The Glimpsing (3 page)

Finally, on that drunken night, now two months ago, when his passions had overwhelmed him, he had driven to Portia’s house, fully intending to take what he had so long been denied.
 
Yet, even then, as he stood in her bedroom, he had been made the fool.

The next day, after he had sobered, he’d returned to her house and swiftly put an end to their relationship.
 
He had not seen Portia since that day, until tonight, until she’d appeared outside his house.

So it was all very ironic, yes, perhaps even comical, seeing her standing there, in the same place so many others had, wanting the same thing.
 
Who could have guessed that two months was the key?
 
Two months without him and that chastity belt she so proudly wore would slip past her ankles and go clunking to the floor.
 
She’d come back to beg, he understood, for scraps, for his scraps.
 
And oh, how he was going to indulge her.

Now it was Jack’s face that bore a jaded smile.
 
How fitting that tonight, on his birthday, he would finally get what had eluded him for so long.
 
Already he could feel that familiar cloud of passion rising within.
 
Already he could envision the act, her flesh pressed against his, their bodies convulsing in one orgasmic spasm after another.

But in an instant that vision departed.
 
His smile faded.
 
It was the thought of the woman upstairs, the woman in bed.
 
Her name was Gabrielle.
 
She was Portia’s best friend.

Jack’s nostrils flared with anger.
 
No, he would not have Portia tonight.
 
Not with Gabrielle so near…

And then something else struck him, something that might explain Portia’s haggard smile.
 
Perhaps she wasn’t here to have a romp with the birthday boy after all.
 
Perhaps it was something else, something far more sinister: she’d found out about his affair with Gabrielle.
 
Maybe she had come here looking for a confrontation.
 
And maybe, just maybe, she even meant to do them harm.

He moved away from the bay window, and headed toward the front doors.
 
He could not be certain of Portia’s true intentions but he did know this: she had come here for a reason, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to find out what that was.

Jack Parke opened the door and eagerly stepped outside.

The long ride to the Jack Parke estate had for Portia seemed much more desolate than on any prior night.
 
The large, expensive houses on this luxurious strip of Long Island, all of them beautified by perfectly manicured lawns and well-tended landscapes, seemed to hide like cowards behind tall shadowy trees, as if somehow aware of the burning anger, the rage swarming around her soul like a hoard of angry bees .

She’d been told everything, of course.
 
She knew about Jack, about her so-called friend Gabrielle, and their mutual treachery.
 
And she fully intended to make them pay, with their very lives if it came to that.

She stood watching as Jack Parke’s shadow-strewn figure departed the bay window.
 
A moment later, he stepped out of the front door and began approaching down the twisting cement pathway.
 
His hair was disheveled (had Gabrielle been running her lusting little fingers through it, she wondered), and a robe draped his tall, toned frame like a shabby old shawl.
 
She considered the stiletto she’d left pinned in the vanity… and using it to carve out his beautiful blue eyes.
 
Her awful smile broadened.

Arriving before her, Jack mistook it for a gesture of good cheer.
 
“A little late for a house call, isn’t it?”

The strange smile hung, and then, with a suddenness that struck him as odd, melted away to what now appeared to be sheepish innocence.

“I’m sorry,” Portia began, cowering a little.
 
“I know this is awkward.
 
I should go.”

“What are you doing here?”

Her mouth flinched towards a grin, but fell far short.
 
“I… came to see you, Jack.”

“For what?”

“Well… it is your birthday, isn’t it?”
 
She forced that grin to the surface.
 
“You didn’t think I would actually let it pass without stopping by?”

“If you cared that much you would have shown up at my party, not in the middle of the night.”

“Well, you know I’ve never cared much for crowds.”

Jack looked at her suspiciously.

Portia said, “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly, uncertain whether the comment was meant as mere etiquette or some veiled innuendo.
 
“No,” he finally said.
 
“No, nothing at all.
 
How did you know I wouldn’t be asleep?”

“I’m a firm believer in the old saying, Jack.”

“What’s that?”

“No rest for the wicked.”

Jack flashed a big grin.
 
Portia smiled too, not the eerie one that had marred her face only moments ago, but the bright and charming one, the one that Jack had once found irresistible.

“So, how was the party?” Portia asked, now seeming to have shaken her nerves.
“Big get-together?”

“I enjoyed it.
 
Maybe thirty or thirty-five people showed.
 
Mostly the
usuals
from the studio: Howard Snell, Mark, Frank Devers, some of the models.
 
Jamie Flax flew in from out of town.
 
She asked about you.”

“Did she really?”

“She asks about you every time I see her,” Jack said, showing some irritation.
 
“I’m not sure why she always expects me to know what you’re doing now that we’re not together.”

“Did Gabrielle show?”

“Gabrielle?” Jack questioned, caught somewhat off-guard.

“Yes.
 
She mentioned she might come but seemed uneasy about the whole thing.
 
I told her not to let what happened between you and I stop her.
 
Besides, your agency still represents her.
 
It’s not like you two don’t ever see each other.”

Jack said nothing.

“So, she didn’t show?” Portia persisted.

Jack paused, blinked.
 
He got the distinct feeling that she was after something.
 
Finally, he said: “No.
 
She didn’t.”

“No?”

“No.”

Portia nodded agreeably, but the person who had informed her of the affair, the aforementioned Jamie Flax, had not only witnessed Gabrielle at the party, but had accidentally spotted a mildly inebriated Jack kissing her in one of the off rooms.

“I can’t say I’m not entirely surprised she didn’t come,” Portia said.

“Why’s that?”

“Gabrielle’s conscience.
 
The smallest things seem to bother her.
 
It’s what makes her such a good person.”

“Really?
 
I would have never guessed.”

“You’d have to know her.”

“I guess so.”
 
Jack eyes drifted downward, shamelessly moving over Portia’s figure.
 
“Love the dress.
 
 
Seems you’ve had an eventful evening as well.”

Portia shrugged.
 
“Just dinner with friends.
 
It’s the first time I’ve been out since… well, for a while.”

Jack suppressed a livid smile.
 
Gabrielle had told him about the difficulties Portia had been having getting over him, how she’d shut herself in.
 
He rather enjoyed knowing that was the case.

Portia continued, “Gabrielle was supposed to join us, but she couldn’t decide if she wanted to go to your party or come with me.
 
When she didn’t show up for dinner, I assumed she’d come here.”

Jack shrugged.
 
“Can’t help you.
 
Maybe she went to see a movie, or a play.”

“Maybe,” Portia said.
 
She paused, looking up at him, adding another smile.
 
“Well, I guess it’s time.”

“Time?
 
For what?”

“Your gift,” she scolded. “Now stay right here.”

She turned, headed toward a black convertible sitting in the parking loop, and then leaned into its back seat, removing a large, camel-colored sleeve.
 
She brought it back to him, unpinned its flap, and held it out.
 
“Happy birthday,” she said almost whispering.

Jack put his hand into the sleeve, rummaged momentarily for a grip, and then pulled out what he already knew was a painting.
 
He held it in front of him with both hands, turning it back and forth to catch the moonlight… and then became amazed by what he saw.
 
There on the canvas was a seductive-looking woman in a bright red dress.
 
She was lying on her stomach resting on her elbows, her arms folded over one another and her feet crisscrossed in the air behind her.
 
Her hair was short, reaching only to the shoulders, and very dark.
 
Her face, depending on which way he turned the painting, seemed to favor Portia’s.

Two men also occupied the frame, both flanking each side of the bed.
 
They were well-dressed, although the attire of the man on the right, with his open collar and black slacks, seemed a bit dated.
 
He was also clearly younger than the man on the left.
 
Both had cold, almost stoic demeanors.

“It’s exquisite,” Jack said excitedly, all the while running his fingers along the woman’s dress.

“You really like it?”

“Yes,” he said, not looking up.
 
“This piece must have cost you a fortune.”

Portia chuckled.
 
“I didn’t buy it, Jack.
 
I painted it myself.”

Jack looked up. “You couldn’t have.”

“What do you mean?”

He dropped his eyes back to the canvas. “I mean the image here… it looks… almost real.
 
It’s extraordinary.”

“Well, thank you, Jack.
 
My mother bought me an easel when I was five.
 
I didn’t have many friends so I spent most of my time inside, painting.
 
I’d stopped by the time I entered high school, but when I was eighteen I picked it up again—briefly anyway.”

“Eighteen?”

“Yes.
 
That’s when this one was done.”

Jack
mused
a bit, still awestruck with the image.
 
“This woman, is she…
”,
he looked up briefly, “Is this you?”

Portia nodded.
 
“More or less.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I painted her during a very difficult time in my life.
 
My emotions were… a mess.
 
You might say she’s a part of me—or, at least, what I once wished I could be.
 
She helped me get through it all.”

“Oh?
 
And what were you going through?”

“Oh, no, we don’t need to go into all of that.
 
It’s your birthday; this is supposed to be a happy time.
 
We hardly need to drudge up my old memories.”

He tossed another glance at the woman in the painting,
then
gazed back.
 
“Why are you giving it to me?”

“I thought it appropriate.”

“Appropriate?
 
How so?”

“Well, you love art, and beautiful things, unique things, right?”
 
She stepped closer and looked up into his eyes. “You do still like beautiful things, don’t you?”

Jack slowly dropped the painting to his side, sensing a note of suggestiveness in her tone—something unheard of coming from Portia.
 
He replied, “That’s never going to change.”

“Good,” Portia said.
 
“Then I’m sure you’ll enjoy her.”

“No,” Jack said, extending the painting back to her.
 
“I’m afraid I won’t.”

Portia’s face took on puzzlement.
 
“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?
 
I’m giving it back.”

“You can’t?”

“I can’t?”

“No.
 
You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I drove all the way out here in the middle of the night to give it to you.”

“You’ll have to do better than that, Portia.
 
This painting is a keepsake.
 
You’ve had it for twelve years now.
 
It’s simply too personal for me to accept, no matter how much it impresses me.”

“But it’s your gift, Jack.
 
I want you to have it.”

“I appreciate that, Portia, but I’ve already told you, I’m not taking it.”

She gazed up at him, blinking several times.
 
Then her face sank and she dropped her head.
 
She seemed to struggle before looking up again.
 
“Can I ask you something, Jack?”

“What?”

“Do you ever think about me?”

Jack’s answer was a quick, calmly assertive lie. “No.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

Portia studied his face disbelievingly, her eyes darting back and forth with desperation.
 
She slumped, growing somber.
 
“That was always my problem with you.”

“What’s that?”

“I could never tell when you were lying.”

Jack was stoic.

“I didn’t think you thought about me anyway,” Portia continued, “and that’s why I want you to have her.
 
Because maybe if you take it, when you see her… you will think about me.”

Jack was about to speak, about to continue his refusal of the gift, but when he saw the pained expression on her face, he reluctantly retreated.
 
“Okay,” he said sighing.
 
“I’ll take it.”