Distant Shores (18 page)

Thank God.

Elizabeth had been worrying about how she and Jack would handle the separation with the girls at home. It was one thing to avoid the truth by phone. It was quite another to lie to your children in person. “That sounds great.”

“It's kind of expensive. Lift tickets—”

“Your dad can afford it.” Elizabeth winced. She should have said
We can afford it.

“It'd be the first spring break we haven't come home. Are you okay with that?”

Sweet Stephie, always worried about hurting people's feelings. Elizabeth had a sudden urge to say,
Break a few eggs, honey, be courageous,
but instead she said, “I'll miss you, of course, but you should go. Have fun.”

“Thanks, Mom. So, how's it going with the house? You must be going crazy. Every time I call Dad, he sounds so amped about Manhattan. You must really miss him.”

“I do,” Elizabeth said, flinching at her word choice.

“How much longer will you be in Oregon?”

“I don't know. Nobody seems to want to live this far out, and we can't leave the house empty.” She glanced down at her left hand, curled in her lap. The diamond ring was still there. Everything about it, her wearing of it, was both a lie and the deepest truth. Looking at it now, all she saw was the lie.

“So, how're classes going?” she said to change the subject.

It worked. Stephanie told several funny “Jamie stories” about how her sister had gotten into and out of trouble. “As usual,” Steph said, “Jamie caused the social equivalent of a ten-car pileup and didn't even notice. Tim says she needs a rearview mirror to see her own life.”

Elizabeth laughed. “She gets that from my dad. He never once looked before he leaped. He said it ruined the surprise.” Her voice snagged on the thought:
He's gone.

“Are you okay, Mom?”

“I miss him.”

“I know. Jamie's having a hard time with it. She and Grandad were so close. I think it's affecting her swimming. And she's not sleeping well.”

Elizabeth sighed. Her poor little girl. Jamie might be all hard shell on the outside, but inside, she had a soft candy center. “Keep your eye on her for me. I'll call her tomorrow after her physical anthro class.”

“I tried getting her to see a counselor on campus, but you know Jamie. She told me to butt out.”

“You're a good girl, Steph,” Elizabeth said. “Do I tell you that often enough?”

“Yes, Mom.”

Elizabeth chose her next words carefully. “Just don't forget how to put Stephanie first. Sometimes, you have to be selfish or life can slip through your fingers.”

“Are you okay, Mom?”

“Sure. I'm just a little tired, that's all.”

Stephanie was quiet for a moment. In the background, a television was playing. There was a swell of applause. “Is there something you wish you'd done, you know, like besides having kids and getting married?”

It was the kind of question a woman usually came to too late in life, after she'd chosen one road and realized it was a dead end. “What makes you ask that?”

“I'm watching this program about a woman who killed her kids. It seems she always wanted to be a policewoman. Like
that
would have been a good choice. Anyway, the shrink is blabbing about how women sublimate their own needs. He compares it to loading a weapon. Someday: bang.”

Bang, indeed.

It would have been easy to deflect, but she didn't want to take the easy way. There were things she should have told her daughters, advice she should have given them. Unfortunately, some truths she'd learned too late. “Not
instead of
; then I wouldn't have had you and Jamie. But
in addition to
, maybe. I used to love painting. It got lost somewhere along the way.”

“I didn't know that.”

That was, perhaps, the worst of all her failings. She'd been so afraid of her own lost dream that she'd pretended it had never existed. How could a woman who'd clipped her own wings teach her babies to fly? “I don't know why I didn't talk about it. I used to be something special, though.”

“You still are, Mom.”

“I'm thinking of taking a painting class at the local college.” There, she'd said it. Molded a dream into words and given it the strength of voice.

“That'd be awesome. I'm sure you'll blow the shit out of the curve.”

Elizabeth laughed at that. She hadn't even thought about grades. “You just remember, Stephie, these are your glory years. No husband, no babies, no one to tell you what you can't do. This is your time to dream big and soar.” Elizabeth heard the fierce edge of regret in her voice. It was so easy to see the world in retrospect. She started to say something else, then heard a sound that brought her up short. “Baby? Are you crying?”

“You're not
that
inspirational, Mom. I just feel lousy. Now I'm getting a headache. I think I'm gonna crash. I'll have Jamie call when she gets back from swim practice.”

“Okay, honey. Drink lots of fluids. And tell Tim hi for me. For us,” she amended. How quickly she'd begun to think in the singular.

“Tell Dad I love him.”

“I will.”

“And tell him to call me tonight. I want to hear how his big interview with Jay went.”

(Jay who?)

“Okay,” she said. “I love you.”

“Love you guys, too. Bye.”

For the last few days, Jack's life had been a full-speed running game. Drew Grayland's arraignment had been broadcast on Court TV. The young man had admitted nothing and pled not guilty, but that didn't matter. The whole sordid, sorry story had come front and center. All across America, students and parents were protesting the lack of athlete accountability. Female students from dozens of universities had filed rape charges against football and basketball players.

At the heart of the story stood Jack Shore. By luck and chance—and a ton of Fox advertising money—he'd become the national poster boy for change. Everyone knew who he was again.

Now he was on the edge of his seat. Literally.

Sally sat beside him, her foot tapping unevenly on the floor as she pawed through the fruit basket on the coffee table. “You're going to be
great
,” she said for at least the fifteenth time in as many minutes.

To be honest, he needed her to say it, again and again. That was a big part of why he'd hired her. She was great for his ego—and, of course, she was a damned fine assistant. She'd organized every nuance of this opportunity, hadn't she?

There was a knock at the door. In walked Avery Kormane, the woman who'd shown him to the small, windowless waiting room and conducted his pre-interview. “How're you doing?”

“Has anyone ever puked on the
Tonight Show
, or will I be the first?”

“A bird caller from Kentucky took one look at the audience and fell face-first onto the floor.” She smiled. “Everyone's nervous in this room. I've seen your tapes. You'll do fine once you're in front of the camera. Just focus on Jay if you get nervous. He's a nice guy. He'll catch you if you fall.”

Sally had chosen Leno for that very reason. When the offers started pouring in last week, Jack had instinctively gravitated toward Letterman. It was Sally who'd reminded him that Leno was a hell of lot easier.

Avery consulted her clipboard. “As I told you earlier, your seat is the one closest to Jay. The others should be empty. George Clooney has to catch a flight to D.C. for the next leg of his press junket.”

Jack glanced up at the television monitor on the wall. On screen, Thea Cartwright was laughing with Jay. She was the most beautiful woman in Hollywood, bar none. “What about Thea?”

Avery looked up sharply. Behind the world's ugliest black frame glasses, her eyes narrowed. “Do you know her? I don't have that in my notes.”

Sally was frowning at him.

“No, no. I just think she's great. That's all.” He felt like a complete idiot.

Avery's nose crimped up. “Oh, that. Well, she'll be long gone. She has an opening tonight. You just shake Jay's hand, wave to the audience, and take your seat.” She glanced at her watch. “Follow me.”

Jack did as he was told. Sally stuck to his side like glue. They walked through the industrial maze of backstage hallways, passing several closed doors that had red
on air
signs above them. Finally, they came to the edge of the stage.

A narrow vertical sign lit up the word
Hollywood
beside him. The lights buzzed softly.

Jack's palms were sweating like geysers. He was wetter than the goddamn
Man from Atlantis
.

“You'll be great,” Sally said again.

He wished Elizabeth were here. It only took a look from her, a feather touch, to calm him. He'd wanted this—national exposure—for years, but now that it was here, he was as jumpy as a rookie on the starting line.

This wasn't like reading the news from a teleprompter. He was supposed to be relaxed and witty. Avery had mentioned
funny personal anecdotes
as a good thing.

Had anything even remotely funny ever happened to him?

My wife dumped me last month … ba dump ba. Funny enough?

Applause thundered, shook the soundstage. On the wall, a red light flashed.

Avery tapped his shoulder. “You're on, Jack. Break a leg.”

He mumbled something—he had no idea what—and stumbled around the corner. The lights were Broadway bright and aimed at his face. He could barely make out the stacked rows of people. He blinked suddenly, realized the lights weren't aimed at him; he was staring right into one.

Idiot.

His smile felt awkward, as if he'd borrowed it from a bigger man.

Jay was coming toward him, hand outstretched.

“Jumpin' Jack Flash,” he said, smiling.

And just that easy, Jack's nerves dissipated. He'd forgotten that: he was The Flash. “Hey, Jay.” He waved at the crowd, who applauded wildly.

He followed Jay across the brightly lit stage. He was at the big wooden desk when he saw her. At the same time, he heard Jay's voice.

“… Thea wanted to stay. She says football is her second favorite sport.”

There was a whoop of approval from the audience.

Thea got up from her seat and walked toward him. Her thin, leggy body was barely covered by a strapless black top and a hot pink miniskirt. She wore almost no makeup; her wheat-blond hair looked as it if had been hacked with a Weed Eater. It was sexy as hell. In heels, she was as tall as he.

For a split second, he was sixteen years old again, a kid pinning Farrah Fawcett posters to his wall.

Thea grinned at the crowd. “Now,
this
is a good-looking man, am I wrong, ladies?”

He almost passed out, honest to God. The lights overhead felt interrogation-hot all of a sudden. He smelled her perfume, musky and sweet at the same time. He nodded and forced himself to turn away, afraid he'd look at her too long.

He took his seat.

“So,” Jay said, sitting behind his desk, “you've been stirring up the sports world a bit.”

“I was in the right place at the right time when the story broke.” He'd had to practice humility in the mirror. It didn't come naturally.

Jay grinned. “I'll bet it's good to be back in the limelight.”

“It is.”

“What were the nonfootball years like?”

Every celebrity asked him that. Nothing scared a famous person more than the thought of a sudden plunge into obscurity. “Like trading in a Ferrari for a used Volvo.”

“Ouch,” Jay said, and the audience laughed. “What made you do it? A lot of athletes are plenty pissed off.”

“I'm a father,” he said simply. “It could have been one of my daughters in that room with Drew Grayland. We need to go back to the days when good sportsmanship mattered, on and off the field.”

The audience erupted into applause again. A few “boos” rose above the noise.

The interview lasted another few minutes. Jay was a genius at pulling a funny remark out of serious statement, while not making light of the subject.

Then, suddenly, it was over. The music started, the lights came up, and Jay stood. He clapped Jack on the back. “You were great.”

Jack felt like he'd just led his team to a Super Bowl victory.

Thea walked over to Jay and kissed his cheek. “Thanks.” She lowered her voice, said something else. Jay laughed, then waved at Jack and left the stage.

Still smiling, Thea walked over to Jack. A slow smile curved her full, puffy lips. She was certain of her effect on men; took it for granted, he'd say. “You were good,” she purred, leaning closer.

“Thanks.”

“Would you like—”

Sally came up beside him. “You were
great
,” she said breathlessly. To Thea, she said, “I'm Sally. Jack's assistant. It's an honor to meet you.”

Thea looked at Sally's hand, placed possessively on Jack's forearm. “How lucky for you. I'd better run. I've got a premiere tonight.” When she smiled at Jack, he felt a rush of pure heat. “It was nice to meet you. I hope to see you again.”

“Uh, yeah. Me, too.”

When she was gone, he looked down at Sally, who was staring up at him as if he were a god.

NINETEEN

On Friday, Meghann called exactly on time.

Elizabeth considered not answering, but knew it would be pointless. Meghann would just call back every five minutes until she got through.

With a sigh, she answered the phone. “Heya, Meg.”

“I would have let it ring forever, you know.”

Elizabeth sat down at the kitchen table. “The thought occurred to me.”

“Tonight's the big night. The painting class you told me about. God, I wish I could be there.”

“You mean you wish you were driving me to class.”

“And walking you to the door.”

Elizabeth smiled a little. “I did consider not going.”

“Of course you did. But if you don't do it now …” Meg let the sentence trail off, unfinished. An uncoalesced threat, worse somehow for having no form.

“I know. And I'm going. I
am
.”

“Good. Will you call me when you get home? I have a date, so I should be home by nine o'clock at the latest.”

“Is that his curfew?”

“Very funny. He happens to be twenty-eight, a most respectable age. I just don't waste time anymore. If a date isn't going well in the first thirty minutes, believe me, it's not going to pick up.”

“Maybe he'll surprise you.”

“Birdie, they all surprise me. Last week, I hugged my date at the door and felt a bra strap. Well, I gotta go. Keep your chin up and remember how talented you are.”

Were.

“I'll remember,” she said.

“Keep moving. Don't stop or slow down until your ass is in the chair.”

“Okay.”

For the next hour, Elizabeth followed her best friend's advice. She didn't allow herself to pause or sigh or slow down or think.

Pack the supply bag.

Take a shower.

Dry your hair.

Get dressed.

Drive.

She managed to get to the community college in less than thirty minutes. She parked right in front and went inside.

Outside classroom 108, a sign was posted. It read: beginning painting/ 5:00.

Cautiously, she opened the door. Inside the small classroom, there were six or seven people—all women—seated in a semicircle. In front of them, a long table was draped in white fabric. A brown wooden bowl sat in the middle; it was piled high with bright red apples.

She tried her best to move invisibly as she sidled around a pressboard bookcase and toward a vacant seat. She held her canvas bag against her chest as if it were a bulletproof vest.

Behind her, the door opened, then closed softly. A male voice said, “Welcome to Beginning Painting. If you've brought macramé supplies, you're in the wrong room.”

He walked between the chairs in that easy, loose-hipped way one associated with cowboys or dancers. He wore a black T-shirt that pulled taut across his shoulder blades, and a pair of faded Levi's. When he reached the chalkboard and turned around, Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath. She didn't think she was the only woman who reacted that way.

He was young—no more than twenty-nine or thirty—
but my God,
he was good-looking. Brad Pitt in
Thelma and Louise
good-looking.

“I'm Daniel Boudreaux,” he said, flashing a white smile. “I'm your instructor for the next six weeks. My job is to introduce you to painting.” His blue-eyed gaze moved from face to face; it paused for a moment on Elizabeth, or had she imagined that? “Hopefully, this'll be the start of a love affair that will last the rest of your lives. For those of you who care about such things—and you shouldn't, this is art, after all—I studied at RISD and Yale. I have an overload of knowledge and an appalling lack of talent. However, that doesn't stop me. I fish in Alaska all summer and paint all winter.” He moved away from the chalkboard and stood by the table with the fruit.

“Let's talk a little about composition …”

Elizabeth's heart was pounding hard.
Soon,
she thought,
soon he'd say, “Okay, class, let's begin.”

“… The truest expression of art can't be found on the tip of a brush. It's in the artist's eye.…”

Elizabeth had been a fool to think she could do this. She'd forgotten how to think like an artist, how to let her emotions flow into a paintbrush.

“… Like anything else, painting requires some preparation. None of that mixing your own oils yet. We'll start with acrylics and make a working palette. Do you see the foil-covered oval I've placed by your chair?”

Elizabeth unpacked her supplies in slow motion. The lethargy made sense; she was using muscles that had atrophied.

“… We'll begin on paper, and work our way toward canvas. So pin your paper up …”

Elizabeth clipped a long, rough sheet of paper onto the easel in front of her chair. She started to reach into her bag, then realized that no one else had moved. She put her hands back in her lap.

“… Now look at the fruit, really look at it. Study the way the lines curl and slice, the way light reflects on the flat surfaces and disappears in the hollows. Painting is about
seeing
. Look at the bowl, feel its texture in your mind, discern the colors that combine within it. When you're ready, begin. Later on, we'll start with sketches and ideas, but for now, I want you to dive right in. Imagine yourself as a child with a set of paints. Freedom in its purest form.”

Elizabeth heard the sound of paintbrushes being smashed into paint—too hard—the
thwop
of overwet bristles hitting the paper.

She cleared her mind of everything except the fruit. Just that. Light and shadow; color, lines, and composition …

She realized with a start that she wasn't alone. He was beside her, Daniel, and he was bending down.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

She felt herself flush. “I'm sorry. What did you say?” She turned to look up at him so fast they almost conked heads.

He stepped back and laughed. “What's your name?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Okay, Elizabeth, what's wrong? You haven't started.”

“I can't see it yet.”

“The apples? You could move closer.”

“No … the painting.”

“Ah. Now, that's an interesting answer. Close your eyes.”

She followed his direction and immediately wished she hadn't. In the darkness, he felt nearer somehow; she could smell the tangy scent of his aftershave.

“Describe the fruit.”

“It's in a wooden bowl, hand-carved I think by someone who wasn't very good. It's from a solid piece of wood. The table is one of those metal lunchroom tables, probably with a wood-grain top, that you've covered with an inexpensive white cotton cloth. The apples are McIntosh, red with strands of green and black, almost heart-shaped. Light hits them on the right side. There's a feather at the edge of the table, maybe a blue jay's.”

He was quiet for a moment. She could feel the beating of her heart. It was so loud she wondered if he could hear it.
Woman drops dead in art class because hunk tells her to describe apples. Story at eleven.
“You don't like the look of them,” he said at last. “Something's wrong. I've set them out badly. How should I have done it?”

“The tablecloth should be yellow. There should be one apple; no, an orange. No bowl. Everything else is clutter.”

He leaned closer. She felt the separation of air as he moved, the sound of his breathing. Then he touched her hand. She flinched, tried to pull away. He wouldn't let her. The next thing she knew, she was holding a paintbrush.

She opened her eyes. He was looking right at her.

“Show me what you can do, Elizabeth.”

He was so near she couldn't think straight, couldn't draw an even breath. She tilted the paintbrush in her hand, let it settle into its place.

Suddenly all she could see was the painting—her painting. A single, plump Sunkist orange. Everything around it was bright sunlight and yellow cloth. The shadow it cast was the palest lavender. A tiny green blemish marred the orange's puckered peel. She dipped the sable tip into the paint—Naples yellow—and began.

She couldn't stop. Her blood was on fire, her hands were a whir of motion. Her heart was pounding in her chest and in her temples. It felt like the start of a migraine, but she didn't care. It was better than sex—better than any sex she'd had in years, anyway.

When she finished, her breath expelled in a rush, and she realized only then that she'd been holding it.

She was shaking, sweating. She felt sick to her stomach and exhilarated. Slowly, she looked around.

The room was empty.

She glanced up at the clock. It was eight o'clock. An hour after the end of class. “Oh, my God.” She laughed, feeling great.

“Where did you study?”

She turned and saw Daniel leaning against the bookcases in the back of the room. He was staring at her with an intensity that was unnerving. She felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach, a kind of restlessness that set her on edge. “The University of Washington. About a thousand years ago.”

He moved toward her. “Was Waldgrin there?”

That surprised her. “Yeah, he was. Did you know Leo?”

“Are you kidding? I hitchhiked cross-country to study with him.”

“He's a wonderful teacher.”

Daniel came up beside her. For a long moment, he looked at her painting—a childish explosion of color, she saw now; no precision, no sophistication—then he looked at her.

She felt it again, that tightening in her stomach that reminded her of high school. And she knew what it was: attraction. She was attracted to this man who was probably half her age.

Oh, God.
Could he read it on her face? What if he asked her out—what would she say?
You're too young. Too handsome. I'm too old. My underwear is the size of a circus tent.

Had she actually thought that? Fantasized about him asking her out? In Jamie-speak:
As if.

He smiled slowly. “Why are you in my class?”

“I haven't painted in a long time.”

“That's a crime.”

Her fingers were trembling as she removed her painting from the easel and put the supplies away. Holding the damp paper gently, she slung her canvas bag over her shoulder and headed out. She was at the door when he said, “You have talent, you know.”

Elizabeth didn't dare turn around. Her grin was so big she probably looked like the Joker—and with her wrinkles that'd scare pretty boy to death.

She smiled all the way home. More than once, she laughed out loud.

At home, Elizabeth taped the painting to the refrigerator and stared at it.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this good. She'd accomplished something. And not something easy, like negotiating a good deal for an antique or picking the right fabric for the sofa. This was something that
mattered
.

She poured herself a glass of wine, then grabbed the phone and called Meghann. The answering machine picked up.

“I painted, Meg.
Painted! Yee-ha.
And just for the record, my instructor is a doll. The perfect age for you. Call me when you get home.”

Laughing, she put on a Smash Mouth CD. “Hey Now, You're an All Star” blasted through the speakers. She sang along, dancing all by herself in the living room. As she twirled past the fireplace, she caught sight of the photo on the mantel and came to a stop.

It was Jack and the girls. She couldn't quite remember when it had been taken, but there was snow in the background and everyone was dressed for an overnight stay in the Arctic.

Jack wore a sheepskin-lined beige suede jacket; his hair was too long. The first threads of gray shaded the hair above his ears.

Suddenly she wished he were here right now. He would be proud of her. The old love, the feeling that had been such a part of her, came back now, reminding her that life had once been good with Jack. She'd almost forgotten that.

She moved on to the picture beside it. This was an old shot, taken years ago. She was dressed in a plaid skirt and a shetland wool sweater, with a strand of pearls at her throat. He wore Calvin Klein jeans, a letterman's jacket, and a football star's cocky smile. Behind them, the ice cream cone of Mount Rainier floated above Frosh Pond.

The University of Washington.

The sand castle years.

She closed her eyes, swaying to the music, remembering those days … the first time he'd kissed her …

They'd been studying together, sitting on a flat, grassy place in the Quad. It had been late spring; the cherry trees were just past full bloom, and tiny pink blossoms floated randomly to the ground. All around them, kids in shorts and T-shirts played Frisbee and kicked Hacky Sacks around.

Jack leaned over and slapped her book shut. “You know what they say about studying. If you do it too much, you'll go blind.”

Laughing, she flopped back onto the grass and rested her hands behind her head.

He lay down beside her, on his side, with his head supported on one hand. “You're so beautiful. I guess your Harvard fiancé tells you that all the time.”

“No.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. A pink cherry blossom petal landed on her cheek.

He brushed it away, and at the contact, she shivered. Slowly, he leaned toward her, giving her plenty of time to stop him, to roll away.

She lay very still, breathing too quickly.

It wasn't much of a kiss; no more than a quick, scared brushing of lips. When he drew back, she saw that he was as shaken as she. She started to cry.

“Could you ever love a guy like me?”

“Oh, Jack,” she answered, “why do you think I'm crying?”

She touched the photograph, let her finger glide across his handsome face. No other man's kiss had ever made her cry.

For the first time in weeks, she wondered if there was still a chance for them.