Appointment with a Smile (7 page)

We shared a laugh and sipped the foam from our cappuccinos.

I thought for a moment. “Admittedly, I am a homebody. I’m missing the late harvest from my garden. The squash, pumpkin, and other autumn remnants are extraordinary. Some of the herbs are still hanging in there. Roxie said she took a couple of pots inside and covered the rest with tarps when it got cold last night. She loves herbs. That girl can paint and cook.”

“No wonder Sadie and Aggie haven’t missed me,” Esther said. “What else did Roxie say?”

“Clover has been attentive to the beagle next door. His name is Buddy, and she flirts with him constantly.”

“Eyelashes aren’t the only thing Clover and Fiona have in common. Any other news from back home?”

“Only that Roxie’s been regularly visiting the gallery’s website and approves of my latest work.” I took a bite of the delicate, flakey, peach Danish. “Delicious.”

“Absolutely. I taste a light hint of rum.” After a brief pause, Esther exhaled loudly. With a breezy formality, she murmured, “Met a woman.”

“Met a woman!” The cappuccino spilled over the cup’s edge as I lifted it to my lips. I grabbed my napkin and wiped it up. “Where did you meet a woman?”

“They do make up half the population,” she said with her typical sarcasm.

“I can’t wait to hear this.”

“I was at a feminist bookstore. Got to talking with her, and we instantly hit it off. She said she’d show me London’s lesbian nightlife. Her name is Carrie. The bookstore people seemed to know her and like her.”

“What does she do for a living?”

“She didn’t mention an occupation. We talked mainly about books.”

“What do you know about books?” I furrowed my brow. “Other than astronomy ad nauseam?”

“Contrary to what you think, you
can
find a date in a bookstore. And I wasn’t even in the astronomy stacks. We both enjoy love poetry.” Esther smiled with a wistful expression.

“You don’t enjoy love poetry or any other poetry.”

“I do. I just never spout it around you.”

“Ode to Gertrude Stein?”

“Danielle, come on, pretend you’re correct, and I’m not a bleeping poetry expert. But I do know enough poetry to impress a woman who loves poetry. Okay?”

“Okay. What does she look like?”

“Taller than I am. Thinner than I am. Younger than I am.”

“Younger?”

“She’s about forty or so. Reddish, longish hair. Brown eyes. Great smile. Smart dresser.”

I laughed. “Fiona isn’t the only cougar in London.”

“So Carrie’s younger. I always say youth may know what to do, just not always
why
they’re doing it.”

“Let’s hear what you know about her so far.”

“She claims to be at the helm of a firm called Insults Incorporated. Kidding, of course. She reminds me of a British version of Roxie. Rox is always calling people pork heads and numb nuts. Well, Carrie is like that.”

“If that’s the case, keep my name out of her mouth.” I made a circular motion with my hand. “Go on.”

“She has these names she comes up with for people around her. She does them in a cockney accent and it’s hilarious. Her actual speech is cultured English. For example, I heard her call one guy a fritter goon. She called me wonder bum. When I turned her down by saying I was too old, she called me Daisy Doom.”

“Glad she speaks interstellar.”

“Right. And she argued that all of her friends are over fifty.”

“So did you tell her you’re well over fifty?”

“Why would I start telling the truth about my age now? If you look a decade or two younger, lie. Then people will think you look your age or slightly older. And they will credit you with having had a difficult, arduous life. That’s my theory at least.”

“Why wouldn’t it be? You’re entire career is the study of billions of years clustered up in the skies. What’s a decade or two?”

“Precisely,” she said. “After all, we’re in London a few more days. Might as well enjoy the lovely women while we’re here.”

“You wanted to meet someone and have. I think it’s great, Esther.”

“Sure, it’s junior high school revisited. But what’s wrong with flowers, chocolate, and sweet greeting cards? I like romance.”

“I’m certain she’s never heard of a high school sock hop. Where are you going on the date?”

“We’re having dinner. She knows some
women’s
clubs. I haven’t been to a gay bar for years. Why not?”

“Not a reason I can think of.”

Esther tapped the table, which was one of her ploys to change topics. “And I take it there’s been no call from Molly?”

“I doubt if she’ll call,” I said with a sigh. “She’s not interested. It’s abundantly clear to me. But to stop loving her is a different matter.”

“Are you going to be painting another picture of her tonight?” She saw my reaction. “I don’t mean it that way. I know you still love her, call or no. And I know the next portrait you paint will be of her.”

“I hope I’m going to be sleeping early tonight. I’ll order room service and then crash. If not, I certainly might paint another picture. I have no idea about the subject. I do know that I’m about out of canvases, so now would be the time for this painting frenzy to stop. Or I should pop over to an artist’s supply shop and pick up a few things. I not only need canvases, I should replace some paint as well.” I glanced at my watch. “If I leave now, I might be able to make it before the shop closes.”

“I can tell by your mood that you’re not ready to stop painting. You’ll be swinging your brush again.”

I laughed. “I think you’ll be swinging much more than I shall.”

Chapter 12

An amazing art supply store was located only a fifteen-minute cab ride away. The canvases I’d brought with me were small, a manageable 24x36. I’d already used two and had one remaining. But I wanted a larger, wider format to paint the street market. I wanted to capture the look of wonder when Molly lifted the book. Maybe that was the quality I fell in love with from the start. I also wished to capture her nostalgic expression when she’d picked up the miniature cup and saucer set. It seemed simplicity pleased her as much today as it had so many years ago.

I’d buy the canvases and supplies first and have them delivered to the hotel. I’d then go by the market and take a few photos with my camera phone. A couple of days ago, my focus had only been on Molly. But now I wanted to recreate the scene. I would call this work
A Scene from Our Story
.

Long title, and I planned to use a long canvas: 44x56, or perhaps a 40x60, or maybe even a 48x60. Once I was at the shop, I prudently decided to buy all three sizes. I would know which size when I was ready. Just as I seemed to know colors when I mixed the proper combination of pigments for the work. I would pick up the proper brush. My intention was realized in art but certainly not in areas of my romantic life.

There was very little I appreciated more than sauntering through an artist’s supply shop. After selecting canvases, I placed them at the counter. With shopping basket under my arm, I roamed the aisles of supplies and picked up the paints I needed to replace, as well as a dozen brushes. Looking down at the basket, I thought about the mystical conversion creation offered. These paints would become an image of my love of England and my love of Molly. Alone with my imagination, I would seek sanctuary from a heartache through the placement of these colors.

After I made my purchase, I gave instructions for the store to deliver the canvases to my hotel lobby’s check-in counter within the hour.

My next stop was to be the street market where I had seen Molly. I snapped a multitude of photos for later reference. I needed to make sure I had a feel for the recessive light. I wished desperately that Molly had been there smiling at me. And she wasn’t. Thirty years ago I would watch her smile carefully, believing if I blinked it might vanish. And then one day it had.

As I was finishing my shopping, Esther called from her cab on the way to her date. She was more than slightly nervous. I told her to find out if Carrie was single and available. I chided her about the old saying that when the cat ate out of the dog’s bowl, the cat could expect to get its whiskers bit off. She laughed and said she missed Sadie and Aggie.

Since the dog’s bowl story hadn’t eased her nerves, I asked, “What did you decide to wear?”

Bingo, I thought, as she started in on an inventory of her wardrobe. “My nutmeg taffeta twill jacket. I liked the matching blouse but decided on the tangerine one. And cinnamon slacks.”

“Hmm. Am I picking up on a citrus and spice theme?”

We giggled.

“Well, have a great time, Esther.”

“Are you’re going to stay holed up in your hotel suite all night? Painting?”

“Blissfully, yes. So don’t become ratty just because I’m staying out of trouble and doing what I want.”

“Who’s being ratty now?”

“Esther, romance is a cumbersome chronicler of human expression.”

She added, “Remember batteries not included.”

“You’re terrible. Someday a flipping black hole is going to swallow you.”

“Speaking of which, you know how powerful black holes are. Those concentrated fields of gravity don’t even allow light to escape from them. One intermediate class of black holes could explain how super-massive, light-sucking monsters develop in the heart of galaxies.”

“Light-sucking monsters? If I were you I wouldn’t try to impress this poor Carrie with any astro-chat. And stay away from alien munchkins, too.”

“Listen, the restaurant is a couple of blocks away. Got to smear my lips and apply some powder to my cheeks. Have a terrific night painting your memories.”

“Have fun, and don’t let your whiskers get bitten off,” I said as I heard the click of the phone.

I took two more photos then ambled away from the market. Merchants were beginning to pack up their wares. The shadows of early evening fell, and I watched the rhythms of the traffic. I turned back for one more glimpse of the place where Molly and I had briefly reunited.

I wondered what she might be doing now.

Chapter 13

Esther had left an early morning voice mail saying she would return to the hotel midafternoon, and we would have a gabfest then. She sounded elated. I spent the remainder of the day attempting to finish my latest painting. After quick calls to Roxie on the home front and Fiona stationed at the gallery, I poured my soul into my work.

By two in the afternoon, I needed a break and hoped that Esther might be on her way back to the hotel. Curiosity was running at an all-time high. I called her. She was on her way and said she wanted to do a little shopping before returning to the hotel.

I jumped right in to glean as much information as I could. “Are you going to give me the latest space info report? How is that light-sucking monster of a black hole? Or are you going to tell me what happened on your date?”

“Iron emissions reveal that a black hole is spinning rapidly and chomping matter quickly.”

“Good, we’ve got the space narration out of the way. Let’s cut to the chase. Get to the human interest portion of your story, Esther.”

“Okay. And before you ask. Forty-two.”

I laughed. “Would that be her bust measurement or her license plate number?”

“Danielle, sometimes you can be a real turd. It’s her age. So she is well beyond the age of consent.”

“Just not as well beyond as we are.” Before my tittering became a source of annoyance, I stopped. “I’m truly thrilled for you. Nothing like a vacation romance. I assume the stay-over with Carrie went well. Any more details you want to offer?”

“Her full name is Carrie VonHuber. She owns a travel agency. Has a lovely, immaculate apartment with a roommate she wants you to meet.”

“Let’s retrace our steps. Travel agent. Did she take you on a trip around the world?”

“You are rotten. Are you taunting me to amuse yourself or as a method for diverting the question of going out with her roommate?”

“Is her roommate over the legal age? I’m not interested in being charged with degeneracy by dating a teenager.”

“You’re hardly reprobate material,” Esther said dryly. “Her roommate is a gorgeous, classy lady of fifty-four. I think you can handle that. You can be so damned boring, Danielle.”

“I’m not interested in meeting anyone, even if she is of age. But thanks for the offer.”

“I’ll put it another way. Her name is Bethany Cortland. She’s a manager with a major airline. Prior to that, she was a flight attendant. Hair like Joan Baez—sort of salt-and-pepper on top and darker sides, same trim. And we’re meeting them for dinner tonight after they get off work.”

“Esther, I need to paint.”

“You need to get out with a charming woman. As far as that goes, you need to get laid by any available woman. And I take it Molly hasn’t bothered to call.”

“Not a word.”

“There. That settles it. You need to get out. I’ve always maintained if your sexual appetite is sustained, your painting improves.”

“Quite the opposite. My creative endeavors seem to detract from desire. I direct my sexual energy toward my work. Sorry, I’m not available right now.”

“What did you do last night? Another painting?”

“Nearly. I’m finishing up even as we speak.”

“If it has ‘Molly’ in the title, I’m going to scream.”

“It’s called
A Scene from Our Story
.”

“Another picture of Molly?”

I didn’t answer.

“Your silence is telling me I’m right. Face facts, Danielle. She hasn’t called. And you’re pouring your heart out painting pictures of her. You’re getting myth mixed up with history.”

“This painting is different. I’m trying to capture a look of hers as she shopped. It was unlike any I’ve ever seen.”

“And you remember all her expressions for the eight years you were together?”

Pain gripped my heart. “I think I may well remember them all.”

“To me, it seems she’s ignoring you. She knows where you’re staying. She knows where your work is being shown. Damn it, Danielle, she can call if she’s interested and she hasn’t called.”

“I’m well aware of that,” I shot back.