Pickin Clover (12 page)

“It’ll come back.”

How could he be so certain?

“I hope you’re right. But I doubt it.” Polly dipped her brush and concentrated on the area she was painting. Her tears dried and she took a deep breath.

“That’s probably why you’re doing this painting,” Jerome went on after a quiet few moments. “It’ll get you back into your art—you wait and see.

Painting a house was so far removed from true art that Polly felt certain he was teasing her, but when she glanced at him she could tell he was totally sincere.

“Anybody ever tell you you’re an optimist, Jerome?"

He grinned and nodded. “Yeah. Tiffany used to, when we were fighting.” He adjusted his sunglasses. “With a life like mine, you’ve got to look on the bright side,” he quipped. “It’s either that or suicide.”

Polly felt a surge of affection for him. He was such a likable man, so good-natured and open and easy. He was also able to give her pointers about the painting that made her more efficient, and as the afternoon progressed, they became a working unit, accomplishing much more than they expected.

Isabelle came home at two and admired what they’d done, and when Clover woke up from her long nap, Isabelle brought out juice and an economy size bag of cookies and let Clover devour as many as she wanted.

It was exactly what Isabelle used to do with Susannah, and it irked Polly the same way it had previously. Jerome didn’t seem to pay any attention.

“Mom, all that sweet stuff isn’t good for her teeth,” she finally called down to Isabelle as cookie after cookie disappeared into Clover. “And she’s going to be hyper with so much sugar in her system.”

“You just mind your business up there and paint,” her mother retorted. “As soon as she’s full, we’re going for a walk to the park, aren’t we, Clover? Long as it’s okay with your daddy.”

Jerome enthusiastically agreed, and a few moments later, Isabelle and Clover meandered off down the back lane.

“That’s nice of your mom to take Clover to the park,” Jerome said, adding, “I’ll be right back, I forgot to give them the sunscreen from the truck. Clover’s skin’s so fair she sunburns really easy.”

He hurried down the ladder, and Polly watched as he sprinted along the lane after his daughter and Isabelle. He was back a few moments later.

“Clover must take after her mother,” Polly remarked. “You don’t look as if you’ve ever had a sunburn in your life.” Although Jerome was blond-haired, his skin tone was a deep, rich walnut.

“You’re right. I never burn. And Tiffany had black hair and sort of olive skin. She didn’t have to worry, either. Clover isn’t really like either one of us.”

Polly swiped on another line of green paint. “Funny how that genetic thing happens, isn’t it? Susannah wasn’t like me at all, except for my eye color. She looked exactly like Michael.”

“Actually, I’m not exactly sure I am Clover’s genetic father,” Jerome confessed. “Tiffany had an affair with some guy just before I met her. She told me she wasn’t sure if she was pregnant already when we got together.”

Polly stared across at him, surprised and shocked. “Doesn’t that bother you? Not knowing if Clover is really your child?”

“Nope.” The denial was absolute. “Far as I’m concerned, she’s my kid. I was there when she was born, and she and I both know I’m her daddy.”

That seemed to settle the matter for Jerome.

Polly thought about it, unable to understand how he could fully accept the responsibility for a child who might not even be his. She couldn’t do such a thing, she knew the couldn’t Once, when she and Michael were fighting about her becoming pregnant again, he’d suggested adoption, and Polly had known, instantly and conclusively, that she couldn’t. She acknowledged it was selfish and horrible of her, but it was the truth.

She didn’t comment on Jerome’s remark, and after a few moments, he began to whistle. Apart from that it was quiet, up high where they were. Polly considered how much she’d learned today about Jerome, and how much respect she had for him. Somehow, working together on a scaffold high up against this house had created a relaxed intimacy.

“Think we’ll get the trim finished on this side of the house today, Jerome?"

“Sure. We make a good team. One artist, one jack-of-all-trades. Makes a fine combination, don’t you think?” The grin he shot her way was entirely without sexual innuendo, and warmth filled Polly. This must be how it would feel to have a brother. She’d always wanted one when she was growing up.

“A couple of weeks after Susannah died, I checked myself into the psych ward for a few days,” she surprised herself by saying. “I met a counselor named Frannie Sullivan, and I was able to talk with her. I don’t think I could have survived without Frannie. Anyway, I was just thinking how honest we’ve been with each other today. Frannie always says that people normally walk around with armor on, never revealing how sad or frightened or insecure they really feel." She smiled at Jerome. "It’s true, because I do it myself all the time. ‘How are you?’ somebody asks, and you’re dying inside, but you plaster this big grin on your face and say, ‘Fine. I’m doing just fine.’ But today’s different, Jerome. With you I took all my armor off.”

He nodded, and she could see that he was both a little embarrassed and pleased. “Same goes. I was kinda nervous about this, you being a doctor’s wife and everything, and me barely finishing high school. But you’re really easy to talk to, Polly.”

“Thanks.” She dipped her brush in the tin again. “It’s a good thing we get along, because this is gonna take us more than a few days, by the looks of it. I didn’t really understand how much work painting an entire house would be. We’ll probably run out of things to talk about long before we run out of boards to paint.”

“I dunno about that. I haven’t even started telling you about my wild years,” he joked, and they both laughed.

“What’s so funny, you two?” Norah stood at the foot of the ladder, smiling and shading her eyes with her hand as she looked up at them. “Is that all you’ve gotten painted in a whole day?”

"That shows you how much you know about painting houses,” Polly retorted. “Jerome, this nasty critic is my sister, Norah Rafferty. Norah, Jerome Fox.”

“Can you guys take a break? I brought some lemonade and a bag of fresh bagels.”

“We’ll be right down. This is hot, hungry work.” Polly climbed down the ladder with Jerome right behind her, and they joined Norah at the picnic table.

“Where’s Mom?” Norah poured chilled lemonade into plastic cups and handed out bagels.

“She’s taken Jerome’s girl, Clover, to the park.” Polly had a long drink of the lemonade, sighing with pleasure.

“How old is your daughter, Jerome?”

“Clover’s four. Polly says you work in maternity at St. Joe’s. It must be exciting to watch babies get born every day. I saw Clover arrive, and it was tougher than any work I’ve ever done. Messier, too. I almost passed out.”

Polly and Norah laughed.

“That happens to dads a lot,” Norah told Jerome. “Far as I’m concerned, working on obstetrics is the greatest job in the world. I love my work. Each shift just flies past. How about you, Jerome? What do you do besides paint houses? Do you enjoy your work?”

Polly listened and observed as Jerome and Norah got to know each other. As usual, Norah wasn’t wearing makeup. She had on nondescript beige trousers and a checked gingham shirt that, in Polly’s opinion, did nothing for her; yet when she spoke about her work and deftly encouraged Jerome to talk about his, she had an incandescent beauty about her.

Polly glanced at Jerome, and it was obvious that he, too, thought Norah was attractive at this moment. He was watching her, nodding and paying attention to everything she said.

“I’d do my job whether I got paid or not,” Norah commented. “I can’t see ever quitting obstetrical nursing.”

“I don’t feel that way about construction, but I’m gonna save my money and someday start my own mini brew store,” Jerome replied. “I’ve been making beer from old traditional recipes for a couple of years now, and I find it really interesting. I’d love to have a place where people could experiment, try out different methods of brewing.”

“I’ve made wine a few times. It’s such a thrill when it turns out,” Norah replied.

And they launched into a lively discussion of natural methods versus chemical that Polly didn’t understand.

She let their conversation flow over and around her, ate her bagel and thought about people’s jobs, about Norah and her babies and, inevitably, about the baby she herself longed to have.

After Susannah’s death, when nothing would help the agony of her loss, she’d cut a picture of a baby out of a magazine, a sober, round-faced, blue-eyed child, placid, totally unlike volatile Susannah, with her dark curls and dramatic temperament. Polly had matted the picture, and in the endless long nights when sleep wouldn’t come despite medications, she’d hold that photo and dream, visualizing having this baby, loving her, sitting at night in a room filled with gentle shadows and feeding her from breasts overflowing with milk, just as she had Susannah.

The soft, sweet-smelling child would fill the emptiness that threatened to swallow her up. The baby would be a part of Michael and Polly the way Susannah had been. She would be a link to the part of herself Polly felt she was losing, the nurturing, mothering part of her that had been the epicenter of her life since the moment her daughter was born, the part that had been stolen from her.

Anger and frustration filled Polly whenever she acknowledged that it was Michael who wouldn’t let her have this baby she longed for, no matter how she reasoned or begged or harangued him about it.

“Polly?”

The insistent, puzzled note in Norah’s voice told her that she’d entirely missed part of the conversation.

“Sorry.” She forced a smile. “I was daydreaming. I didn’t hear what you said."

“I said I’m off tomorrow, and I’d be happy to come and help paint. That okay with you?”

“Absolutely. I think it’s a great idea. We’ll get done that much faster if you help.” Polly forced enthusiasm into her voice, even though her immediate reaction was, of all things, a bleak sense of disappointment. She didn’t want her sister helping with the painting. The disturbing truth was, she didn’t want Norah there. She wanted Jerome all to herself.

CHAPTER NINE

Norah left, and Polly and Jerome scrambled back up the ladder to the scaffold. As they worked, Polly acknowledged to herself that she’d been looking forward to the easy flow of conversation with Jerome, the chance to talk freely in a way she hadn’t done lately—the way she and Michael used to talk.

Suddenly, she felt afraid. The ability to talk to Michael about anything and everything had always been such a powerful bond between them. But it wasn’t there anymore, and here she was, sharing her innermost thoughts and feelings with a man she’d known only a few days. It pointed out to her as nothing else could have how deep and wide the chasm between her and the man she loved had become.

“I’ll be back shortly.” Polly hurried down the ladder and went into her mother’s house, retrieved her cell phone from her purse and dialed Michael’s office number. Valerie answered, and a moment later Michael came on the line. Polly forced all traces of the agitation she felt out of her voice and instead purred in a low, sexy tone, “Dr. Forsythe, I’m an admirer of yours and I’m calling to ask you for a date.”

“I’m certain that could be arranged.” She could tell by his guarded response that he was with a patient.

“Tonight, for dinner. Eight o’clock, at Le Veggie.”

“Sounds good. How’s the painting going?”

“It’s obscenely green. My mother is delighted.”

He laughed, as she’d hoped he would. “Be careful on that ladder.”

“I am.” She hung up, thinking that many things were far more dangerous than a ladder.

Later that evening, Polly sat across from her husband in the quiet restaurant on Denman Street that she’d chosen because it was intimate and restful. The waiter had taken their orders, and they were sipping wine. Soft music played unobtrusively in the background, and Polly felt relaxed and attractive; she’d hurried home from her mother’s and spent two hours scrubbing off specks of green paint, soaking in a tub of fragrant bubbles, repairing her manicure and trying on one outfit after another until she settled on the simple ivory knit dress she was wearing.

Michael had been late, as usual. He’d raced in the door at seven-thirty full of apologies, and hurriedly showered and shaved.

He looked handsome, sitting opposite her now, but then, he always did. He also looked weary. There were lines around his dark eyes that hadn’t been there a short time ago.

“Michael, we have to talk.”

“Yeah, we do, Pol.” He sighed and set down his glass on the gleaming white cloth. He didn’t look at her. Instead, he gazed out the window, although she could tell he wasn’t really seeing the pedestrians on the busy street. “I’ve been avoiding it, but we’ve got to discuss this money thing.”

"Money thing’?” Polly had been wondering how best to bring up the issues that were bothering her, that had become evident today when she’d talked with Jerome.

“What money thing, Michael?” She frowned at him, then belatedly remembered. “You mean, Raymond Stokes?”