“What?”
“I said, what things?”
Ryn sat back, pulling free to scrub both hands over her face. For a moment, she thought about going to dunk her head in that icy water gurgling by out there.
“The college for one. You’re a student, and I’m an instructor. A first-year instructor with no job security.”
“But I’m not your student.”
“I know, and if you were, that would be an absolute. This makes it grayer, not better.” She ran a thumbnail along the pebbled texture of the steering wheel. “I know of another professor who was sleeping with a student—”
“Who?”
“That doesn’t matter. The point is, when I look at that situation, there is no gray. It’s completely black and white. The only thing that makes this thing between us,” she waved a hand, “gray is the fact that part of me wants it.”
“Only part of you?” Tamara’s voice was cool, and it reminded Ryn of Henrietta.
“Okay, a big part of me,” she conceded. That made Tam smile. “But still.”
Tamara sighed and settled against the car door. “What else?” Her tone indicated clearly that she’d decided to just let Ryn get this all out of her system.
“Well, for another thing, when I first told you I was a lesbian, you couldn’t even say the word. And you just about bolted at the thought that I might have guessed you’re one, too.”
Tamara squirmed in her seat. “It’s just… that word.”
“That word is my identity. At least part of it.”
“But do you have to scream it out loud to the world?” Tamara’s eyes flicked down to Ryn’s chest. “That silver axe-thing you wear. All the bumper stickers. Can’t you be who you are without all that stuff?”
Ryn watched her carefully. “Can you accept who you are without hiding it from the world?”
“But I’m not—”
They didn’t need the icy water from the stream outside. The air in the car had a sudden and very definite chill.
Something else clicked in Ryn’s brain. “Is this why we didn’t go into your apartment? Why we had to leave the village?”
Tam shifted to face the front. “I think we should go back.”
Chapter 14
Winter settled over the village with a mantle of gray—flat, cloudy skies that sprinkled a nearly constant coat of snow, just a few inches at a time, but never with gaps long enough to allow any kind of melt. The snow, which might be pretty under a cloudless, sunny sky, took on varying shades of gray. It seemed the whole world was dull and colorless.
Ryn stumped to and from campus, avoiding Tamara—which wasn’t hard. She simply didn’t go to the noon Mass. It was a sure thing Tam wouldn’t be coming by her office again. Ryn kept telling herself it was for the best. She didn’t need to get involved with someone so closeted and messed up about what she wanted. The last thing she needed was to become someone’s experiment, and then, when it ended badly—as it inevitably would—have the college somehow find out about them.
Forget her.
The sad part was, she really did miss the others. Franny had a wicked sense of humor, and Roberta was a keen observer of people. Steph was just a really kind person—with a great strudel recipe.
At the college, Ryn’s own classes were going okay, she supposed. Beverly told her about a quarter of the students had dropped the women-and-history class.
“Serves him right,” Ryn grumbled, but it pained her to see those students soured on what could have been a fantastic course.
At home, things weren’t any better. If she was pissy, Henrietta was pissier. They barely spoke, sitting through mostly silent dinners, and then going to their separate rooms after. Ryn wasn’t sure what had happened between them, but she didn’t have the energy to sort it out.
She wrapped up her last lecture and went to her office to drop off her notes. Sitting down to stuff her pants into her boots, she was bent over to lace them when a shadow fell across her door.
The small hairs on the back of her neck prickled, but she didn’t look up.
“It seems you’ve been busy.” Geary’s voice was low, meant to be heard only by her.
“I’ve been busy doing my work.” Ryn’s eyes darted around, looking for something, anything that might serve as a weapon if needed.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
She straightened up slowly. “Care to enlighten me?”
His lips were stretched thin, his fists balled up. “If I go down, I’m taking you with me.”
For a few seconds, he stared into her eyes before turning and going to his own office, where he slammed the door.
“What the hell was that about?” she whispered. Her heart was pounding more than she cared to admit at the undisguised hatred in his eyes.
She finished dressing for the walk home, pausing at Beverly’s office to see if she knew what Geary was talking about, but her office was dark.
She thumped down the stairs in an even sourer mood. When she got to the house, Bonnie’s car was still in the driveway, parked beside Nelly. Ryn remembered, with a little stab of guilt, that she hadn’t left any little notes for Bonnie the last couple of Wednesdays.
As she unlocked the front door, she heard voices coming from the back of the house. Leaving her boots and jacket in the foyer, she padded through the house to find Bonnie and Henrietta in the studio.
“What’s up?”
“Time to get all the paintings together for the show at the library,” Bonnie said cheerfully.
But Ryn noticed she glanced worriedly at Henrietta as she said it. Henrietta was scowling at a lineup of paintings propped along the counter and on the floor, leaning against the cabinets.
“I don’t like any of them,” Henrietta snapped. “None of them are good enough.”
“Now that’s just silly,” Bonnie said. “They’re beautiful.”
“What’re you talking about?” Ryn asked. “These are great.”
“What do you know?” Henrietta clanked out of the studio. A moment later, her bedroom door closed with a loud slam.
“Seems to be my day for slamming doors,” Ryn muttered. She turned to Bonnie. “What was that all about? I thought galleries have taken her paintings.”
Lowering her voice conspiratorially, Bonnie said, “Henrietta has never let anyone at those galleries know who she is.”
“How can that be? I thought her work was all over the state?”
“It is.” Bonnie’s gaze flicked in the direction of Henrietta’s room, and she waved Ryn out into the breezeway near the garage. “When the gallery people come, she always asks me to deal with them.”
“But why?”
“Because she doesn’t want them to take her paintings out of pity.”
Ryn’s mouth hung open for a moment.
Bonnie nodded vigorously. “I know! I feel the same way. It’s just plain silly, but she thinks if they knew she was handicapped, they would look at her work differently. Not judge it the same way. So they have no idea who she is.”
“Oh.” Ryn looked in the direction of the bedroom, understanding. “And now, with a show here in the village, where everyone knows who she is…”
“She’s scared. Plain and simple. But do you think she’d admit it?” Bonnie’s pursed lips answered her own question.
Ryn bit her lip as she thought. “Do you think you and I can pick out the paintings for the library show?”
Bonnie wrung her hands. “Oh, dear. That’s a lot of responsibility, but I’m afraid if we leave it up to her, she won’t think any of them are good enough.”
“Come on.”
An hour later, the back seat and trunk of Bonnie’s car were loaded with about two dozen carefully wrapped paintings. They picked a mix of Henrietta’s still lifes, local scenes of the village square and the pond and golf course—“people will enjoy seeing scenes they recognize,” Bonnie said—as well as some of the paintings Henrietta had done of Owasco Lake.
“You take thes
e to the art store,” Ryn said. “If Henrietta absolutely doesn’t want some of these in the show, I’ll bring others.”
“If you’re sure,” Bonnie said.
“I am.”
She waved Bonnie off and then braced herself. The house was filled with the aroma of the ham and sweet potatoes Bonnie had made for them. A pan of green beans simmered on the stove. On the counter was a loaf of bread Bonnie had baked at home and brought that morning. Ryn’s stomach growled its appreciation, but first things first.
Standing at Henrietta’s door, she stood with her hand in the air. Sympathy was not the way to go. She gave the door a sharp rap.
“Dinner’s ready, and it smells good enough to make me want to eat all of it.”
When there was no reply, she said, “Bonnie said you didn’t eat lunch, so if you don’t come out, I’m gonna have to force feed you. No hunger strikes on my watch. I’ll give you five minutes, and if you’re not out, I’m coming in.”
She went to the kitchen and pulled the ham and potatoes out of the oven. As she was getting the plates down, she heard Henrietta behind her. She set two glasses on the counter next to the refrigerator.
Without turning around, she said, “Just water for me, please.”
She dished out some of everything onto their plates and cut a few slices of bread, bringing them to the table with the butter.
A quick glance told her Henrietta hadn’t been crying, not that she expected her to. She knew how tough the armor was most of the time.
“When was the last time you went to a museum?” she asked.
Henrietta paused in the middle of buttering her bread. “What kind of question is that?”
“A simple one.” Ryn stabbed her fork into a chunk of sweet potato. “When was the last time you went to a museum or gallery?”
Henrietta frowned. “New York City, 1953. We went to visit a specialist in polio cases. While we were there, we visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
Ryn tried to hide her surprise. She figured it hadn’t been recent, but this caught her off-guard. “What do you remember?”
Henrietta chewed for a moment, thinking. “It was overwhelming. So huge, so much to see. Too much. So many people.”
“So you’re probably not a very good judge of how your work stacks up.”
“Excuse me?” Henrietta’s fork lowered.
“I haven’t been to New York, but when I used to hang out at the museums and galleries in Pittsburgh—”
“You spent time in art galleries in Pittsburgh?”
Ryn couldn’t help grinning at Henrietta’s dubious tone. “Yeah. It was a good place to pick up women.”
Henrietta snorted, and Ryn continued, “I was mostly interested in the older stuff, not more modern artists. I wanted to see the historic details, what clothing was like, the furniture, china, stuff like that. But the point is, I’ve seen a lot of more modern paintings. And I can tell you, art critic that I’m not, your work is better than ninety percent of what is in those galleries.”
Henrietta stared at her for a moment. Ryn met her gaze openly, letting Henrietta see that she meant what she said.
“I won’t lie, Hank. Not even to make you feel better.”
Henrietta lowered her gaze to her plate and cut another bite of ham.
“I think,” Ryn went on, sparing Henrietta the need to respond, “that we need to take a trip to Rochester or Albany. Someplace where they’ve shown your paintings, and see how they stack up. I think you’ll be surprised.”
Henrietta kept her eyes lidded as she considered. “No picking up women.”
Ryn chuckled. “Who needs any other women when I have you as my date?”
Henrietta fretted about which paintings had been chosen for the exhibit, but, she reasoned, since she hadn’t been able to make up her mind at all, perhaps it was better this way. No matter what Meryn said, it was always nerve-wracking to show her work to others. Even when the gallery reps came to the house, she couldn’t bear to be within hearing distance of whatever they might say, but she couldn’t help herself from eavesdropping. It was maddening.
“Are you ready?” came Meryn’s voice through the bedroom door.
Henrietta jumped. “Almost.”
Four of her suits lay on the bed, but she was only dressed in her camisole and a slip. Deciding it didn’t really matter which of the four sets of gray or brown tweed she chose, she picked one and quickly pulled the skirt on. Standing up to tuck her blouse in, she inspected her image in the mirror. Hardly the picture of creativity.
“You are more old school-marm librarian than artist,” she said to her reflection.
But when she stepped out of the bedroom, Meryn glanced her way and said, “You look great.”
Henrietta glowered at her. “I thought you said you don’t lie.”
“I don’t.” Meryn smiled. “You really do look nice. How about me?”
The girl twirled, dressed in khakis and a white blouse. When Henrietta just stared, Meryn looked hurt.
“Hank, these are new pants. You didn’t even notice.”
She grinned when Henrietta tried to swat her with a crutch. She picked up Henrietta’s coat from where it lay on the back of the sofa, giving her shoulders a squeeze as she helped her into it.
“This is going to be fun.”
Henrietta could think of lots of other words for it, but fun wasn’t one of them. She took a deep breath and walked toward the garage as if she were marching to her doom.
But within a couple of hours, even Henrietta had to admit the exhibit was a success. Sandy and Maxine Adams—who, in her flowing batik gown and headscarf most definitely did not look like a stodgy librarian—had outdone themselves. The paintings were set up all around the library, so that visitors had to roam the aisles to follow the trail, which served the dual purpose of spreading the crowd out and getting people to wander throughout the space, perhaps seeing some books they might want to borrow as well.
A table of refreshments was set up near the front, where a chair was reserved for Henrietta when she needed to sit and rest.
She was overwhelmed by the number of people there, so many it was actually hard to move around, despite the spread-out nature of the exhibit.
“Miss Cochran?”
She turned around to see a middle-aged man with a thin moustache and glasses.
“I’m Randall Taylor. I represent the McGovern Gallery in Albany. I selected a few of your paintings this past autumn. I was beginning to doubt you really existed.”
He shook her hand with a slight bow. She waited for the curious gaze down to her braces, but his eyes never left her face.
“I do exist, Mr. Taylor.”
He smiled. “And I’m delighted to meet you at last. You received our check last month?”
“I did,” Henrietta said. “Thank you.”
He pulled a card from his pocket. “Today is hardly the time to discuss details, but I would like to call upon you to discuss a similar exhibit at our gallery. Would you be interested?”
Henrietta accepted the card, blinking a couple of times. “Yes. I would.”
“Excellent. I’ll call within the week. Congratulations on such nice turnout.”
He left her as Bonnie brought her a cup of punch, her husband in tow, looking distinctly uncomfortable in a suit and tie.
“Wasn’t that the gentleman from the gallery? The one I dealt with?”
Henrietta nodded, dazed. “He wants to do a show like this. In Albany.”
“See? I told you there was no need to hide who you are.” Bonnie beamed at her. “We’re so proud. The whole village is. Have you seen how many people have come in today?”
Sandy came by at that moment. “I agree. This is better than I expected. I think holding this opening on a Saturday was a brilliant idea of Maxine’s. With people off work, and nothing else going on this time of year, it gives the village something unique to experience.”
“Congratulations, Henrietta.”
She
stiffened and turned to find Genevieve Talbert standing beside her. “Thank you.”
“I had no idea you were actually talented.”
It was just the kind of backhanded compliment Genevieve habitually handed out to the other women at bridge.
“I’m happy to surprise you,” Henrietta said. Just then the four young nuns came in, giving her a reason to excuse herself.
“Henrietta, we’re so happy for you,” Roberta said. “It’s a wonderful way to let the village see your work.”
“We feel privileged to have had a preview,” Franny said.
Henrietta noticed Tamara scanning the crowd. “I think you’ll find Meryn over there,” she said to them, nodding toward a display near the windows.
She continued chatting with people who stopped by, but she couldn’t help watching Meryn as she greeted the nuns—and the almost-nun. It occurred to her that Meryn hadn’t spoken at all about Tamara since the day they had gone out after brunch. Now that she thought about it, Meryn had been quiet in general since that day.
Another group of people came by, distracting Henrietta for a few minutes. When she glanced over again, Meryn was standing alone. The nuns had moved off, and Meryn was watching them with an unguarded expression on her face—wistful, almost sad. She turned from them and caught Henrietta watching her. A slow smile spread across Meryn’s face.
A curious buzzing sounded in Henrietta’s ears, and it seemed someone dimmed the lights. Suddenly, hands were grabbing her, lowering her into a chair. Someone got a glass of cold water, held it to her lips.
It was Meryn, kneeling beside her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other gently offering her a drink. Henrietta sluggishly wondered how she’d moved across the room so quickly.
“Too much excitement.” Bonnie’s face swam into view. “I’ll stay with her. You go get the car and her chair.”
“Are you sure?” Meryn asked. “Shouldn’t we get her to the hospital?”
“No hospital,” Henrietta rasped. “Home.”
Henrietta was surrounded by bodies, crowding her. Sandy and Maxine tried to clear some space, give her room to breathe. It seemed to take Meryn a very long time to get back with her wheelchair. Burning with humiliation, Henrietta wanted nothing more than to get out of there.
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