An Emergence of Green (6 page)

Val sat up, greeted her with a grin and a wave. “What could be safer than floating on a raft? Neal and I use these at the ocean.” She gestured. “The green one’s yours, Carrie. Good choice of bikini—green’s your primary color.”

“You of all people I definitely consider a color expert.” She was pleased by the odd compliment but embarrassed by the pallor of her skin in comparison with Val Hunter’s burnished tan. She thought of Paul’s opinion of her bikini and asked mischievously, “Do you think my suit is frivolous?”

Val was carrying the green raft to the shallow end of the pool. She cast a puzzled glance over her shoulder. “A bathing suit should be serious?”

Smiling, Carolyn descended the three steps at the pool’s shallow end. Waist deep, she splashed water over her arms and chest, shuddering at the cold unpleasantness on her sun-heated skin. As her body grew more acclimated she waded around in unwelcoming foreignness, feeling the water pull on her legs, dragging her steps.

“We need to be careful today,” Val said, eyeing her. “You don’t have a trace of tan. We’ll stay in the shade.”

“That’s the deep end,” Carolyn objected.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be perfectly safe. I guarantee it.” Val waded over to her, steering the green raft. “Go back up the pool steps. I’ll hold the raft, you slide on.”

The raft was solid support, the front section tilted to form a pillow. “Good,” Carolyn said with a sigh of relief. She paddled carefully, then more bravely.

Val climbed out, tossed in her raft, dove in after it, hoisted herself onto it, and paddled over to Carolyn, who was laughing delightedly as her own raft bucked in the turbulence Val had created.

“Sold a painting today,” Val said. “Second one this month.”

“That’s wonderful. Congratulations. Do you do pretty well with your work?”

Val laughed. “Not even close. I belong to the great common denominator of artists—few of us in any field ever make much money. I’m always surprised at what sells, though. I never offer Susan anything I don’t think is good, but very often what I consider my best work sits for months.”

“Who’s Susan?”

“My agent. And friend. She has part interest in a gallery just off the beach in Venice. She comes from money; she can afford to indulge her tastes—fortunately for me. She shows women artists exclusively, which hurts her business and her prices. Men do rule the world of art, and the majority of them ignore the artistic vision of women. They give validity only to masculine experience.”

She inspected Carolyn’s shoulders. “You’ve already got a pink flush.” She seized Carolyn’s raft and with her free hand paddled vigorously into the shaded end of the pool. The hand remained on Carolyn’s raft. “Okay? I’ve got you.”

“Fine. I feel perfectly safe.”

They drifted into a wall; with a casual kick of a foot Val propelled them away. “Two years ago, Carrie, I had to borrow money from a friend to take Neal to Atlanta for the cremation services for his father. It was one of the low points in my life. Richard’s child support had been erratic, to put it kindly, but at least it did come once in a while. I’d had lots of jobs of course, all of them low paying—there aren’t many opportunities for a woman trained only in the fine arts.” Holding Carolyn’s raft firmly, she pillowed her head on one arm. “But Richard left insurance. Amazingly enough. Two policies, both small, but I’ve managed to keep the money intact. I’m one of the few people besides the rich that high interest rates have helped. It’s not easy, not by a long shot, but I’m damn lucky. The interest pays the rent, a few other expenses. Unless there’s a catastrophe the money’ll be there for Neal when he’s ready for college. I don’t live in terror like I did before. Ever been poor?”

“Not really. My father left when I was nine and we had to move to an apartment, but we weren’t really poor…But Paul was. He never talks about it.”

Val nodded. “A child can feel so ashamed. Let me tell you, when you have no money you fear everything. Every little rattle in the car makes your heart stop—you can’t survive in this town without a car. I’m happy I have Neal, but a child is an obligation like no other. Just when you think you can finally buy him a decent pair of pants or take him out for a meal, electricity goes up or some appliance breaks.”

She sighed. “There were times I’d pray to sell a painting—I didn’t know how long I could put food on the table. Money you can count on, even just a little, can make such an incredible difference…” Intently listening, Carolyn tried to imagine herself alone, with a child.

Val said, “I’m starting to sell; it’s beginning. We’re going celebrating tonight. Neal’s favorite place is the Sizzler.” She closed her eyes. “It’s been more than a month since the last time…I can already taste my steak…”

Carolyn was silent, watching Val’s contented face, thinking that two nights ago she and Paul had gone to a Ventura Boulevard restaurant with prices high enough to buy ten dinners at a Sizzler.

Carefully, she adjusted herself on the raft, pillowing her head in her arms, comfortable in the silence that had fallen. Drowsy, smelling the heat of this day and drinking in the fragrance of the cool water, listening to the slap of water on the side of the pool and the shaking of the heavy palm fronds above her in the light breeze and the faint distant drone of an aircraft, she studied through half-open eyes the hand that lay close to her in both protection and repose. A big hand, and well-shaped. A hand that was somehow graceful, with fingers slightly tapered, the tips blunt, the fingernails large, square, serviceably pared, with dark traces of paint trapped in the cuticles. Tanned hands, strong and capable, but soft: she could see the plump cushioned pads on the underside of the fingers. She could imagine a slender paintbrush dwarfed by this hand, held with delicate grace in this hand…

Val groaned and opened her eyes. “God it’s peaceful, but I know it’s time to go.”

She paddled vigorously to the steps at the shallow end, Carolyn in tow, slid off her own raft, and held Carolyn’s while she climbed off.

“I really enjoyed it, Val. I’m sure you have a few minutes more. Let me get you something to drink before you leave. Come in.”

“Carrie, my clothes are wet.”

“You’re fine,” she said firmly.

Later she put Val’s drink glass in the dishwasher and left her own out on the sink as she always did. That night she explained that she had bought the rafts to float in the pool after she got home from work. For as long as possible she wanted Val Hunter to be exclusively hers, beyond any criticism or judgment of Paul’s.

“One raft would have been enough,” he complained. “Didn’t they have better colors? They’re cheap-looking.” He picked up a library book from the top of the Plexiglas bookcase. “What’s with these?”

She had gone to the library after Val left. She said casually, “They’re about art. As you pointed out the other day, I don’t know the first thing about it. I decided to find out.”

His eyes drifted over her, returned to the bookcase. “They’re all banged up and dirty. Why don’t you buy some new ones at the bookstore? They’d look good on the coffee table.”

Relieved, she said, “Honey, that’s a waste of money till I know what kind of books to get.”

“Just trying to keep you happy, Princess. What’s for dinner?”

For the next two days Carolyn was delayed in leaving her office, only half an hour, but arrived home each afternoon to look with keen disappointment at the shimmering surface of her empty pool. She could not call—did Val even have a phone?—nor could she go knocking on her door; their relationship lacked sufficient weight.

On Thursday she arrived home at her usual hour; again the pool was deserted. Changing into shorts and a blouse, she reflected dismally that of course she was inconsequential in Val Hunter’s life; how could she be anything else? Val Hunter was independent—look at how she dressed, took care of herself. Val’s life was totally unlike her own. From the stereo Billy Joel rocked into “Uptown Girl” as she restlessly paced the living room.

There was a tapping at the front door, followed by the doorbell chime. She switched off the stereo and then peered through the peephole. With sharp gladness she saw it was Val.

“Missed you the last two days, Carrie. Would have been here earlier, I was out sketching today, I don’t know what was wrong with the Ventura Freeway, never did see any accident. Thank God I drive a Volks or I’d be out there still, waving a towel over my radiator.” After a brief survey of Carolyn’s white terrycloth shorts and light cotton blouse, Val looked down at her own clothes: paint-smeared jeans and a sleeveless V-neck gray T-shirt. “Sorry, I look like hell.”

Carolyn was looking at her admiringly. “You look terrific. Like a working artist. Come in, let me get you something to drink. You look hot and tired. And thirsty.”

“No, I—well, just for a minute. But not in the living room—I don’t want to smear ochre over your blue carpet.”

Carolyn led her into the kitchen. “I’d be grateful if you’d do that to the sofa.”

Val leaned against the sink and drained a glass of ice water, refilled it from the tap. “Why did you buy that sofa if you dislike it so?”

“Paul thinks it’s elegant and I suppose it is. I thought I could get used to it. I don’t think he really likes it much either, but we won’t do anything till we get another house. A bigger and better house,” she added with more than a trace of sarcasm.

“With a bigger and better pool for you not to swim in.” Grinning, Val poured her remaining water into the sink and rinsed the glass. “Why don’t you come over today? To see some of my work?”

She followed Val down a narrow concrete path, moss growing between its wide cracks, to the small house of yellow stucco overhung by two date trees and surrounded by patches of thick ivy and many broad-leaved plants encroached upon by weeds. Ferns crowded the shade along the fence that divided this house from Carolyn’s backyard. The whine of insects permeated the quiet. A few white butterflies darted among sparse marigolds poking their heads out of the weeds that reached into the path and brushed at Carolyn’s ankles as she picked her way along, careful of her footing in her wedge-heeled sandals.

“It’s very private back here,” Carolyn offered.

“I’ve learned why privacy is so prized by the rich. Most of us in our entire lives never learn what true privacy is—never experience it.” Val opened the unlocked door of her house.

The living room would fit into less than half of hers, Carolyn estimated. It smelled of paint and turpentine, and was dominated by two huge abstract paintings of red and green hues covering virtually the entire expanse of two walls. A bay window with useless gauze curtains tied to its sides allowed dappled light to wash the room. Beside the window, on a battered and paint-smeared table, was a large canvas propped against a box, flanked by a chaotic jumble of paint tubes, brushes soaking in glass containers, cans of oils, sketch pads, pencils, and other paraphernalia Carolyn could not identify. The room was furnished with a worn tweed sofa not much larger than a loveseat, an equally worn armchair with a minute wooden footstool, a scarred bookcase overflowing with paperbacks and topped by a small television set, a card table covered by a vivid red print cloth and apparently serving as a dining room table. The only source of artificial light appeared to be a pole lamp in a corner, its metal shades aimed downward at the armchair. Sketch pads and sections of the Los Angeles Times were stacked on a coffee table which was a simple square of pale, flimsy wood.

“There’s not much to see,” Val said. “It’s pretty small, especially the kitchen—which could be even smaller, as far as I’m concerned. Look around if you like.”

Carolyn glanced into a room the size of her own walk-in closet, its flooring buckled linoleum, and crammed with a small refrigerator and stove and sink, a few cupboards.

The bathroom was tinier, with a shower and no bathtub. Bright blue shag covered the floor. Two thin, gaily striped towels hung from metal rings.

“Neal has the big bedroom,” Val said with a chuckle. “I don’t care where I sleep. I think it’s important for a youngster to have privacy, don’t you?”

“It was important to me when I was growing up.”

Neal’s room contained a single twin bed and a dresser, a small desk of gray metal which looked freshly painted. Sports posters and banners festooned the walls. The room was immaculate, almost austere in its neatness.

“He’d kill me if he knew I was showing anyone his inner sanctum.” There was warmth in Val’s husky voice. “I create such havoc wherever I go; I think he’s overcompensated by being a neat freak. This is my room, Carrie. It wasn’t meant to be a bedroom, but it’s good enough.”

The narrow room, which was surely meant to be a closet or for storage, was filled entirely by a twin bed and a two-drawer nightstand with a gooseneck lamp, and by canvases that sat on the floor along the walls.

Carolyn walked back into the living room with Val and stood beside the worktable. “I like your house.” Seeing Val’s amused smile she protested, “I really do. It has a nice feeling, a warmth. A…comfort. A casualness.”

“Casual we are,” Val said cheerfully. “I’ll show you the work I have here, which isn’t much. Mostly work that’s drying or that doesn’t fit in with what Susan’s showing right now.” Carefully she took the canvas leaning against the box on the table and placed it along the wall.

“Can you tell me what that one’s going to be?” Carolyn eyed faint jagged lines vaguely suggesting intricacy, the tones sand colored.