Distant Shores (29 page)

She looked at him then, her eyes watery with tears that didn't fall. “I love you, Daddy.”

He pulled her into his arms.

By the time Elizabeth returned to the house from the airport, it was almost completely dark outside. Night coated the trees; they stood in black relief against the neon pink sunset. When she opened the door and went inside, she opened her mouth to call out for Anita.

I'm home.

But Anita was on an airplane, flying east.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and went up to her bedroom, where the papers Meghann had sent to her were stacked neatly beside her bed. She picked them up, stared down at them. Letterheads blurred before her eyes. Columbia University … SUNY … NYU. All New York schools. Near Jack.

Pretty subtle, Meg.

She tucked the papers under her arm, then grabbed a yellow legal pad and a pen. Downstairs, she took a seat at the kitchen table and began filling out the forms. When she'd finished that, she picked up the phone and called Meghann.

“Hey, Meg,” she said without preamble. “I need you to write a letter of recommendation for me. I'm applying for grad school.”

Meghann screamed into the phone. “Oh, my
God
! I'm so proud of you. I'm hanging up now; I have to draft a letter that makes my best friend sound like da Vinci in a bra and panties.”

Elizabeth hung up, then called Daniel, who had pretty much the same reaction. She spoke to him for a few minutes, gave him the schools and addresses, then hung up. A third call to the University of Washington had her dusty transcripts sent out.

There were only two things left to do. Photograph her work so that she'd have slides to put in a portfolio to be included with the application, and write her admission essay. Three hundred words on why they should let a forty-six-year-old woman into graduate school.

She poured herself a glass of wine and returned to the kitchen table.

She opened the yellow pad to a blank page and began to write.

Right off the bat, I should tell you that I'm forty-six years old. Perhaps that's relevant only to me, and then again, perhaps not. I'm sure your school will be inundated with applications from twenty-one-year-old students with perfect grades and stellar talents. Honestly, I don't see how my record can compete with theirs.

Unless dreams matter. I know a dream is a dream is a dream, but to the young, such a thing is simply a goal to reach for, a prize to win. For a woman like me, who has spent half a lifetime facilitating other people's aspirations, it has a whole different meaning.

Once, years ago, I was told that I had talent. It seemed an insubstantial thing then, not unlike hair color or gender. Something that had traveled in my DNA. I didn't see then—as of course I do now—that such a thing is a gift. A starting place upon which whole lives can be built. I let it pass me by, and went on with everyday life. I got married, had children, and put aside thoughts of who I'd once wanted to be.

Life goes by so quickly. One minute you're twenty years old and filled with fire; the next, you're forty-six and tired in the mornings. But if you're very lucky, a single moment can change everything.

That's what happened to me this year. I wakened. Like Sleeping Beauty, I opened my eyes, yawned, and dared to look around. What I saw was a woman who'd forgotten how it felt to paint.

Now, I remember. I have spent the last few months studying again, pouring my heart and soul onto canvas, and have found—miraculously—that my talent survived. Certainly it is weaker, less formed than it was long ago, but I am stronger. My vision is clearer. This time, I know, I have something to say with my art.

And so, I am here, sitting at my kitchen table, entreating you to give me a chance, to make a place for me in your classrooms next fall. I cannot guarantee that I will become famous or exceptional. I can, however, promise that I will give everything inside me to the pursuit of excellence.

I will not stop trying.

Jack maneuvered his rental car down Stormwatch Lane. It was full-on night now, as dark as pitch as he pulled into the carport.

The house glowed with golden light against the onyx hillside.

He went to the front door and knocked. There was no answer, so he let himself in.

She was in the living room, dancing all by herself, wearing a long white T-shirt and fuzzy pink socks. She held an empty wineglass to her mouth and sang along with the record, “I can see clearly now, the rain is gone.” Her butt twitched back and forth.

She turned suddenly and saw him. A bright smile lit up her face, and it was an arrow straight into his heart. Now he knew what the poets meant when they wrote about coming home.

In the old days, when he'd come home after a long absence, she'd run full tilt into his arms. They'd fit together like pieces of a puzzle; another thing he'd taken for granted.

Now they stared at each other, with the whole of the living room stretched between them. There was so much he wanted to say. He'd practiced the words all the way across the country, but how much would she want to hear?

“You won't believe what I did tonight,” she said, coming toward him, doing a little dance.

“What?” It threw him off-balance, seeing her so shiny and bright. She looked happier than he could ever remember. Maybe it was because she
liked
being away from him.

“I applied to grad school.”

“Grad school?” Whatever he'd expected, it sure as hell wasn't that. He felt a rush of pride that immediately turned cold. “Where?”

“Oh, I thought I'd try … New York.” She smiled up at him. “That's where my husband lives. I didn't see any reason to go to school somewhere else.”

He could breathe again. “I'm proud of you, baby. I always knew you had talent.”

“They might not accept me.”

“They'll accept you.”

“If they don't, I'll try again next year, and the year after that. Maybe I'll go for the
Guinness Book of Records
.” She smiled.

“They offered me the
NFL Sunday
show.”

“That's great. When do you start?”

“I haven't given them an answer. I told them I needed to talk to my wife.”

“You're kidding?”

He dared to reach for her. When he took her hand, she let him lead her to the sofa. He thought about all the words he'd come prepared to offer.
I love you, Birdie.
Those were the ones that mattered most of all; everything else was frosting. Somewhere along the course of two dozen years, they'd let that simple phrase erode into rote. Now he wanted to have it back, all of it. “I don't want to live without you anymore.”

“You don't?” Her easy smile faded away. There was a new look in her eyes, something he didn't quite recognize. It frightened him a little, reminded him that she had Changed.

“You're my center, Birdie. I never knew how much I loved you until you were gone.”

She leaned forward and kissed him, whispering, “I missed you,” against his lips.

The words he'd been waiting for. And just that easily, he was home.

After the kiss, he drew back slightly, just enough to look her in the eyes. “This time it's
our
life, Birdie. I mean it. Nothing matters more than us. Nothing. That's why I didn't agree to take the job yet.”

“Oh, Jack.” She gently touched his face, and the familiarity of the gesture was almost painful. “I've learned something about dreams. They don't come true every day. And love … love might be fragile, but it's also stronger than I ever imagined. Take the job. We'll find a nice loft in Chelsea or TriBeCa. Somewhere I can paint.”

They would make it this time, he knew it. After twenty-four years of marriage, and two children, they had finally found their way.

“Show me your work,” he said.

Her face lit up. She grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet. Hand in hand, they walked through the kitchen. She let go of his hand just long enough to dart into the pantry, then came out holding a huge painting.

She set it up against the cupboards and stood back. “You don't have to pretend you like it,” she said nervously.

He was too stunned to say anything.

Her painting was a haunting, sorrowful stretch of coastline in winter, painted in grays and purples and blacks. In the distance, a lone figure walked along the beach. It saddened him somehow, made him think about how fast life could pass a person by, how easy it was to walk past what mattered because you were busy looking into the future. “Jesus, Birdie … it's amazing.” He turned to her, said softly, “You were painting the first time we met, remember? Near the marshes at the edge of Lake Washington. There was a dock in your painting and it looked lonely, too, like this beach … abandoned. I remember wanting to tell you that the picture made me feel sad, but I didn't dare.”

She tilted her chin up. “I can't believe you remember all that.”

“I forgot it for a long time. But nothing felt right without you. My world went from color to black-and-white.” He touched her face, felt the warmth of her skin. “You take my breath away, Birdie.”

“I love you, Jack. I'll never forget that again.”

This time, when Jack leaned down to kiss her, he was the one who cried.

SUMMER

You are never given a wish
without also being given the power
to make it true.
You may have to work for it, however.

—Richard Bach,
Illusions

The letter came nearly six weeks later.

Dear Ms. Shore:

We are pleased to welcome you to Columbia University School of the Arts.…

For Benjamin and Tucker.

As always.