State of Grace (35 page)

                
It's a great job, but it makes for a lonely life, too. It's hard to maintain a relationship when you're traveling and working all the time. I spend a lot of time in the office. In fact, that's where I am now. And across from me is one of the two paintings of yours that I purchased. Your use of flat, gray, dull colors lends such starkness to the work. Your style is so evocative. It's simple with a dreamlike quality.

                
So, how remote is your cabin? Are you near any towns? I have this image of that town in Northern Exposure—you know, all sorts of quirky characters.

                
Anyway, I'm glad you're not upset with me and I
hope you write back soon. Or you could call. My number is attached.

                
Tommy

As I finished reading his e-mail, I felt the familiar knot of fear in my stomach. He wanted to know more about my life. Grace's warning crept into my head, but I pushed it aside. He had shared details with me, hadn't he? It was only natural, only polite, to ask about my life. But still, why did he want to know? Did he have an ulterior motive?

“Stop it,” I said aloud. “He's just being friendly. That's what friends do. Think about when you first got to know Roger. Same thing.”

But was it, I wondered? Roger was gay. He wasn't a threat. I sighed. This was new to me and I wasn't sure I wanted to answer. But, at the same time, I
did
want to answer. It felt good to be able to share. Tommy wanted to be my friend. I hit Reply.

         
Tommy—

                
Hi. You're in your office and I'm in the living room of my cabin. As I type, a fire snaps and crackles in the fireplace and I'm sipping a glass of wine—yes, as you correctly guessed, red. I tend to prefer cabernets and zinfandels. I don't much like merlots—too soft. I take it you're a wine drinker as well?

                
I have to admit, I looked forward to your reply all day. As I cleaned up the cabin and took care of odd jobs around the house, I took breaks to see if you had replied. It's funny, but that sense of anticipation was kind of exciting. It's not something I'm used to. I like having something to look forward to.

                
My privacy is wonderful, but like your work, it can also be lonely. There is a difference between being alone and being lonely and lately, I've been more in the second camp. It's by my own choice, I know, but that doesn't change the fact that sometimes I miss having friends and family close by.

                
Your business sounds interesting. I like the fact that
you're looking out for the interests of the people who make the art and do the work. I wondered when I saw the name of your company, Conscientious Imports, what it meant. Now I know. I'm not surprised. You seem to be very aware and sensitive to others.

I stopped typing. Was saying that too forward? I deleted the last two lines and then reconsidered. It was what I thought, wasn't it? So why not say it? I chewed thoughtfully on the inside of my lower lip and then retyped the sentences. Best not to dwell on it too much, I thought, and contemplated what to say next. I should ask questions about him. Not only would it allow me to learn more about him, but it would deflect the attention from me. I began to type.

                
I'm surprised you're not married—or haven't been in the past. I'm sorry your previous relationships didn't work out. What happened?

                
I'm flattered that you've hung my work, but at the same time, would really prefer not to talk about it. It's complicated and I'm sure we'll discuss it someday, but not now. As, I'm sure you know from your conversation with Roger, he and I don't discuss the work, who has purchased it, or what anyone thinks of it. Apparently, my anonymity, isolation, and tendency toward reclusiveness add to the mystique. At least, that's what he tells me.

                
Anyway, I know this is going to sound odd, but, I would really prefer not to give you my mailing address. And also, no phone calls. This is all new to me and right now, I think e-mail is the best way to communicate. It is what feels most natural and safest to me.

                
Still, I look forward to hearing from you,

                
Birdie

I felt good about the exchange. I had made my boundaries clear, but at the same time, made myself available for more conversation.
It was a bold step, though I didn't expect Tommy to realize this. Surprisingly, though, he seemed to completely understand. His reply came about an hour after I sent my message.

         
Birdie,

                
Believe me when I tell you that I respect your desire for privacy and solitude. I would never want you to share more than you're comfortable with. I am willing to take this at whatever pace you'd like and share only what you're comfortable with.

                
Now that that's out of the way, let's talk about other stuff—like wine. I couldn't agree with you more. Merlots ARE too soft. I like big cabernets with lots of tannins. And I like to pair them with thick, juicy steaks. Do you like steak? I don't eat it often, but when I do . . . man, oh man . . . it's so good.

                
So, I have a confession to make and you can ignore it if you want to or just stop reading here. But, the more we talk, the more I respect and enjoy you. You are a complex and delightful woman. I am enjoying getting to know you. Do you have a picture? I would love to see it if you do.

                
T.

After reading his e-mail, I sat back, slightly breathless. I appreciated his honesty, but it also scared me, because the more he wrote, the more I wanted him to write. His words made me giddy. It was a feeling unlike anything I had ever known—exciting, but also dangerous. I considered what that meant. I reread his last paragraph, particularly the line,
The more we talk, the more I respect and enjoy you
. That was how I felt. But should I confess that as well? How would he take it? Would it be too forward? Misinterpreted?

I decided to take a chance.

         
Tommy—

                
I didn't stop reading. Thank you for your “confession.” I, too, enjoy our conversations. You seem to really understand
me and where I'm coming from. It's a nice feeling after so many years of feeling misunderstood. I'm sorry that you probably don't get the same catharsis out of it that I do. Just know that I appreciate our correspondence and I appreciate your kindness and sincerity.

                
Pictures . . . um, no, I don't have any recent pictures of myself. I don't like to have my picture taken and that, combined with the fact that I'm alone most of the time . . . well let's just say there aren't that many pictures around of me. I would love to see one of you, though.

                
As for steak, yes, I do like it, although it's hard for me to eat meat sometimes because I think about the animal it once was and that makes it hard for me to eat it. Still, you're right. When paired with the right wine, it's delicious.

I sat back and reread what I had written so far. It was good—casual, honest, revealing. I felt empowered and bold. There was something more I wanted to say, but I wasn't sure how. I wanted to tell him how much I appreciated him—both now and when we were kids. But how to write it? How to express such a strange sentiment so seemingly out of the blue? My fingers hovered over the keys and then, moving almost of their own volition, I typed.

                
I have a confession, too. As strange as this might sound, your e-mail and offer of friendship came at a very opportune time. I was feeling very isolated and alone—much like when I was a kid and you found me in the tree house. In fact, you seem to have a knack for turning up when I need a friend. In an earlier note, you thanked me. I'd like to return the favor. Thank you.

                
Birdie

I hit Send before I had time to reconsider. His response was immediate.

         
Birdie,

                
It's my pleasure. And know, I get as much out of this as
you do. I'm glad that we're friends. It means a lot to me—as do you.

                
T.

I stared at his message and felt a tingle . . . or perhaps a prickle of . . . something. Anticipation? Expectation? Attraction? I shrugged off the feeling and pushed myself away from the computer. I needed to take a break. Too much was happening too soon. Tommy's words, although comforting, also made me uncomfortable.

I took a deep breath. Time, I thought. I needed time. And he needed to know that. Quickly, I scooted the chair forward, back to the computer desk.

         
Tommy—

                
Thank you for your note. This communication—this outlet—means a lot to me. And so do you. I recently lost a friend and right now, I do need your friendship. But it's a little overwhelming. I don't usually let people into my life so quickly or easily. Would you mind if I took a step back to process all of this? It may not make sense to you, but I've got some issues I need to work though. I may be out of communication for a little while. You've done nothing wrong. It's me. I'll be in touch.

                
Birdie

I again pushed myself away from the desk. This time, though, I stood and walked to the kitchen. I opened a bottle of wine and poured myself a sizeable glassful.

Out in the living room, Toby groaned, shifted, and went back to whatever dream he had been having. I smiled and fought the urge to curl up with him.

I walked out of the kitchen and stopped at the computer with the intention of turning it off. Before I could, though, a message from Tommy popped up. The subject line read: “I Understand.” I clicked on the message.

         
Birdie,

                
I completely understand. This has got to be a lot for you to take in. Just know that I'm patient and will be here after you've taken time to get used to the idea of our friendship.

                
I'm here when you need me.

                             
Tommy

Chapter 27

Over the next couple of weeks, I spent a lot of time thinking about Tommy and the role our correspondence was beginning to play in my life. I made lists in my head and on paper—pros and cons. Issues and concerns. I tried to be as honest as I could, but kept coming back to the conclusion that no matter how much he scared me, I liked communicating with Tommy. And I liked being free of Grace's control. I could still feel her there, in the background watching. But she didn't speak and I felt as if she knew that she had been rendered powerless. I was in control and I liked it. I did things I typically wouldn't do. I initiated contact with friends, surprising them by calling out of the blue and chatting about what was going on in their lives. I experimented with painting that wasn't focused on Grace's murder. I called my mother and sister rather than e-mailing them. After the second call in as many weeks, my mother asked suspiciously, “Birdie, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Why?”

“Well, just—you seem different,” she said. I knew that
different
, in this case, worried her.

“No, I'm great,” I said.

“And everything is okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Work is . . .”

“Going well,” I said. “I talked to Roger yesterday and it seems that interest is still high in my work.”

“How's Toby?” she asked.

“He's good,” I said. “Asleep on the couch. We've had a lot of snow, so he's kind of in hibernation mode.”

“Good,” she said.

“I was just calling to see how you were doing,” I said. “You know, get caught up on what's going on. Finalize plans for Christmas. I talked to Tara earlier. She said you guys would drive out on the 22nd and stay until the 26th?”

“As far as I know,” my mother said. “Last I heard, we're leaving for Breckenridge the day after Christmas. Andy is itching to hit the slopes.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “I'm looking forward to seeing you guys. It's been too long.”

“Sweetheart,” my mother said. “Are you sure you're all right?”

“Yes,” I said with a laugh. “I'm great. I'm making some changes in my life, that's all. It's a good thing.”

Later that night, I contacted Tommy. I had thought about everything that a friendship with him entailed and decided that despite my fears, I was ready to try. We would take things slowly—get to know each other in small bits. And in the process, I was going to put Grace to rest once and for all.

His response was everything I could have hoped for.

         
Birdie—

                
I can't tell you how glad I was to get your note. It's been a long two weeks and I've been worried I wouldn't hear from you again—that I had scared you off with my confession about the knife and finding Grace and the person I was back then. I really missed your e-mails. It made me realize how much I enjoyed our correspondence.

                
I agree that we should just write when we can and get to know each other as it happens. I'll let you be the one to set the pace on that.

                
So, how have you been?

And that's how our friendship began. We e-mailed back and
forth, sometimes several times a day, sometimes every few days. There was still the underlying intensity of our shared experience, but there was also casualness. I asked more questions than I answered and Tommy, to his credit, never pushed. He shared a great deal and I, with my newfound resolve and freedom from Grace, shared what I could.

The time passed quickly and before I knew it, the holidays were in full swing. In town, the merchants had hung wreaths, garlands, and Christmas lights everywhere. During my trips into town, I found myself caught up in the holiday spirit. The aroma of pumpkin bread and spices hung in the air around the bakery. At home, I drank spiced tea and, for the first time since I had moved into the cabin, went into the woods and chopped down a small pine tree to decorate. Toby, who sensed that something was different, jumped around barking excitedly as I hauled the tree inside.

“It's about time we had a real Christmas tree, isn't it?” I asked as I stood back to gauge how straight or crooked the tree was in its holder. I wanted it to be perfect because this was the first year my family was coming to spend Christmas with me. In the past, I had driven to be with them or, as more often was the case, made plans to drive to be with them and then canceled at the last minute with the excuse that I was snowed in. It wasn't that I didn't want to see them. It was simply that leaving the safety of the cabin was too frightening. Whether or not they had finally caught on, this year the plan was for my mother, sister, and Andy, now her husband, to come two days before Christmas and then leave for Breckenridge the day after Christmas. My mother planned to shop at the outlet malls while Tara and Andy skied. I had been invited along, but declined—both because I couldn't ski and also because I knew by then I would be ready for some time alone.

“Deck the Halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la . . . la la la la,” I sang to Toby as I hung the multicolored lights on the tree. I already had twined garland along the banisters and the railing and was finally tackling the task of decorating the tree. The trees of my youth had included blinking lights, multicolored bubble lights, tinsel garland, and glitter-covered ornaments. I wanted to create
that look in my own tree and had ordered lights and ornaments online to be shipped to me. They had been sitting in boxes near the fireplace for weeks as I waited to cut down the tree.

Two hours later, I stepped back and surveyed the results. The tree looked exactly the way I wanted. Lights of all colors twinkled and glowed, reflecting off the tinsel and the mirrored surfaces of the ornaments. The bubble lights gurgled softly as the light heated the tubes of colored water. All that remained were the hand-quilted stockings I had ordered last month from one of the shops in town. The workmanship was excellent and our names were stitched on them: Birdie, Toby, Mom, Tara, and Andy.

As I opened the box with the stockings inside and pulled them out, the phone rang.

“Hi, doll,” came Roger's voice.

“Hi,” I said, happy to hear his voice. “What's up?”

“I was wondering if I could come up after the New Year and get some new pieces,” he said. “I have a collector in LA who is interested.”

I hesitated, the old desire to avoid interaction flaring. But then I stopped. This was the new Birdie, I reminded myself—the more social Birdie.

“Sure. I've got some new stuff you might be interested in.”

“Really?” he said. “What is it?”

“It's happier,” I said. I had been prepared for Roger to react enthusiastically.

“Oh. Really?”

“Yeah. Brighter colors. Not nearly as dark.”

“But you're not going to stop the other stuff, are you?” he asked. “I mean, that's what people like.”

I was surprised and a little shocked. “I thought you'd be happy I was doing something lighter.”

“Oh, no, I am. I am,” he said quickly. “It's just that your darker work is so popular.”

“Roger, this is a big step for me.”

“I know it is and I'm excited to see it.” He laughed. “Sorry. You know me. I just get single-minded.”

“Asshole,” I said teasingly.

“Listen to you,” he said. “What's got you in such a good mood?”

“Lots of things. It's the holidays.”

“You hate the holidays.”

“Not this year,” I said. “Mom, Tara, and Andy are coming here and I chopped down a tree.”

“Well, that was awfully butch of you.”

I ignored the jab. “So, what are you doing for Christmas?”

“Gus and I are going to go to Paris,” he said. “So, look, I've got to run, but we're on for the first part of January?”

“Sure.”

“And Becca . . .” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I'm happy for you. You sound good.”

“I am,” I said. “I really am.”

The day before my family was set to arrive, I cleaned the cabin from top to bottom. I considered switching out the current painting I was working on, but after looking at it for several minutes, decided that it was fine for them to see. There wasn't anything upsetting about it. The thought made me smile.

I had told Tommy about the new work and when we corresponded that night, I told him I had opted to leave the work out for my family to see.
It will be the first time I have let them see my real work
, I wrote.
For the first time in a long time I don't necessarily feel like I need to shield myself from them.

Later that evening, I sat in the living room wrapping gifts and watching a documentary on the History Channel. As I finished wrapping the last gift, I sat back and surveyed my work. The cabin looked warm, festive, and inviting. All that remained was to change the sheets on the queen-sized bed in my room, which was where Tara and Andy would stay. The extra bedroom that doubled as my studio was ready for my mother, and since I would be sleeping on the couch, I had fresh sheets in the storage cupboard to make it up as a bed. Everything was ready. I took a sip of wine and smiled. For
the first time since childhood, I was actually excited, rather than dreading the holidays. I raised my glass in a toast to myself.

“Here's to you,” I said and laughed delightedly. “And to me.”

The next morning, as I was hanging a wreath on the front door, a silver SUV turned off of the rutted road that ran past my cabin and pulled into my gravel drive. Toby leapt from the porch and ran toward the vehicle, barking madly. Visitors were rare and he never missed an opportunity to bark and jump. The passenger-side window was lowered and I could hear my mother's voice from the back seat.

“Will he bite?” called Tara from the passenger seat.

I smiled, waved and shook my head.

“No,” I called back. “He's all bark and, well, you know.”

After Andy put the SUV into park, rolled up the windows, and turned off the engine, my mother and sister got out and walked over to where I stood.

“Hi,” I said as we hugged and kissed in greeting. “Welcome to Shangri-La.”

Both looked dubiously at the cabin and then back at me to see if I were joking. Like most of the people in my life, my family only vaguely understood my choice to live in solitude. Each time we were together, they would, at different times, approach me with names and contact information for psychologists or therapists, always insisting that it was “just something to think about” and reminding me that no longer was there a social stigma attached to mental health issues or medication. I was sure that both Tara and my Mom were carrying business cards in their coat pockets, already contemplating how they would broach the subject this time.

“I'm teasing. Come on in.”

“Hey Birdie,” called Andy from the back of the SUV where he was grabbing suitcases and gift bags overflowing with tissue paper and tightly curled ribbons. “Amazing weather, huh? Heard Breckenridge got some fresh powder. Should be good skiing.”

“Yeah,” I said agreeably. “You want some help with those?”

“Nah. I've got it. You girls go on in. I know Tara has been wanting to use the bathroom for about forty-five minutes.”

Tara nodded vigorously.

“That's because someone wouldn't stop,” she said loudly enough for him to hear and then in a normal tone to me, “He was racing against the time he estimated it would take to get here.”

Andy grinned as he walked past, his arms laden with gifts. He was the perfect husband for my sister. He was easygoing, kind, and agreeable to just about everything. His only flaw was that the only thing he talked about was sports. Who beat who in which sport. Who was injured and how. What coach was rumored to be leaving which team for another. Andy was a veritable encyclopedia of sports information—information that he shared at length and without encouragement. For me, although I liked Andy, having conversations with him were a mind-numbing exercise in endurance that necessitated a very large, very full glass of wine. He gave me a bone-crushing hug as he headed back out to the car.

“Hey, Birdie,” he said. “Remind me to tell you about the new skis I got for Tara and me. They're the same kind used by the US Olympic ski team. They're sweet.”

Inside, my mother was looking around the living room with approval. “It looks good,” she said and came over to hug me. “How are you, sweetie? Doing okay?”

I nodded and she kissed me on the cheek.

“Good.” She studied me appraisingly. “Really, how are you?”

“I'm fine, Mom,” I said, and for once, meant it.

“Um hmmm,” she said disbelievingly. Her gaze wandered around the room, taking in the decorations and landing on the tree. “The tree looks good. It looks like—”

“The trees we used to have when we were kids,” interrupted Tara in delight as she came down the stairs. “Even the ornaments.” She grinned at me. “And these stockings, they're great. They look like the ones Granny used to have. Where did you find them?”

“I had them made,” I said.

Tara studied me. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah.” I smiled at her. “Of course I am. Why?”

“You just seem different. Sort of . . . happy all of a sudden.” She studied me harder and then grinned triumphantly. “You're in
love. You're seeing someone, aren't you? You
are
! Mom, look at her. Birdie's seeing someone.”

“No,” I said quickly, suddenly defensive. “I'm not.”

I saw my mother and sister exchange a look.

“Okay,” my mother said with a hint of a smile on her lips. “That's okay. When you're ready.”

The Christmas holiday passed quickly. The first night we all sat around the fireplace drinking wine, snacking on cheese, and talking about family and friends. I tried to be casual as I steered the conversation to some of Edenbridge's older residents.