Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing) (4 page)

A flush spreads across Lizzie’s suntanned face. “Nonsense.”

“So why is he camped out in your driveway?”

Lizzie opens her mouth, then shuts it again and I laugh because Fergus’s motor home hasn’t moved an inch in six months and I predict it won’t be long before he moves back into the house with Lizzie.

She pins me with a look. “Aren’t we supposed to be discussing
your
love life rather than mine?”

“I don’t have a love life.”

“Then it’s high time you did,” she says.

“I’ve forgotten how.”

“Rubbish. It’s like riding a bicycle.”

“Well then, there’s your answer,” I say. “I never did learn to ride a bike.”

“You need to get out. Ever since you started your own business, you’ve hardly left the house.” Lizzie lifts a hand to shade her eyes. “Come on, Jill. Be honest. When’s the last time you had a date?”

“Harriet took me to lunch last month, and I had a root canal two weeks ago.”

Lizzie snorts. “A
real
date, Jill. Soft music, great food, and—” She claps her hands. “I’ve thought of the perfect man.”

“Who?”

“Dutch Van Horne.”

Ah. Lizzie’s friend who comes up once a year for a college reunion.

“He’s due for a visit,” she says.

“Don’t be daft,” I say. “Dutch lives in Savannah.”

“So?”

“It’s not exactly local.”

“Perfect,” Lizzie says. “There’s nothing like a bit of distance between two lovers. It’s kept Trevor and me going for years.”

No way can I argue with that.

Sands Point

June 2010

After Lizzie leaves, I wander around the house, unable to get my mind off Colin and the day we all went to the beach. I begged Mum for a new swimsuit. Sophie had a bikini, but I was stuck with my old elastic one-piece that rode up my butt. At least I didn’t wear the smelly rubber bathing hat with flowers Mum shoved in my bag. Colin and I filled it with water to wash off our feet before getting back on the bus. We shared a bag of crisps and when the bus stopped to let me off, he kissed me goodbye. My first real kiss. Salty.

I could use a glass of wine, but there isn’t any, so I settle for tea and discover there’s no milk either.

Damn!

This means a trip to the village, and it’s Sunday, and the place will be crowded and I’ll never find a parking spot. I pull on a pair of shorts, shove my feet into espadrilles, and pick up my purse.

My Volvo crouches in the driveway like a crumpled toad. Poor thing. It suffered, without complaint, through two years of teaching teenage boys to drive. I slip behind the wheel and wince when my thighs are welded to scorching hot leather. Turning the ignition, I offer a quick prayer to the god of internal combustion engines. When it fires, I roll down my window. The air conditioner is on the blink again.

It’s a five-minute drive to the village. Knots of people—mostly tourists—clog the sidewalks and spill from shops and cafés along Bay Street. I edge my car into an alley, park behind someone’s boat trailer, and nip in the side door of Tuttle’s Market, a small, family-owned grocery store with narrow aisles, wooden floors, and clerks who know every local customer’s name. I grab a carton of milk, six cans of Fancy Feast, and a loaf of French bread, still warm from the oven.

“Hey, Jill, I see you’re out for blood,” Jim Tuttle says as he rings up my total.

“I am?”

“Your shirt.”

I look down. Printed across my chest are the words:
If it’s called tourist season, why can’t we shoot them?
The shirt isn’t mine; it belongs to one of my sons. Alistair, probably.

Jim hands me a brown paper bag.

I run to my car—no ticket, this time—and drive back to the beach in a fog of nostalgia. Does Colin still have that stomach-churning chuckle? Does that lock of hair still flop across his forehead? Do his cheeks still dimple when he smiles?

Does he ever think about me?

I miss my turn and have to back up.

Blacktop gives way to sand and dirt. My road, if you could call it that, has more holes than a colander. Gripping the Volvo’s wheel, I slalom around them and pray nobody’s coming the other way. A blue and white
For Sale
sign flashes by. My neighbor’s house is on the market for three million dollars and I wonder how long it’ll take Elaine Burke to sell it this time. I’m in the midst of designing the sales brochure for her. She’s going to make a boatload of money on this one, provided she can find a buyer who’s willing to pay a king’s ransom for nine bedrooms, six baths, and a solarium with a panoramic view of Long Island Sound.

The Volvo’s brakes squeal as I pull up in front of my house. I pat the dashboard, grateful it survived another trip to the village. My front garden is now in full shade and the flowers have perked up. Shy nasturtiums hide beneath a canopy of leaves; an early morning glory winds itself though a thicket of cheerful zinnias. Clutching my groceries with one hand, I deadhead cosmos and daisies with the other. My legs brush against clumps of lavender and catmint. Their scents mingle. I breathe them in.

The front porch sags beneath the weight of a wisteria I planted ten years ago. I make a mental note to find my pruning shears and trim it back. The steps are peeling. They could use another coat of paint. My window boxes need weeding.

The phone rings. I shove the front door open with my shoulder and race for the kitchen.

“Am I calling too late?” Sophie says.

“Heavens no. It’s only six o’clock.” I dump my bag on the counter. It splits open and one of Zachary’s gourmet dinners rolls into the sink, still full of dirty water. I’m dying to ask about Colin, but can’t get a word in edgeways because Sophie’s telling me about one of her puppies that got stuck behind the refrigerator. Finally, she takes a break and I jump right in.

“So tell me,” I say. “What’s he like?”

There’s a pause as if Sophie’s gathering her thoughts. “Colin hasn’t changed a bit, and he’s still got that incredibly sexy laugh.”

My breath comes out in a rush.

“What did you say?” Sophie asks.

“Nothing.” I clear my throat.

She laughs. “You always did unravel over Colin.”

“Did you tell him about me?”

“I said you’d been married and divorced, had two sons, your own business, and lived on the beach in an American state I can’t pronounce.”

My life, summed up in one sentence. “Where does he live? What does he do for a living?”

“They run some sort of guest house, or a bed and breakfast, in one of those terminally cute Cotswold villages.”

“
They?
”

“Colin and—” Sophie pauses. “Oh, Jill. You know how bad I am with names.”

I swallow hard. “His wife?”

“I’ve no idea,” Sophie says. “Probably. He just called her Shirley, or maybe it was Sheila.”

“What’s she like?”

Another pause. “He was alone. Apparently one of them has to stay at the B and B, especially at weekends.”

I want to ask more, but what’s the point? Colin’s in England—another lifetime away. “How’s Hugh?” I say. A far safer question. “And where is he?” Sophie’s brother is rarely in one place very long.

“Hugh’s in Saudi, selling software to sheiks.”

“What about Keith?” Unlike Colin, he’s kept in touch with Sophie and Hugh.

“I forgot to tell you. He and Penny just had another baby.”

“Christ!”

Sophie laughs. “He’s making up for lost time.”

“No kidding.” Ten years ago, when he was forty-three, Keith married a woman half his age, and they’re now on their fourth child. “Sophie, come and see me before the summer ends.”

“Can’t,” she says. “The puppies are too young to shove in a kennel, and besides, I’m booked solid with work till the end of August.”

“September, then?”

“Jill, it’s your turn to come here.”

“I know, but—”

Thwoooop!

My sink lets loose with a gigantic fart.

“Holy shit!” Sophie says. “What was that?”

Reaching for the sink, I plunge my hand through the scum and pull out a can of Fancy Feast. “Let me call you back, okay?”

The pond water gurgles and drains away and I wonder how much money Zachary’s gourmet dinner just saved me.

Enough to fix the leak in my bedroom ceiling?

A down payment on my next car?

A ticket to London?

Sands Point

June 2010

My business line wakes me at eight fifteen Friday morning. I bury my head in a pillow and groan because I stayed up half the night designing logos for The Contented Figleaf, a trendy new bistro on Bay Street. I was beyond tired, yet unable to sleep. Multiple deadlines for Elaine Burke had kept me working flat out all week. Finally, my restlessness turned to rebellion and I took it out on that innocent little restaurant by sketching a row of naked garden gnomes in pointy red hats leering over their shoulders and holding up fig leaves.
Snow White
meets
The Full Monty
. I doubt they’ll go for it. Greedily, I snatch another thirty minutes in the sack.

Half an hour later I stagger into my office. The message light’s blinking. I hit
play
.

“Jillian?” There’s a pause. “Surely you’re in the office by now.”

Elaine. Not a good start to anyone’s day, especially mine. I pad into the kitchen to make tea, and while waiting for the kettle to boil, I grab the wall phone and punch in her number. May as well get it over with.

She answers on the first ring. “Where were you?”

I stifle a yawn. “Good morning, Elaine.”

“I’m in a hurry,” says my most important client, before launching into a list of changes for a sales brochure I just finished. “Are you getting all this?”

“Yes.” I head for my office but the phone cord pulls me up short. Can’t find paper or pencil, so I scribble on a grocery bag with a laundry marker.

“You didn’t do as I asked,” Elaine says, contradicting the instructions she gave me on Tuesday. “That shot of the dining room needs to be much bigger. I can’t imagine what you were thinking here. Nobody can see it.”

You told me to make it small, remember? “It’s an ugly room, Jillian. We don’t want to draw attention to it.”

Elaine rattles on. “The detail on the fireplace in the den is unclear.”

That’s because the photos you gave me were low-res.

I turn the bag over.

“And there are ten bedrooms, not nine.”

Nine. Definitely nine.
I clamp my elbow on the bag to stop it sliding off the counter.

“Jillian, are you listening?”

“Of course.”

There’s a pause. “Now, about the layout.”

Oh, God. Now what?

“I want eight pages, not twelve,” Elaine says.

“Then you’ll have to cut copy.”

“Impossible,” she says. “Everything stays.”

“But—”

“Make it fit.”

Well, there goes my weekend.

“Have it here by five on Tuesday. And bring me a CD. I don’t trust e-mail,” Elaine says and hangs up.

I grind my teeth so hard, I’m in danger of loosening the crown I just paid a fortune for. One of these days, that woman’s going to push me over the edge.

Her priority-of-the-moment is the sales brochure for that overpriced house next door. She approved the final layout yesterday, said it was ready for her printer—a big, fancy outfit in Ohio—and now she’s ripping it apart and blaming me.

Time to find another client. I’ll start looking next week.

Zachary curls himself around my legs. I feed him, swallow a mug of tea, and get dressed. Then I sit at my desk and juggle appointments. If I cancel tomorrow’s haircut, beg an extension on my article for
Paws and Claws Quarterly
, and persuade the chamber of commerce to wait till Thursday for my Fall Festival designs, I can pull it all off. Just to be sure, I check my calendar. Oh, hell. I forgot about the holiday and Jordan’s flying in late Tuesday afternoon.

Maybe Lizzie will go and fetch him from the airport.

Turns out, Lizzie was dead right about Dutch. On Tuesday afternoon I get back from delivering Elaine’s job to find him in my driveway leaning against his lopsided Cadillac wearing cut-offs, an Australian bush hat, and a Hawaiian shirt. He’s barefoot and feeding peppermint sticks to a humpback brown dog that looks like a cross between an Irish wolfhound and a Chippendale sofa.

I hear a miaow and look up to see my cat on the roof.

“Hey there, Jill Hunter.” Dutch tips his hat. “I’m mighty glad to see y’all.”

The good ole boy drawl slides through his walrus-style mustache like it belongs. But I know better. Dutch grew up in California and graduated from Yale with honors before earning a Purple Heart in Vietnam.

“This here’s Murdock,” Dutch says, patting the dog’s head with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

I take a good look at the guy I met five years ago at one of Lizzie’s parties. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, long legs. A lived-in, weather-beaten face with a generous mouth and eyes the color of slate. Lizzie’s advice flashes before me. Is she right? Do I need to get back on that bike I never learned to ride in the first place? And, more to the point, should I get on it with Dutch Van Horne?

He grins and pulls me into a hug. “Sorry to barge in without callin’ you first, but I need a bed for the night.” He drops a kiss on my forehead. “Can I share yours?”

“No,” I tell him, “but you can have the couch.”

“Fair enough.” Dutch takes a shabby overnight bag from his car, hands me a bottle of Merlot, and follows me to the kitchen. He opens the wine and I pull cold cuts from the fridge to make sandwiches. I haven’t eaten all day and the glass of wine I drink with Dutch goes straight to my head. He pours me another. I slice tomatoes and spread mayonnaise on French bread. I drink a bit more wine and open a jar of peanuts and we snack on those. I dump salsa into a dish, add grated cheese and corn chips, and shove it in the oven. We open another bottle of wine and by the time Lizzie shows up with my son, I’m totally wasted.