by Kate Ledger
“If it’s not too terrible. Her friends are throwing her a small party before she leaves. It’s at a gallery, her friend Maya owns it. I think it’s really less of a party and more of an excuse to get people into the gallery, but it would mean a lot to me to stop by.”
She straightened. “Isn’t there protocol for meeting family?”
“It’s my fault, I got confused about which day she’d said. I promise it won’t last long. Then we can go to dinner as planned.”
“I’m not sure about this,” she said. “I thought this introduction would be kind of private, and kind of quick.”
“It’s a very small gallery,” he reasoned. He stole a look at her as he drove.
“Things are different for you,” she reminded him, without saying the obvious: You’re not the one who’s still married, and she worried again whether he was trying to push her into something she wasn’t ready for.
“Okay, okay.” He considered the options. “I could drop you at my apartment, just for a little while,” he suggested. “Would that be better? I feel like I have to show up at the gallery, though. Even if it’s just briefly.”
She was aghast. “Wait in your apartment?”
He was struggling, she could tell. “I did promise, and it would mean a lot to Anne.”
You promised me, she wanted to say, but didn’t. That was the sort of thing that married people said to each other, and she wasn’t ready for that kind of interaction, either. (She realized, moreover, she would not have made such a change in plans for Jamie. It wouldn’t even have been an issue, and, guiltily, this bothered her, too.) Instead, making her disappointment clear, she said, “I needed this to be low-key.”
“We won’t stay. Fifteen minutes tops. And I swear I won’t try to kiss you in public. I won’t even hold your hand, unless you want me to.”
What was wrong with her anyway, she chastised herself, that she felt she had to control everything that happened? And what did it matter if they hadn’t put a name on the relationship, or whatever it was? And was she always going to be that kind of person who was, as he’d said, watching and waiting and judging and worrying about how everything looked—or was she going to learn how to live? Stop thinking, Emily, just try to experience the moment, for chrissake. “Just fifteen minutes,” she agreed finally. “I want your word.”
The gallery was on a side street in South Philadelphia. Ankle-high trash hugged the bricks of the building, old flyers, food wrappers, newspaper fragments. As she followed him into the gallery space—bloodred walls, white ceiling, large imposing pieces of art—he waved to a woman across the room. “Maya,” he called. The woman, who was elflike, with spiky hair and giant hoop earrings, looked possibly twenty-five years old (it was getting more and more impossible to determine the ages of people younger than she was). She waved back to Will, but didn’t make her way over. Emily could only imagine categorizing the crowd as suavely disheveled. The whole lot of them looked like displaced college students with unruly hair and long T-shirts and pants with drawstrings. She felt ancient. Waiters in black ties tooled around with little trays of food. Will snatched a glass of white wine as one of them passed. She would have preferred red, but she accepted it with a smile.
“Anne’s been painting since she was a kid,” Will told her. “Saturday art classes, afterschool clubs. It’s her thing. She won’t pursue it, probably because she’s seen what the life of an artist is like, but I kept telling her she belongs in art school.”
“Oh,” Emily said. “You just said a gallery. You didn’t say she was one of the artists.”
“Go ahead,” Will challenged. “See if you can guess.”
Drinking the wine, she realized she hadn’t eaten in hours. She glanced at the art on the walls. There were some rather ordinary nature paintings, puddles of water and barn doors in different kinds of light. There were Hopperesque imitations of street scenes and unimpressive collages with dull backgrounds and newspaper and shellac. Then she noticed the painting at the far end of the room, a large portrait of a man’s torso, in all different shades of blue, some deep, some so faint they approximated a gray. To Emily, there was no doubt that Will was the subject, even though his features were blurred so that nothing of his face was exactly in place. She edged closer and stood squarely in front of it to look. His head was angled, a little to the side, a little downturned, and his eyes were closed, not quite flatteringly, but spontaneously, the way people sometimes found themselves caught in candid photographs. A strange way to depict someone, she thought. He appeared midlaugh or midthought, and somehow it conveyed exactly what she understood about Will, the unposed, easy motion, the self-effacing lack of sharpness. There was his scar, which she knew so intimately that she’d almost believed she was the only one who could see it. In the painting, he was not handsome—certainly not as attractive as he was in the flesh—but particular. The details were so right that the collection of them could not have been anyone else.
Will appeared at her elbow, staring up at the painting. “I don’t know where she got it ’cause I can’t draw a circle. Every now and then she sells something. This one’s two grand. I’m really proud.”
“You’re here,” a voice behind them said. Anne turned out to be taller than Emily had imagined, and astonishingly together-looking. She had presence, no denying that. Her dark hair was cut in an underturned bob, shorter in back than the pointed pieces that curved around her face. The brown of her eyes was so dark, the color was almost black. Lindsay must have been composed of sharp features and dominant genes because Anne had none of Will’s soft angles, except for the gentleness of her expression, which Emily recognized immediately.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Emily said, holding out her hand after Will introduced them. She hoped she sounded more than merely polite. “So nice to meet you.” She gestured toward the painting with the hand holding her wine. “This is wonderful.”
“It came out well, I think,” Anne said (guardedly, Emily thought).
Emily wished they had started off with dinner. She worried that the evening would feel interminably long, but she cared about the impression she made. She looked at Will and then back at Anne. “Your father raves about you.”
Grinning, Anne reached over and took her father’s hand. “He’s very sweet.”
“I’ll say it again,” Will said, tucking Anne under his arm and giving her a squeeze, as though she were still a little girl, “I’m proud of you for going, but wow, I’m gonna miss you.”
“Aw,” she said again, letting herself be hugged. “I’ll be back for Thanksgiving.”
Emily felt herself regarding them as though they were a two-headed species she’d discovered on a tree branch through a magnifying glass. Where had she and Simon gone wrong with Jamie? Was it all their fault that Jamie was stormy, accusatory, impossible to get along with? Was it genetic? After her father died, she had wondered whether Jamie might have a touch of it too—some depression, some mania. Maybe she’d unwittingly passed some of it along. She didn’t know how those things got diagnosed or what there was to do about it. Lithium, she supposed. That was all she knew. She didn’t dislike her daughter. She just hadn’t figured out how to love her.
“You have a real talent,” Emily said. She was being honest, but she realized she needed this self-possessed, sharp-looking Anne to like her. Anne thanked her, smiling appreciatively with wide, white teeth, and then turned away as a friend tapped her on the shoulder to say he had to leave. Will suggested to Emily that they look around the rest of the gallery. She helped herself to another glass of wine.
“She’s lovely,” Emily whispered to him.
“Ah,” Will said, closing his eyes and tipping his head as he sighed. She recognized the gesture then, the head tilt, from the painting. Anne might have rendered him well, but Emily recognized the painting for what it was: a love note. It was a message between the two of them that went back and forth. Anne told him she loved him by painting him. But she also showed him what he looked
like as he was loving her, which let him know she knew she was loved. And as they stood in the gallery, admiring the painting with a group of strangers singing praises—including Emily—they basked in that love all over again. Emily began to suspect that she’d had too much wine already.
“Have you always gotten along?” she asked Will as they stood in front of a pedestal with a clay sculpture of half a head.
A waiter appeared, offering a shiny tray with speared cheese puffs in fluted cupcake foils. Will took one; Emily declined.
“We’ve had our moments,” he acknowledged. “I told you about that boyfriend, didn’t I? I’ve just loved them so much. Both daughters. When they were born, I just felt like—ah—this’s what it’s about. Life. What we’re here for. My chest almost aches when I think of them too long.”
All that sentiment. He was full to the brim with feeling. She stared at him. Life’s goodies. She had tried so hard—with both children—how had she so thoroughly missed out? “You’re a fool for love,” she said, downing the rest of her glass.
“Here she is,” he said, his face lighting up as Anne made her way through the crowd with her jacket. “She’s ready for us.”
They had a reservation at the Franklin Inn, but when they stepped into the dimly lit doorway, the maitre d’ informed them they’d have a short wait. The party that was sitting at their table hadn’t quite finished dessert. Emily looked around the Tudor-style entrance, terra-cotta tiles and wood beams and handblown glass windowpanes divided by lead into diamond shapes. She knew exactly what dinner would be like: the rolls in the basket would be a row of soft white bread; little pats of butter would come on pieces of cardboard with a rectangle of paper on top; the side vegetable would be a choice of cut green beans that would come too wet or buttered, or mashed potatoes.
“Let’s hope it’s not too long,” Will said.
In the dim light, Emily felt bold. She reached over to straighten the collar of his shirt. “ ‘He that lives upon hope will die fasting,’ ” she said. “Ben Franklin. Get it? Franklin Inn?” Along with Einstein, Thoreau, Shakespeare and Mae West, good old Ben was quoted often in the world of PR. Will looked at her with a half-grin.
“No jokes,” Anne cautioned. “He’s very fond of this place.”
Will offered to bring them drinks from the bar as they waited. Emily decided to switch over to red wine, requesting a Zinfandel, and winced privately as she remembered the fiasco in the basement of her home. The shipment of grapes—and the smell—was gone finally, all but a few pounds that Simon had insisted on keeping in the basement freezer. (“They fit,” he insisted. “And they’re not rotting, so why throw them away?”) Anne ordered a martini. She was quite sophisticated, this Anne.
Emily sidled close to her and whispered loudly, “Are you twenty-one?”
“Shh,” Anne replied.
“Change my order. I’ll have one of those, too,” she called to Will.
Will returned with their drinks and pointed out the art on the walls, which was nautical and historical, and didn’t interest Emily. By the time they were seated, Emily felt not quite drunk but a little too loose. The bread arrived (she’d been right about the rolls and the butter), and an instant after she handed off the menu, she couldn’t remember what she’d ordered.
“When do you fly?” Emily asked as a bottle of wine was opened for the table.
“Friday,” Anne answered. “Did I tell you, Dad, Jen’s picking me up at the airport, and the first thing we’re going to do is see a cousin of hers in Oakland who makes parade floats for a living. She flies around the country, funded by corporations, and she conceptualizes and designs floats for events. Can you believe that?”
Emily looked over at Will and was startled to see him holding his table napkin to his face. At first she thought he was having a problem with the bread. She’d once bitten into a mussel that had turned out to be full of sand and had spit it into the napkin to show to the waiter. Then she thought—his eyes closed—he might be waiting to sneeze. It took several moments before she understood that he was wiping his eyes, actually crying at the table. Emily glanced at Anne and then looked down at the scalloped edges of her plate.
“Sorry,” he sputtered, laughing at himself. “I couldn’t help it.”
“Can you believe him?” Anne asked. “It’s not like I haven’t been away before. It’s just that there won’t be a dorm and an R.A. and meal service. I promise I’ll call.”
“I’ll pay your cell phone minutes,” Will said. He dabbed at his face, which had turned bright pink. “You can even go over the limit.”
“I’ll stay in touch, Dad. I promise.”
Emily cleared her throat. She hated herself for being uncomfortable, but she was not good at such displays. She didn’t know what to do. “Have you spent time in California before?” she asked politely.
Then Will stood up, dabbing at his crimson cheeks all over again, laughing and coughing. “Excuse me, I need a minute.” He started off in the direction of the restrooms.
Emily and Anne sat at the table in silence. Emily smoothed her napkin across her lap. The silverware was American colonial. The plates were French country. She finished off her wine. She didn’t know people who lost composure like that. She smiled at the girl. “Have you chosen a major?”
“I’m still open. I’ve taken a bunch of English classes. I like reading. English and history are the main contenders. I’d like to go to law school. I thought I’d take a year and figure it out.”
“But not art?”
“Oh no. I’ve seen what it can do to you, when it’s not bringing in money.”
Her first instinct was to commend Anne for being practical—it was her best career advice—but she realized what Will would probably tell his daughter. “If you follow your talent,” she said, “you’ll be successful. Figure out exactly what you do best, and give yourself to it. Your painting is wonderful, what I’ve seen so far.”
Anne responded with a stiff smile. They indulged another silence. Then Emily remembered what Will had said, how they’d all discussed his private life. Best thing to do, she decided, was to own the situation.
“I hope this isn’t too awkward for you,” Emily said.
Anne gave a small shrug. “I just want him to be happy. That’s about it.”
The silence resumed. Emily looked toward the restroom. The waiter came around and poured more wine into Emily’s glass. Emily drank.
“It’s not that it’s awkward,” Anne said suddenly when the waiter had disappeared. “It’s that it’s hard to trust you. All the circumstances, and all.”
Emily thought, You mean, that I’m married, and a person who’s married who’s cheating may promise and promise to leave her husband, but may never come through. What’s more, a person who’s married and cheating may cheat again. I’m a real loose canon. Who knows what I’ll do next? “I can understand that,” she said, and drank again.
“We’re protective.”
Emily presumed Anne meant herself and her sister, Rachel. She felt a weird heat, realizing that she’d been the topic of other people’s conversation. Is this what they mean when they ask if your ears were ringing? she thought. Or was it that your ears burned when people talked about you? Maybe they were estimating risk based on the fact that she’d left Will once before. Sisters as a united front, what a concept. Emily tried to decide if there was a threat implied—we’re very close, so stay away from our father—but there didn’t seem to be anything harsh behind the statement, just concern.
“I imagine.” She stole a look in the direction of the restroom. “He’s an extraordinary person, your father. I knew he was, before. He still is.” Believe in your client, she thought, suddenly remembering that she was representing herself. What arose in her, however, was a desire to spell it all out: You’ll find out someday. You’re young now, but you’ll encounter a moment someday when you’ll realize how little you can control. Even if you take a precious year now to make the most careful decisions, th
ings will happen to you that you never expected. An image of Caleb came to her suddenly before she banished it. She didn’t care to expose herself to Anne. Know your audience, she thought, composing herself. The wine had gone to her head. “Thanks for your honesty,” she said.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Will turn the corner, weaving his way back through tables to where they sat. His head was tilted at that familiar, apologetic angle. She smoothed her napkin again and smiled as he pulled out his chair.
“Better?” she asked.
“It’ll be easier in a week,” Will said, smiling and seating himself. “I’m never good at saying good-bye to them.”
“ ‘We only part to meet again,’ ” Emily pronounced, and when Will looked at her blankly, added, “It’s from a poem.”
“ ‘Change, as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be, The faithful compass that still points to thee,’ ” Anne finished, victoriously. “John Gay. I studied him.”
Will beamed at them, those eyes shining generously. “Lovely,” he declared. “Both of you.” He took a sip of wine, but he was only getting started on his drink. Emily’s thoughts felt swishy. She should have stopped earlier. Now it was too late. They ate, and she could only wonder about the impression she’d made on Will’s younger daughter. It would certainly matter to Will what his daughters thought of her. But those girls couldn’t possibly understand what being with Will meant to her, how she had suddenly been presented with the opportunity to shift her life onto what felt like the right track. So much had gone astray for her, even though she’d done all she could to make everything appear trim and tidy. She consoled herself by remembering that the girl was leaving town at the end of the week.
When dinner ended, she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. Anne stood up too and followed. She heard Anne at an adjacent stall, rustling and unzipping, tearing toilet paper, flushing. They didn’t speak a word until they were both done and were standing over the sinks. Anne washed her hands with what seemed to be great concentration.