Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing) (21 page)

Could there be another? I tear into the box and rip out its false bottom, scrabble through the envelopes, unfolding and refolding my parents’ love affair, but there is nothing else. Not for me.

But that’s okay, because I have all I need.

Shifting my cat to one side, I stand up, stiff and sore from sitting too long. It’s time, I think, to open another piece of my past.

Is Claudia right? Am I strong enough now?

Two weeks before Emma Katherine was born, I made her a treasure box and decorated it with red butterflies and sunny yellow daisies. I drilled holes for the tiny gold hinges, then attached the delicate gold clasp.

Richard had snorted. “What’s with all the girly stuff? Why not trucks and trains?”

We didn’t have ultrasound in those days, and amniocentesis was used only if the doctor suspected a problem. Richard wanted a son. But I knew I was having a girl. A little girl with eyes like the ocean and hair the color of nutmeg.

Her box lies in my cedar chest beneath layers of lambswool blankets, monogrammed sheets, and damask tablecloths. Wedding gifts I’ve rarely used.

I open the lid, peel back the tissue.

Everything’s exactly the way I remember.

Cream matinee jacket with satin ribbons and yarn soft as a newborn’s hair.
K2, wrn, sl 1, K1, psso.
How I struggled with that pattern.

A bonnet no bigger than my fist.

Six undershirts with snaps.

Two pairs of booties the size of small mushrooms.

The cake decoration from my shower, a tiny stork made from tinfoil and toothpicks.

I return Emma’s treasures to her box and place it, along with Katie’s, inside my cedar chest.

When I least expect it, my mother’s letter steals up behind me like a loved-one who puts their hands over your eyes and dares you to guess who they are. Cherishing her words, I smile and write gushy e-mails to my sons, painting a cheerful picture of my newly washed past. I receive an automated response from Alistair—he’s somewhere in North Dakota, digging up dinosaur bones—and a worried phone call from Jordan. I assure him I’m fine, yes, really fine, and I promise to fill in the blanks when he and his brother come home in September for Labor Day.

I’ll also tell them about Colin, about Emma Katherine.

It’s a lot to swallow. I hope they can handle it.

Determined to make a good last impression, I finish my project for Elaine two days before deadline. I drop by her office, leave the box with Quentin, her assistant, and make an appointment to return at ten o’clock Monday morning. I’ll wear a dress, or a suit, and real shoes and perhaps I’ll even wear pantyhose, if I can find any without holes. I’ll show up five minutes early. I’ll smile and make small talk with the staff and be professional and dignified when I tell Elaine we’re through. Maybe we’ll manage to part on good terms, although I doubt it. Elaine’s not the forgiving sort.

After picking up a loaf of French bread and a carton of milk from Tuttle’s, I drive home with a delicious sense of accomplishment, kick off my shoes, and climb into cutoffs and a t-shirt.

Three more days and it’ll be over.

I’ll have paid my dues, with interest, which means I’ll never have to deal with Elaine Burke again. To celebrate my freedom, I write a long e-mail to Colin and I’m about to push
send
when Quentin rings up.

“One of the slides is missing.”

“That’s impossible,” I say. “Did you count them?”

“Of course.”

“Please check again.”

There’s an awkward silence, then Quentin says, “Elaine wants you to come right over. With the slide.”

“But it’s not here.”

I hear a click and Elaine’s voice interrupts. “Jillian, where’s that slide?”

“I don’t have it.”

“Of course you do. Where else would it be?”

My self-control slips. “I never lose photographs.”

“You have this time,” Elaine says. “I trust you’ll find it and bring it over without delay.”

Could I have lost that damn slide? Highly unlikely, but I give Elaine the benefit of the doubt and tear my office apart. I move furniture, upend boxes and waste bins, and reach into unknown territory between my desk and the file cabinet. I find several items I didn’t know were missing, but Elaine’s slide isn’t one of them. I’m about to call her back when she beats me to the punch.

“Did you find it?”

“No, Elaine, and I didn’t lose that slide. It has to be—”

“You do realize, don’t you, all the trouble you’ve caused by—” There’s a lengthy pause and I hear Quentin’s voice in the background. A door slams, then Elaine’s back on the line. “Never mind. It’s been found,” she says and rings off.

Just like that.

No apology. Not even a hint of remorse. All this trauma over a fucking slide. Whoever said don’t sweat the small stuff has obviously never worked for Elaine.

The bitch. The sodding awful bitch.

She’s not going to get away with it. Not this time. I snatch my keys from the counter, race for my car, and roar out of the driveway, wheels spitting gravel like buckshot. I stamp on the gas and jackhammer down my dirt road as if the marsh cats had turned into tigers and were chasing me.

Halfway to the village, I cut my speed. No sense risking a ticket. Why the hell do I let Elaine goad me like this? Stumped for an answer, I swerve into the alley behind her building, slam the Volvo into a reserved parking space, and wrench open the door. Stop a minute and think. Maybe this isn’t such a hot idea. Rampaging into Elaine’s office, unannounced and barefoot, isn’t the businesslike image I’d planned to present.

Jill, go home. Right now. Shower. Change.

No.

Revenge. I want full-blooded, face-to-face revenge.

Or, at the very least, an abject apology.

So, wearing grubby shorts and a t-shirt with the words
cleverly disguised as a responsible adult
across the front, I charge into Elaine’s front office and surprise everyone there by demanding to see the boss. Immediately.

“She’s busy with a deadline.”

“Too bad.” I shoot Quentin an evil grin.

He shrugs and waves me into her office. “It’s your funeral.”

The door whispers shut behind me.

Elaine’s inner sanctum is a cliché of chrome and glass, leather upholstery, and the overpowering smell of money. The whole back wall is a window that overlooks the harbor. Her forty-foot cabin cruiser is tied up below. Wearing a sleeveless black tunic over taupe linen pants, Elaine is holding a slide up to the light, head tilted in such a way that her glossy auburn hair looks as if it’s been painted onto her skull and varnished with polyurethane.

Thick carpet muffles my approach. I halt in front of Elaine’s desk, clear my throat. She turns, drops the slide, and gasps, her mouth a crimson O of surprise.

“What are
you
doing here?” Eyes like boiled marbles bore into me. She’s wearing colored contacts. Emerald. Last week, they were turquoise.

“Well?” Elaine taps a blood-red talon on her desk.

Never mind, it’s been found.

“You accused me of losing that slide,” I say. “But when it turned up in your office, you didn’t bother to apologize.”

“Don’t be childish,” she snaps. “I’m busy. I don’t have time to—”

“Apologies,” I say, “take no time at all.”

In the outer office, a telephone rings.

“Whatever,” Elaine says, baring teeth that are whiter than teeth need to be. “Is there anything else on your mind?”

Every deadline she’s blown, all the criticism she’s lobbed at me, the all-nighters I’ve pulled, the freebies I’ve never been thanked for, rise to the surface like farts in a bathtub.

And boy, do they stink.

I clench and unclench my fists and step back to fling open the door. “I want everyone to hear this.”

“Jillian. Stop the drama and close the door.”

Two of Elaine’s staff move closer.

“Working for you has been the most disagreeable experience I’ve ever had,” I say, loving every minute of my revenge. “And I’ve put up with your rude and demanding behavior because, quite frankly, I couldn’t afford to do otherwise.” I allow my words to sink in. “Until now.”

Gasps waft in from the other room.

“Close that door.”

“If you want it closed,” I say, folding my arms, “do it yourself.”

Silence.

Behind me, someone snickers. Elaine strides across the floor, slams the door. Her
Realtor of the Year Award
falls off the wall, bounces twice, and lands upside down on three inches of beige broadloom.

“I don’t know why—?” she begins.

“All you need to know,” I say, loud enough to be heard through the door, “is that I’m terminating our business relationship. We’re finished.” I point toward the slide. “This was our last project.”

“But—”

“Find someone else to kick around, because I’m through being a target for your vindictive temper.” I turn and stalk out of Elaine’s office without looking back.

Someone applauds. Quentin, perhaps?

Sands Point

July 2011

A week before Colin arrives, three clients back out of projects I’ve been counting on to see me through the summer.

“We need to reconsider our options,” says the Mercedes dealer.

Pompous prat.

“We’ve exceeded our budget for this year.” This from the guy who sells million-dollar boats. Bowling alleys with rudders and lace curtains.

The third one makes me sad. “We can’t afford you any more,” admits the owner of The Contented Figleaf. I had such great plans for promoting that dear little restaurant and they didn’t include naked garden gnomes, either.

Okay, so what’s left? Flyers for Tuttle’s weekly specials, an article for
Paws and Claws
about feral cats, and the village’s Fall Festival. My presentation is due at the chamber of commerce tomorrow.

I’ll deliver it today, instead.

Gary Kesselbaum, a portly, fretful man with a mottled face who favors three-piece suits and a pocket watch, even in summer, is reclining in his swivel chair and talking on the phone when I edge through the door, arms loaded with folders. I dump them on a table, help myself to a cup of the chamber’s free but truly horrible coffee, and scan the jokes in last month’s
Reader’s Digest
.

When Gary hangs up, I smile and place my proposal on his desk. This is the best one yet. Banners wide enough to span Bay Street, pennants and posters to adorn lampposts and shop windows. Maps of the village with discount coupons. An article for the
Hartford Courant
. Radio announcements and a promise from Channel 8 in New Haven to give us a plug on the six o’clock news.

With a flourish, I open the top folder, but Gary doesn’t even look. His eyes, pale and anxious behind horn-rimmed glasses, slide over mine and come to rest somewhere beyond my left shoulder. I turn, expecting to see someone else but there’s only the two us here.

“I’m sorry, Jill,” he says, “but we won’t be needing you this year.”

I stare at him, too stunned to reply.

“It’s out of my hands.” Gary eases the collar of his shirt with his thumb and reveals an angry-looking heat rash. “I’m no longer in charge of the festival.”

Fumbling for a chair, I sit down with a thump. What the hell is he talking about? This is
my
festival. I’m the one who suggested it when the chamber was looking for ways to extend the village’s tourist season beyond Labor Day. I’d just struck out on my own and was desperate for clients so I tossed out the concept of a festival like the ones they have farther north during leaf-peeping season.

Hayrides and pumpkins and hot apple cider.

Chrysanthemums and cornstalks. Arts and crafts. Antiques.

A carnival for the kids. Discount shopping for the adults. Jazz concerts in the gazebo, foliage cruises along the shore. The town fathers jumped on the plan, and my graphic arts business was off and running. This was ten years ago. Since then, the festival’s expanded from a one-day sidewalk sale to a week-long extravaganza that attracts tourists from all over New England and I’ve handled all its promotion and publicity. Without a contract. The chamber and I have a handshake agreement.

The hairs on my arm stand to attention. Is it me, or has the air conditioning been cranked up? I shiver. What the fuck is going on?

“So, who
is
in charge?” I ask.

Gary Kesselbaum clears his throat. “Elaine Burke.”

“That bloody woman has blackballed me,” I complain to Harriet. It’s Friday and I’ve conned her into wine and pizza on the beach. Anna and Beatrice are down by the water, digging for clams.

“I’m not surprised,” Harriet says. “You charged into her office like a menopausal cowboy.”

“Jilly the Kid with six-guns and a hot flash?”

Harriet laughs. “So, how many clients do you have left?”

None.

“Enough to get by,” I say.

“Are you okay for money?”

I have ten-thousand dollars in my sock drawer.

“I’m fine, absolutely fine.” Colin’s check is going in the bank. I’m through being stubborn. What the hell, I can’t
afford
to be stubborn any more. My behavior in Elaine’s office has backfired all over the village. Even my bread-and-butter accounts have bailed out, including Tuttle’s Market. I’m still smarting over Jim’s apologetic e-mail that showed up this morning. Elaine owns half the commercial real estate in town, so I guess she put the screws to Jim and the others. Probably threatened to double their rent if they didn’t cut me off at the knees.

Harriet nudges me with her foot. “How’s it going with your book?”

“Archibald?”

“Anna’s hoping for a story.”

“So am I.”

“Then you’d better get busy.” Harriet hands me another slice of pizza. “Who’s that?” she says, looking over my shoulder.