Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing) (9 page)

“Don’t be a prude.” Sophie steps on the gas. “I bet he’s looking for a bit of excitement. I mean, he’s not exactly married.”

“He has a common-law wife.”

Sophie laughs. “Don’t be so bloody archaic.”

Airport signs flash overhead. A car serves in front of us.

“Stupid git!” Sophie gives him two fingers. “Besides,” she continues, “in my book you’re either married legally or not at all.”

“You, of course, are the expert,” I say, and Sophie gives me two fingers as well.

The line of people waiting to check in for my flight is long and slow-moving and we don’t reach the information booth until almost one thirty. There’s no sign of Colin.

“I’m going to leave you here,” Sophie says, hugging me, “because I’m going back home to strong-arm my mother into taking those tests.” She grins. “And because I don’t want to get in Colin’s way.”

“If he makes it.”

“He will.”

Sophie blows me a kiss and melts into the crowd.

“Hello, Jilly.”

I look up, startled, into Colin’s smiling face. “How long have you been here?” An inspired opening line.

“Not long. I waited till Sophie left.” He holds out his arm. “Why don’t we find somewhere less public than this,” he says, nodding toward a combination coffee shop and bar. “Let’s go over there.” He guides me inside and helps me into a chair. “What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” I say, not really wanting one, but if he’s going to imbibe, I’ll be polite and keep him company.

He looks at me for a moment. “Right,” he says, and glances at the bar. “I won’t be long.” He comes back a few minutes later with a cocktail in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Oh, shit. Now he’ll have me pegged as a borderline alcoholic.

When he sits, I don’t dare look at him, and we’re so awkward, it’s like being back in the fort. We both speak at once. Then not at all. Finally, grasping for something neutral, I ask, “How long did it take you to drive here?”

“A couple of hours,” Colin says, not meeting my eyes. “I told them I had to see my accountant. In London.”

“Them?”

“Shelby’s sister Diana lives with us.” Colin clears his throat and fumbles in his pocket, and I can almost feel his embarrassment at having to make excuses for his absence. He pulls out a photo. Jeez, no! Don’t tell me he’s going to show me a picture of Shelby and her sister. But, it’s a dog. A brown and white mutt with a feathery tail.

“Meggie’s a border collie.” Colin hands me the photo. “Comes from a line of prizewinning sheepdogs. She does a fine job of keeping our chickens in order.”

“No sheep?” I’m clueless about dogs.

Colin shakes his head. “Best dog I ever had. I don’t know what I’ll do when she goes.”

I turn the photograph over. There’s another, stuck to the back. A young woman with blond hair leans against a tree. She’s wearing a halter top and shorts and her legs go on for ever. “Is this your daughter?” I hand it back to Colin.

He coughs. “No.”

I don’t want to hear what’s coming next. I pick up my glass.

“It’s Shelby.”

My gin and tonic—the drink I didn’t want and am now profoundly grateful for—burns a trail down my throat.

“It’s an old picture,” Colin goes on. “This must’ve been taken twelve years ago. Meggie was a year old then.”

Avoiding his eyes, I do the math. Shelby has to be a good fifteen years younger than Colin. Maybe more—a mere infant when he and I were teenagers, eyeing one another in the fort and not knowing what to do about it.

“Look,” Colin says, “I hate to think of you getting on that plane and disappearing for another thirty-five years.”

I want to tell him it wasn’t me who disappeared. It was him, and now he has a life with someone else. A much younger someone else.

We sip our drinks.

Colin breaks the silence. “Can I write to you?”

“Letters?”

“I could send you a fax now and then. Would you mind?”

No, but Shelby would. On the other hand, he and I are old friends—what’s the harm in keeping in touch? “I’ll write back.”

“No, better not,” he says. “My fax machine’s in the office and whoever’s passing picks them up.” He brightens. “You could always e-mail me.”

“You said you hated computers.”

“I do,” Colin says, “but I have learned how to handle e-mail—in one direction. I can receive them but not send any out.”

“Why not?”

He grins. “Because I can’t type.”

The loudspeaker interrupts with news about my flight. “I guess it’s time for me to leave.”

Neither of us moves.

“I really should go.” I reach for my purse and stand up. “It’s probably a five-mile walk to the gate.”

Colin looks down at my ankle, pink and fat in its elastic bandage. “I could get you a wheelchair.”

Shelby wears a halter top and shorts and her legs go on for ever.

“No, I’m fine.”

“How about I carry you?”

My legs tremble. “I’d break your back.”

“You didn’t before.” He holds out his arms.

Now what? Do we hug? Shake hands? Kiss one another on the cheek or wave goodbye? I’m still pondering the possibilities when Colin puts his arms around my waist and pulls me close.

“I can’t tell you how wonderful it’s been,” he says, “seeing you again after all this time.” He’s so tall that the top of my head barely reaches his shoulder. His lips brush my hair. “There’s so much we haven’t talked about. Shared memories, that stupid fort—”

“It wasn’t stupid,” I say.

“That spider.”

So, he remembers.

“I still hate them.” His arms tighten. “You will write to me, won’t you?”

“Yes,” I say into the rough tweed of his jacket.

Oh, God. What is this man doing to me?

A second flight announcement breaks the spell. Colin lets me go and I limp toward the barrier. I dump my stuff on the conveyor and turn around for another look. Colin’s standing where I left him, watching me with green eyes and a crooked grin. He nods and mouths, “I’ll write to you.”

I walk through the security gate. A bunch of passengers push past me and the next time I look at the restaurant doorway, he’s no longer there.

Sands Point

September 2010

We land in Boston on time, but my connection to Hartford is delayed and it’s close to ten thirty by the time I meet up with Lizzie. She wears a floppy straw hat that’s suspiciously like the one Zachary sleeps in. I take a closer look. Hell, it
is
the same one.

A narrow black ribbon encircles its crown.

“Very chic,” I tell her.

“Can’t say the same about you.” Lizzie glances at my ankle. “Those Brits didn’t have another war, did they?”

“A minor skirmish at the foot of Sophie’s stairs.”

Driving south, Lizzie asks about my trip. I give her the highlights, minus Colin, because I need to think about him a bit more before sharing, and we’re a few miles past Middletown when Lizzie says, “Trevor flew out while you were gone.”

“I’m sorry I missed him.”

“He came to say goodbye.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s found someone else and wanted to break the news in person.”

“Oh, Lizzie. Why didn’t you say something?”

“You were on vacation.”

“Lizzie!” I rummage in my bag for the shortbread. “Here, you could probably use this.” I hand her a square and take one for myself.

Scattering crumbs across her lap, Lizzie says, “We’ve had a good run, but it’s time for Trevor to move on. He needs a family and I’m too old to give him one, but he’s found a nice young woman who can.”

“How young?”

“Early thirties, I think.”

“Which means,” I say, keeping my voice even, “she’s about twenty years younger than—”

Lizzie sighs. “Jill, don’t even go there.”

Signs for Haddam, Chester, and Essex fly by. We take the next exit and cruise through downtown Sands Point, where out-of-season sidewalks are rolled up at dusk. Then Lizzie heads for the beach and we jolt down my dirt road. The lights are on in the house next door which means the new owners have moved in. My porch light’s on as well, and as we pull into my driveway, I can see ominous piles of leaves on the lawn. Looks as if I’ll have some serious raking to do.

Lizzie slams on her brakes and misses my Volvo by inches.

“Christ!” I peel myself off the dashboard. “You’re worse than Claudia.”

“Holy shit!” Lizzie’s jaw drops and she stares at the porch where my cat is washing his whiskers.

I try to open the door, but we’re too close to my car. “Move up. I can’t get out.” We jerk forward. I glance at Lizzie. “Are you all right? You look a bit pale.”

“Your cat. He got out this morning. I was late for work and didn’t have time to go chasing him,” Lizzie says, reaching into the back seat. She pulls the ribbon off Zachary’s hat, stuffs it in her purse, and hands the hat to me. “Don’t forget this.”

Holding the hat and my carry-on bag, I limp toward the house. Lizzie trails behind, pulling my suitcase. She drags it up the steps, gives me a quick hug, and scurries back to her car. She guns the engine and roars off.

Did I say something to offend her?

Zachary rubs against my legs. I unlock the door, leave my bags in the hall, and follow him into my office. He leaps on the laser printer where, no doubt, he’s spent the better part of the last two weeks and I’m about to shoo him off when I see a piece of paper sticking out of my fax machine.

It’s a single page, written in an unfamiliar hand, and it begins with “Dear Jilly.”

The front door bell rings. I check my watch. Five thirty. Is that English time or have I been sitting here all night? I read Colin’s last sentence again:

The sound of ferocious banging breaks my mood.

“Bloody hell.”

Ankle throbbing, I lurch into the hall and yank open the door.

Lizzie waves a carton of cream in my face. “You don’t have any.”

“I don’t?”

“Jill, you’ve been gone more than two weeks. Anything left in your fridge will be yogurt by now.” She pushes past me and into the kitchen. “Let’s have a cup of tea, if only to make me feel better about going to the market at midnight.”

“But you don’t like tea,” I say, as she empties half the carton into Zachary’s bowl, “and I hate cream.”

“Stop arguing and get out of my way.” Lizzie plugs in the kettle and pulls two mugs from the dishwasher.

I finger my letter.

“You look a bit shell shocked,” Lizzie says. “What’s wrong?”

“Just tired.”

“It’s more than that.”

I take a deep breath. “I saw him.”

“Who?”

“Colin.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

I hand her the fax. “Read this,” I say, then finish making our tea while she skims the memories Colin has pulled from the past:
‘that party at Roddy’s when we waltzed in the rain’ … ‘that football match when Keith and Hugh got mad because you and I cheered for the wrong side’ … ‘the log I tried to split with a blunt axe and broke the handle instead’ … ‘you and Sophie painting her bedroom in your—
’

Grinning, Lizzie looks up. “You never told me about
that
one.”

“That’s because gym knickers are top-secret in England.”

She reads the last two lines out loud:
‘
—and now
I’m a mish-mash of emotions; of regret for what didn’t happen because I was too young and too stupid to know what I had.
’

“Oh, Jill. Tell me he’s not kidding about this.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s married,” I say, biting my lip, “and he isn’t.”

“He’s one thing or another,” Lizzie says gently. “Which is it?”

I fish the teabags from both mugs and Lizzie pretends to drink hers while I explain about Shelby, the photograph, and everything I can remember which, at this point, doesn’t seem like much at all. My brain has shut down.

“When?” Lizzie says. “When did you see him?”

“Sunday. At lunch.”

“You said he wasn’t on the menu.”

“He was, but I didn’t know that when you called.”

“Looks like you were as well.” Lizzie nods toward my foot, now propped on a chair. “Did he take a very big bite?”

“Enormous.”

Lizzie raises her eyebrows.

“I fell down the stairs and landed on top of him.”

“You’ll do anything for attention.”

Lizzie shows up on Sunday while I’m trying to reinvent Sophie’s business image. One of Claudia’s watercolors—a hedgehog wearing an apron and holding a saucepan—is providing just the right touch of whimsy.

The front door slams shut. “I’ve brought goodies.”

I find Lizzie in my kitchen, making coffee. A bag of doughnuts sits on the table. “You’re determined to make me fat, aren’t you,” I say.

Zachary leaps up to investigate. Lizzie shoves him off. “I guess foraging on your own for a week hasn’t improved your manners.”

“What are you talking about?”

A blush creeps up Lizzie’s face. “I wasn’t going to tell you about that.”

“Tell me what?”

She hesitates. “Your cat ran off while Fergus and I were storm-proofing your house. I looked all over, but I couldn’t find him.”

“How long was he gone?”

“Six days.”

“Which means,” I say, counting quickly, “he didn’t come back until I did.”

“I was planning to confess the night I dropped you off,” Lizzie says, “but when I saw him sitting on the porch, it seemed kind of pointless. So I chickened out and—”

The penny drops. “Went to get cream instead?”

Her blush deepens.

“That wasn’t for the tea, was it?”

“Not exactly.”

“And the black ribbon on your communal straw hat?”

“I was in mourning.” Lizzie turns a deeper shade of red.