Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing) (28 page)

“Molly?”

“Who else?”

Tom laughs. “She’s my granddaughter.”

Zachary leaps on the table and licks the butter. I’m too stunned to stop him. “But what about Carrie?”

“What about her?”

“She’s your wife.”

“You’ve really got things screwed up, haven’t you,” Tom says. “Carrie’s my daughter, and Molly is hers.”

Feeling like a prize ass, I duck my head and stumble into the hall, pulling my bathrobe together with one hand while gesturing toward the front door with the other. “Thanks for the sink, but I’d like you to leave.”

“Why?”

“Because—”

“How about having dinner with me?”

“No. Please leave.” I take a deep breath. “Right now.”

“But why?” Tom says. “I’m available.”

“No, you’re intolerable.”

He grins at me. “Then I’ll have to do something about that,” he says, picking up the broom I’ve left by the door. “Nice bristles. I hear they make wonderful whiskers.”

The blush I’ve been dreading sweeps up my neck like a tidal wave and I slam the door with a force that rattles its frame. Breathing hard, I lean against it while anger and embarrassment battle for control.

Thud.

When I’m positive he’s gone, I open the door.

One leather sandal, minus a buckle, lies on my door mat.

Sands Point

November 2011

I’m about to kick Tom’s sandal off the porch when the telephone rings. If that’s him, I’ll throw the damn phone at the wall. I’ll—

But it’s Lizzie.

“Hey, what’s up?” she says.

“I don’t believe it,” I say, heading for the bathroom. “I don’t bloody believe it.”

“Huh?”

Cradling the phone with one shoulder, I rummage in the cabinet for a Tylenol. My head is reminding me I have a hangover. “He’s not married. He fooled us.”

“Who did?

“Tom Grainger.”

“Jill, what the hell are you talking about?”

I swallow the pill without water. “Carrie’s his daughter, not his wife. He just unclogged my sink.”

Silence from Lizzie’s end, and I imagine her pursed lips, her wrinkled brow and cocked head as she tries to solve this equation.

“And the connection here is?” she finally says.

I explain and she snorts with laughter. “That’s not all,” I say, glaring at the toilet my neighbor just mended. “Remember that stupid monk?”

“The one you danced with till midnight?”

“Did not.”

“What about him?”

I spit out his name. “It was Tom Grainger.”

“Jill, that’s priceless. How did you find out?”

“He left a sandal on my porch.”

“Sandal?”

“The one missing a buckle.”

“Holy shit,” Lizzie says, laughing even louder now. “Cinderella the Monk.” She catches her breath. “Which of course, makes you Princess Charming.”

“Bloody hell!”

“Your anger,” Lizzie says, with exasperating patience, “is bombing the wrong target. Stop beating on the guy who’s taken care of your cat and fixed your sink and get mad with the man who really hurt you.” She pauses. “Think about it and call me tomorrow.”

The phone clicks softly and disconnects.

I stomp into my office and stare at the photo I ought to have tossed in the trash. Reaching forward, I drag my fingernail over Colin’s face, his nose, his lips; along the curve of his shoulder and down his arm, across those lean fingers that touched and teased—

He brought me to a place I never reached before.

Just rip the damned thing off the wall.

I can’t.

My hand trembles and I snatch it back. What the hell am I supposed to do? Stick pins in his eyes? Burn his letters? Cut the sleeves off that pink shirt?

Does he remember wearing it the day I fell back into his life?

Why the hell do I still love him so much?

If I could just hear his voice, ask why he left the way he did. Does he think of me at all, or am I a regrettable memory he’s thrown in the trash? My hand reaches for the phone, my fingers punch in his number, and my heart lurches. Suppose he answers. What will I say?

“North Lodge. May I help you?”

Christ, it’s him.

I hang up.

Two days later, I pluck up my courage and try again. This time I don’t chicken out when he answers. “Colin, it’s Jilly. I need to—”

“Sorry, there’s no one here by that name.”

I’ve never felt so betrayed by anyone in my life.

The Sunday paper has plenty of openings for systems analysts, home health aides, and database managers, but precious few for people with my skills and I’m about to give up when a small ad catches my eye. A media publisher—whatever that is—needs a typesetter. Call for appointment.

I can handle that.

“Come and see me tomorrow,” the man shouts above the noise of machinery in the background. “Five o’clock. Bring a résumé.”

Even though he didn’t ask, I’m going to take my portfolio. Maybe I can convince him they need a graphic artist as well.

After several wrong turns, I reach my destination—a dismal, one-story building with a cement floor and no windows. People hunch over keyboards; others sit at long tables reading proofs. A woman with a haircut that reminds me of a corn muffin hurries past carrying a clipboard and yelling instructions above the roar of presses that churn through miles of paper in a room the size of a supermarket.

Phones ring.

Nobody smiles.

My interview is with the production manager, a thin, hollow-cheeked man who reeks of cigarettes. He glances at my résumé, ignores my portfolio, and offers me a job.

Surprised, I say, “When do you want me to start?”

“Thursday.”

“Then I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.” I hold out my hand.

He grasps it with nicotine stained fingers. “Seven thirty sharp.”

The wall outside his office is stacked high with boxes of coupon books, begging letters, and credit card offers. Stuff that clogs mailboxes and drives everyone mad.

A plow with flashing red lights pulls into the parking lot. How can so much snow pile up in less than half an hour? Slipping and sliding, I make a mad dash for my car. It takes forever to start and I drive back to Sands Point ambivalent about working for an industry that destroys millions of trees in order to piss off an equal number of people. But, what the hell. It’s a job and I need it so I’ll keep my opinions to myself.

By the time I pull off the highway, heavy wet snow has given way to freezing rain and I can barely see where I’m going because my windshield wipers have turned into popsicles. The heater groans with effort. Can’t afford to have it fixed, so if I’m to survive this dreadful commute, I’ll have to wear extra clothes. And socks. Plenty of socks. My feet are getting numb.

The village has no lights.

Neither does the beach road.

Damn. The power must be out and I don’t have any dry firewood. No kindling, either. My cat is probably freezing. Was he inside or out when I left, and why is my steering wheel suddenly heavy?

My car slows and coasts to a stop.

Sod it.

I crank the ignition, hold the key too long, and flood the engine. Very good, Jill. You know better than that. It’s bloody cold in here. I breathe on my hands, rub them, and count the seconds till I can safely try again. A minute, maybe two, crawls by. Is that enough time? I turn the key.

Click. Wheeze. Click.

Careful. Don’t fuck it up. I give it one more go, but my car sighs as if it’s too tired to move another inch.

I bang my fists on the dashboard.

Don’t give up on me now.

But it already has.

My flashlight, thank God, is still in the glove compartment. I fumble with frozen fingers for the switch. On, off. On, off. Come on, damn it, work. I shake it, but the batteries are dead.
Wonderful
. I open the door and the wind wrenches it from my hand.

Shit, shit, and more shit.

Clutching my jacket to keep it closed, I stumble forward in the dark. Can’t see a thing. Sleet stings my eyes and sandpapers my cheeks. A vicious wind slices through my clothes. Why didn’t I wear a heavier coat, and what possessed me to wear such silly little shoes on a day like this? Black leather pumps with cutwork—holes, for God’s sake—that spew like a lawn sprinkler as I walk.

I must’ve been mad.

Headlights approach. A sports utility vehicle roars by and sprays me with ice water. Mud dribbles down my legs. Into my shoes.

I’m too fucking cold to care.

It stops by my Volvo, the driver sticks his head out the window and yells back at me, but the wind hijacks his words. He reverses, wheels tearing into the sand bank, and halts beside me.

“You’re soaked.”

No shit!

My neighbor grins at me, leans over, and opens the door. I don’t want to, but I climb inside. Even I’m not stubborn enough to refuse a ride home.

He reaches behind his seat. “Wrap up in this.”

A rough blanket smelling of wet dog lands in my lap. I shrug into it, shivering despite the hot air swirling around my feet. Can’t feel my toes any more. Maybe I have frostbite.

Tom guns the engine, performs a gravel-crunching, three-point turn, and speeds back to the beach. “You’d better come home with me.”

“No.” I put a hand on the door.

He clicks the lock. “Don’t be stupid.”

We jerk down our dirt road, past one gloomy house after another, and Tom’s is the only one with lights. Lucky sod. He must have a generator. My house, just beyond the willows, is dark as a tomb. Tom’s garage doors open and he drives inside.

They bang shut behind us. I’m trapped.

My door won’t open.

Tom unlocks it, and I squeeze out of his car, edge sideways past a sack of sunflower seeds, and squelch up the steps into a mud room. Old newspapers, dog bones, and stray boots litter the floor. A ladybug umbrella leans against a stepladder and Tom’s mask, propped on top of a recycling bin, has a pink mitten drooping from its mouth and looks as if it’s just bitten off a child’s hand. His black cloak hangs from a hook on the door.

Cinderella the Monk.

If he mentions Halloween, or worse, the night he caught Colin and me on the beach, naked, I’ll die blushing.

And then I’ll leave town.

Permanently.

Tom ushers me into the kitchen, drops his keys on the counter, and picks up a bottle of wine and a mug. He turns to me, smiling. “What’ll it be? Cabernet or cocoa?”

I shiver. “Cocoa—and thanks.”

Tom supplies me with dry clothes—socks, sweatpants, and a sweatshirt that hangs to my knees—and I change in a small bathroom off the kitchen. When I emerge, he’s holding two mugs of cocoa.

“My office is warm,” Tom says, pushing open a door with his foot.

The room is alive with flickering light. A log fire burns in the grate and Molly’s cat lies curled in a basket on the hearth. I’m tempted to join her.

“Where are the dogs?”

“In Vermont, with Carrie and Molly,” Tom says. “My daughter and her husband are trying to patch things up.” He shrugs. “I love having her here, but she needs to get on with her own life.”

That’s what Sophie said yesterday when I called to talk about Colin. She called him a sodding awful bastard, then told me I was better off without him. That I’ve raised two kids, renovated a cottage, and run a business by myself. What the hell do I need him for?

Good question.

Tom hands me the cocoa and I take small sips, standing with my back to the massive stone fireplace, soaking up the heat. My toes tingle. My shoulders relax and I look around Tom’s comfortable room, at his shelves full of books, the half-finished crossword on the coffee table, his desk and computer equipment—silent and dark because of the power failure—and realize you can never really know a man till you’ve seen the inside of his home, his personal space, the way he arranges his furniture.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, pointing at the couch.

I lower myself into down-filled leather cushions, soft as butter.

My hands slide over his buttery leather jacket …

Tom sinks into a faded, chintz-covered wing chair, crosses his legs, and appears ready for polite conversation. Stalling for time, I pick a
National Geographic
off the table, flip a few pages, and come face-to-face with a green and red parrot.

“How about those birds, huh?” Tom says, leaning forward.

That sack in the garage. “Are you feeding them?”

“Constantly,” he says, grinning. “I’m a sucker for parrots.”

The headline I’m looking at says T
HE
W
ILD
P
ARROTS OF
T
ELEGRAPH
H
ILL
. “Have you done this before?”

He nods. “I had a neighbor in San Francisco who had a huge nest hanging over her driveway. At first, she was thrilled, but when the parrots shit on her car and woke her family at dawn, she hired a guy with a cherry-picker to take it down. So I bought a bird feeder and tried to lure them to my yard.”

“Any luck?”

“Pigeons and squirrels.”

“But no parrots?”

“Not till I moved here.”

“Don’t tell me you came east just for the parrots?”

Tom grins. “They were an unexpected bonus.”

Outside, sleet lashes against the windows and a determined wind howls down the chimney. Logs shift and settle. Sparks fly out and land on the hearth. Tom sweeps them up, then bends to stroke Elsa’s tiny gold head. She yawns and stretches, first one elegant paw, then the other. Lovely, her body language says. Do that again.

The mirror above Tom’s mantel is made from a weathered old window. Beneath it, amid photos of Molly and the dogs, stands a small picture in a black metal frame. It shows a much younger Tom—beardless and wearing one of those multi-pocket vests favored by photographers—with his arm around a slender, dark-haired woman. A little girl, also dark-haired and unmistakably Carrie, stands between them with one foot in front of the other, squinting at the camera. Tom’s free hand rests on her shoulder.