Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing) (11 page)

I want, badly, to believe her.

The boys come home late Wednesday night.

“Hi, Mom. We’re back.” The front door bangs shut and Alistair, clutching an armload of dirty laundry and a six-pack of beer, bounds into the kitchen. His brother, carrying a box of pizza, is right behind him.

“I left the cat outside,” Jordan says, dumping our dinner on the table. “He’ll only get in the way while we’re trying to eat this.”

“What cat?”

“Zachary.” Jordan leans toward me for a hug.

I peck his cheek, race into the hall, and yank open the door. There, on the porch, is my cat. He miaows, arches his back, and leans against my legs as if nothing is wrong. I scoop him into my arms and bury my face in his fur.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Sands Point

December 2010

Ten days before Christmas, I receive a call from the post office. “Could you come down?” my mailman asks.

“Is anything wrong?”

“We’ve got a package for you.”

Why isn’t Bill out delivering mail? “Is it too large for your van?”

“No,” he says, “it’s small, but—it’s a mess.”

“Who’s it from?”

“No return address.”

“Can you read the postmark?”

“England.”

“Then it’s probably from Sophie,” I tell him. “She never did learn the art of wrapping things up.”

A line of people holding boxes and envelopes is snaking through the lobby when I get to the post office just before closing. Someone touches my elbow. It’s Bill and his arm’s in a sling.

“Come with me.” He grins at my look of surprise. “Tripped and broke it, getting out of my van.”

I follow him into the adjacent lobby. “What’s all this about?”

Bill nods toward a beat-up package the size and shape of a loaf, lying in a shallow plastic tray on top of the counter. Its wrapping has come loose and the corners are torn.

I pick it up. It’s heavy. Dirt trickles out.

“What is it?” Bill asks, looking a tad suspicious.

The handwriting, while not Sophie’s, is achingly familiar. I shake the package and more dirt and bits of bark fall out. I rip off the remaining brown paper.

Bill scratches his head. “Firewood?”

It’s a log—or more precisely, half of one—with a note stapled to the top that says:
I’ll bring the other half with me.

I lean against the wall, blinking back tears and hugging my log.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Really fine.” I turn the note over and read:
I’d like to come and see you—on my own. How’s the second weekend in March?

My birthday.

“Bill, I’m sorry if this was a nuisance.”

“No problem,” he says. “Enjoy your fire.”

I drive straight to Lizzie’s. She pours me a glass of wine and says, “I admire his approach, but wouldn’t it have been cheaper to send you a fax?”

“That’s hardly the point.”

“He’s wooing you with wood.”

“Better than boring me with bullshit.”

“Touché,” Lizzie says. “Are you going to burn it?”

“Not till he gets here.”

“Will I meet him or are you planning to keep him in bed?”

I panic. “What will I do about, you know, sleeping arrangements?”

“I’d have thought that was obvious.”

“Lizzie!”

“At the risk of repeating myself,” she says, “it’s time you got laid.”

The first snow of the season is soft and powdery like confectioner’s sugar. It frosts the salt marsh, fills the pot holes in my road, and adds a touch of realism to the plastic fir trees in front of Wal-Mart.

I decide to throw a party on Christmas Eve. My family, plus Lizzie’s, Harriet and Anna, and Harriet’s friend, Beatrice, who entertained us at Thanksgiving with one wicked lawyer joke after another. Should I invite the people next door? I caught a glimpse of them today on Bay Street and only recognized them because of the dogs. The man, with a small child astride his shoulders, held hands with his wife and they wore matching red and green ski jackets. The Labradors had red bows tied to their collars.

“I’m going to invite my new neighbors,” I tell Lizzie when I call about the party. Their name, I learned from Bill Edwards, is Grainger. Tom and Carrie and their daughter, Molly.

“Don’t bother,” Lizzie says. “I was behind them at the post office this morning and they were putting their mail on hold. They’ll be gone till after the New Year.”

“What are they like?”

“He’s about my age. Beard. Nice smile. She’s slender and pretty. Their little girl is adorable.”

“How old is she?”

“About three.”

“Not the child, his wife.”

“Mid-thirties would be my guess.”

I cover the phone with my hand and sigh.

Claudia’s card arrives on Christmas Eve. Squirrels, dressed as choirboys, are holding sheets of music upside-down and singing while the choirmaster, resplendent in white surplice and red cassock, conducts them with one hand while playing a piano with the other. I place it on the mantel next to the card I got from Colin.

My party’s a festive success. My sons are home for the holiday, my house oozes good cheer, and my closest friends are nibbling canapés and drinking wine and enjoying one another’s company. Everything goes without a hitch until Anna and Beth, Lizzie’s granddaughter, get into a tussle over Claudia’s card.

“I saw it first!” Beth stamps her foot.

“Mine,” Anna counters. “Those are
my
squirrels!”

I solve the problem by making two photocopies and giving one to each child.

“That friend of yours has talent,” Beth’s father says. “Lizzie tells me you have more of her pictures. May I see them?”

“Sure. I’ll bring them when we come for dinner tomorrow.” This might prove interesting. Joel Barlow, Lizzie’s son-in-law, is a rep for a greeting card company.

The first Sunday in March, I take a critical look at my bedroom. Peeling paint, cracked walls, stains on the ceiling. Are those worm holes in the door? No, that’s where I hung a dartboard years ago.

Four days till Colin gets here. I’ll have to work fast.

I scrub baseboards, wash windows, and haul out my painting supplies. I’m sponging on the second layer of glaze when Lizzie shows up with a bag of bagels, looking irritable and bored. Fergus, back from six weeks in Florida, has badgered her into letting him stay at the house until the weather gets warmer. He is, she claims, driving her potty.

“Don’t have time to talk,” I say. “And take those bloody bagels away”—my ladder wobbles—“I’m on a diet.”

“Well, hello to you, too.” Lizzie makes room for herself on the bed. It’s covered with old sheets and the Sunday paper. The cat is snoring, somewhere, underneath it all. “What are you doing, besides making a mess?”

Cream paint and green glaze stream down my arm. “This is the Sistine Chapel. Can’t you tell?”

“Why are you tarting up your bedroom,” Lizzie says, patting a lump that is probably Zachary, “if you’re planning to avoid sex?”

The ladder wobbles again. “Where did you get that dumb idea?”

“From you.”

“I never implied—”

“You’ve been running scared ever since that log showed up,” Lizzie says. “Here. Have a bagel.”

“I’m too nervous to eat.”

“Then how about some coffee?” Lizzie stands. “Come on, Jill. Take a break. I promise not to annoy you for longer than five minutes.”

We abandon my masterpiece and go downstairs. I plug in the kettle for tea and tell Lizzie to help herself to the coffee I made earlier and didn’t drink.

“You’re right,” I say. “I’m terrified.”

“Why?”

“Suppose I fall in love with him, really fall in love, but all he’s after is a good time. What then?”

Lizzie grins. “Isn’t flying three-thousand miles for a piece of ass taking things a bit too far? If that’s what he wants, why can’t he find it closer to home?”

“Keep reminding me of that.” I squeeze my teabag and add milk.

“No sugar?’

“I told you. I’m on a diet.”

“You’re a perfect size ten.”

“Not if you keep feeding me junk.”

“Get any smaller,” Lizzie says, “and I’ll cancel our friendship.”

I pick onion bits off a bagel. “I’m scared of being let down.”

“Getting involved with a married man carries a huge risk.”

Colin isn’t married.

“You have to ask why he’s coming over,” she goes on. “Does he want to recapture his past? Make a new future? Tie up loose ends?”

“Add another feather to his cap?”

Lizzie shoots me a guarded look. “Whatever his reasons, accept them or reject them. Remember, the choice is yours.”

“That’s the trouble,” I say. “I make terrible choices.”

Lizzie sighs. “Richard.”

“Yeah.”

“Whatever did you see in him?”

The tea is bitter and I change my mind about the sugar. “He offered an escape, freedom. But when I lost—” There’s no need to continue. Lizzie knows all about the baby.

“So why didn’t you divorce him and go back to England? I mean, what the hell was holding you here?”

“Fear,” I say. “I was in a strange country with no friends, no money, and nowhere to go. I burned bridges when I left England.”

“All of them?”

“Sophie was furious I got married first and told her afterward. I didn’t tell her about the baby, either. We lost touch for a while. She moved. So did I. It’s Claudia who kept track of me.” I pause. “We joke about it now, but Sophie still chides me for not asking her for help.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Guilt. Pride, maybe. A stubborn case of ‘I’ve made my own bed and now I’d bloody well better lie in it’ sort of thing.”

“Stiff upper lip?”

“Something like that.”

I make up my bed with fresh sheets, hang my newly washed muslin curtains, and buff the floor till the old wooden boards glow. My closet doors won’t close, so I toss out clothes that no longer fit, sort through my shoes, and discover a box of candles I’d forgotten about. Citrus and sandalwood. I arrange them on my dresser beside a jar of dried hydrangeas and tuck a book of matches behind them.

How long has it been since I feathered my nest for a man? When’s the last time I slept with one? Suppose he doesn’t want to sleep with me. Who am I kidding? Colin’s not coming all this way for tea and crumpets. He’s expecting sex.

Oh, God! What if he wants a blow job?

Do I remember how to give one?

By Thursday morning, I’m a train wreck and Lizzie adds to my stress by calling with news of bad weather in Boston. Shit. Why didn’t I tell Colin to fly into Hartford instead?

“They’re forecasting two feet, maybe more,” she says. “And don’t forget about bringing Colin to dinner on Saturday. I’ve invited Harriet, Beatrice, and Anna. He may as well meet everyone in one fell swoop.”

Heavy wet snow starts to fall at the Rhode Island border and by the time I reach the outskirts of Boston, it’s six inches deep. Ploughs are struggling to keep up with the mess and traffic is snarled on both sides of the Southeast Expressway. I pull into the airport at three. Colin’s flight hasn’t arrived so I join the crowd waiting for news at the British Airways information desk. All incoming flights are delayed while airport crews clear the runways and I’m told Colin’s plane has been diverted. Nobody knows when it’s going to reach Boston.

So I wait.

Three hours go by. I ask questions. No one has any answers. The storm eases up and other flights land, but not Colin’s. My anxiety boils over and by eight o’clock I’m convinced that his plane will be the one to make grisly headlines on the front page of tomorrow’s
Boston Globe.

Finally, it lands. But when everyone in the world emerges from Customs and Immigration except Colin, my relief turns into doubt. He’s missed the plane—or worse—he’s changed his mind about coming over. Around me, couples hug, kids shriek, and families converge. Cabin attendants and a flight crew walk by with tired eyes and tight-lipped smiles, dragging black overnight bags behind them like booty.

More flights arrive. More people come streaming through the door and suddenly, he’s here, hugging me. Solid and warm and best of all, safe.

“How long have you been waiting?” he asks.

I can’t stop smiling.

“I thought we’d never land,” Colin says, still holding me. “We were circling for hours, and when we did get down we still had to wait for a gate.” He drops his bag on the ground and stretches. “Those seats were designed for midgets.”

He’s taller than I remember. “Have you any more luggage?” It’s an effort to make myself sound normal.

“No. This is it. I travel light.” He picks up his bag and slings it over one shoulder. “Where to now?”

“Home,” I tell him. “I’m taking you home.”

Sands Point

March 2011

Colin makes a valiant effort at conversation but falls asleep in the middle of Rhode Island and doesn’t wake up till I pull into my driveway. I take one look at his face and decide that my anxiety and his exhaustion will make terrible bedfellows, so I guide him into the boys’ old room. “Would you like some tea? Something to eat?”

Colin dumps his bag on the bed and sits down beside it. “No, thanks. I just need some sleep.”

I tell him where to find the bathroom and wish him good night. His face, when I leave, is a combination of relief and disappointment and I take comfort from the fact that he looks about as mixed up as I feel.

For once, I’m up early, and I collide with Colin in the hall at seven the next morning. Barefoot and wearing jeans, he’s naked from the waist up. His hair is tousled and I want to run my fingers through it. He doesn’t look much different from the lanky teenager who once helped me across a plank.

“Did you sleep okay?” I ask.