other words, has he slept with her? Maybe not, because he’s not a tall blond. On the other hand, though, maybe Rachel doesn’t discriminate any more than John does. What is he like in bed, anyway? I’m dismayed to realize that my thoughts have again taken off in the wrong direction. My palms are even sweating!