The High Season

by Judy Blundell

  “Not seriously.” She rubbed at the paint. She couldn’t get it off. She heard a helicopter buzz overhead, flying out toward Plum Island so it could loop back to East Hampton. The noise was loud and she moved her lips. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Me too,” he said.

  Then he walked back into the restaurant, and she walked away.

  * * *

  —

  THERE IS NO difference between my canvas and the air.

  I would paint on water if I could.

  Women are mired in the body, it’s why they can’t be artists. All they see is themselves.

  Men sit astride the world. Women are afraid they’ll fall off.

  Peter in her head again.

  Every time I paint a woman I am painting myself. How can I hate myself?

  Name a truly great woman artist. You see? You can’t. Joan Mitchell? Are you fucking kidding? She’s crap.

  Women can’t paint other women. They can’t see them clearly enough.

  Copying his stroke, pushing the brush.

  Photos of Mike and Adeline had cropped up in the last three weeks. Adeline had said that she was in Orient to get away, but apparently this did not include eating at Nick & Toni’s in East Hampton, attending the Artists & Writers Celebrity Softball Game or the Parrish Art Museum brunch in Water Mill, and being photographed with “artist Michael Dutton.”

  The third canvas, she knew, would be perfect.

  48

  THE FIRST LEAF had crunched underfoot, and the summer was fall, falling away. Everyone was talking about Lark’s event at the Belfry. The party had its own hashtag. It would be covered by the Times. Dodge had done a special installation. Daniel Mantis was running yachts back and forth from Sag Harbor to Greenport for the Hamptons people. He’d hired cars and even a famous eighty-two-foot ketch. There was a rumor that all the museum members would be invited. This turned out to be untrue.

  Ruthie carried the painting, wrapped in brown paper and in a canvas tote, to the car. She placed it in the backseat, suddenly worried about rear-end collisions. The car felt as inflammatory as a Pinto. The word collision was so close to collusion, she thought, and wondered if she was in the middle of a nervous breakdown.

  She drove to Southold in the beginnings of holiday weekend traffic. They couldn’t meet in Orient, and Lucas had chosen a café with a large, busy parking lot. She pulled up next to him in a spot underneath some trees. He got out of his Jeep and they both slid into the backseat, as if they were teenagers ready for action.

  Ruthie unwrapped the painting and handed it over.

  Lucas sat for a moment and then burst out with a laugh that sounded like a cartoon bird.

  “Adeline! Oh, my fucking God, you painted Adeline!”

  Ruthie bit her lip, then her thumbnail. “It made sense, right? She was his model in the beginning.”

  “It’s delicious,” Lucas said. “She looks awful. So old! Wait. Why would he paint her like this? He was in love with her. This could be a mistake. We should have discussed this.”

  “I needed a model, okay? And there’s lots of photos of her on the Internet. And he painted everyone that way. Look, I thought about this. The timing could be soon after they met. Maybe he did the painting before they were in love—she was his model, remember? He never showed it to her, he always worked from Polaroids. And so maybe he left it in the Sag Harbor studio, where your mother found it? It makes sense.”

  “Okay,” Lucas said. “Sure. Genius. That’s the story, that’s the narrative.” He held the painting at arm’s length, as much as he could in the backseat of a car. “You caught her. It’s what she’d look like if she hadn’t had all the work done, right? If she just got progressively uglier, like most women in their fifties.”

  “Did you just really say that?”

  “You know what I mean. The ones who don’t care.” Lucas laughed that strange laugh again. “This isn’t just going to be easy, it’s going to be fun. Let’s get this sucker in my trunk.” He looked at his phone.

  “Wait.” As soon as the painting left her hands, she would be committed. “Maybe we need to think about this again.”

  “Jesus, will you take a Klonopin? I’m his son, they’re not going to question anything, all right?”

  They had gone over this. “How can you be sure they won’t sell it?” she asked. “Someday it could find its way into a museum. They could do some kind of tests I don’t know about.” And they would see the word written under the paint, which wouldn’t disqualify it, but it certainly would gain it attention. That pleased her, that years and years from now, after she was gone from the world, that word could float through in damning pentimento.

  “You’re paranoid,” Lucas said. “This is getting boring.” He looked at the painting again. “Holy fuck,” he said again. “You did it.”

  The signs of decay on that beautiful face, just as disturbing and awful as Peter meant them to be. Recognizably Adeline, those eyes of glass.

  “Maybe I made her more grotesque than he would have,” Ruthie said.

  “Nah. You caught her sad pathetic soul.”

  She took the painting and slid it back into the brown paper. She taped it carefully and slid it into the bag.

  His leg was jumping. “Come on.” He took the tote out of her hands.

  Such a small painting, Ruthie thought. Not so important in the scheme of things. Ten million in a bag. Lucas was right about provenance. He could get away with it. She wouldn’t end up in a tiny apartment, scrounging money for rent and waving goodbye to her daughter as she jetted off to France with Adeline. She wouldn’t lose her place in the world.

  “The thing is…” he started.

  Ruthie felt something happen along her hairline, sweat springing up. The thing is was never a good way to start a conversation. The thing is, I’ve been unhappy for a long time, said Mike. The thing is, I met someone. In Italy, Joe said. The thing is, your father is a bastard crap person.

  “…the Russian guy fell through.”

  “What?”

  “Am I in charge of geopolitics right now? Oligarchs aren’t who they used to be.” Lucas opened the car door.

  She grabbed on to a strap of the tote. “You said you were knee-deep in oligarchs! Those were your exact words!”

  “No worries. I’ve got someone else. It’s better because the deal will be, like, instant. I’ve already prepped him.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Better you don’t know, right? I’ll probably have a cashier’s check by Monday.”

  “The banks are closed on Monday.”

  “Jesus, you’re a buzzkill. Tuesday.” He yanked the strap from her grasp, slid out, and stuck his head back in. “I’ll let you know.” After he shut the door Ruthie watched him check himself out in the reflection. Life for Lucas was a series of poses.

  She tried to swallow. She had an urgent need to pee.

  She slid out of the car. Lucas was behind the wheel of his own car, checking his phone. She bolted like a rabbit toward the café.

  The place was crowded. It had only opened last year, and they roasted their own ethically sourced beans and had barnwood on the walls and scattered couches and armchairs, so it was a hit. Ruthie ignored the coffee line and launched herself at the bathroom door. She peed and then washed her hands, out, out damned spot, even though her hands were paint-free, but wasn’t that the point for Lady Macbeth anyway? She remembered being pregnant with Jem, that low-level nausea in the first months, that bitter taste in her mouth that never went away. This was like that. As though she were carrying something inside her, something that in the end would undo her and leave her stranded, gasping and bewildered.

  After this, after it was done, after she had herself back, she’d get her best friend back, she’d get on her knees (well, maybe not that, but she’d bring wine) and deepl
y apologize to Penny for being such an asshole. She’d been thrown off something moving very fast and she was dizzy and totally sick and she was sorry she lashed out. She would apologize to Jem for neglecting her and maybe even to Helen for throwing a tree at her. Ruthie met her frantic eyes in the mirror. It was almost over. She just had to hang on to something real instead of the edge of a sink. And get a coffee.

  She stood on line behind a couple. The fortyish woman had skin tan and smooth as a teenager’s. Her legs looked as though they’d been rubbed with oil. She wore heeled white sandals, her toes painted a cyanotic lilac. “All the choices,” she said to the man. “It makes me need a hug or something. Someone to say There, there, you can’t go wrong with just ordering a coffee. There’s no bad choices here.”

  The man gave a distracted smile and ordered a soy latte. Ruthie realized that the two weren’t together. The woman continued talking, this time to the barista. So she was one of those people, the ones who held up lines, who never could find their wallet or their receipt, who asked for directions and then didn’t listen to the answer. GPS and Apple Pay had not eliminated them from social discourse. Not yet.

  Thank God. Ruthie loved this kind of person. She liked people who would willingly share, since she had been married for years to someone who guarded his feelings like a leopard snarling over a carcass. So when the woman turned and smiled at her, Ruthie was happy to smile, too, to have a pleasant exchange in a spinning world.

  “Stupid to drink hot coffee in this heat, right?” the woman asked. Now that she had turned, Ruthie noticed her breasts, because she had to. Two perfect mounds, as if someone had modeled them from wet sand.

  “Well, we’re in air-conditioning all the time anyway,” Ruthie said, and gave her order to the barista. The woman’s dress was familiar, a seersucker shift with lime-green lines. She was petite and pretty, honey-brown eyes that also seemed familiar. Pink lip gloss that looked like the kind with a flavor. Compared with the distracted women around them in rumpled linen, she was as cheerful as a Skittle.

  “I’m from Florida, so this heat is nothing,” the woman said. “You know, I thought there would be more opportunity here. It’s kinda dead, right? I mean, not this weekend, it’s pretty crowded, but, you know, September.”

  “You’re on the wrong fork,” Ruthie said. “You should try the Hamptons.”

  “Stuck on the wrong fork,” the woman said. “Story of my life.”

  The bell on the door jingled, and Doe walked in. When she saw them, Ruthie saw something flicker on her face. Annoyance and something like fear.

  Doe strode forward. “Mom, what are you doing here?”

  “Dora!” The woman’s face lit up. “You know, having coffee? Oops, I’m wearing your dress. Busted!”

  Doe’s mother? Ruthie recognized Doe’s expression, the hurried way she turned to her. She recognized it because she’d known it herself as a teenager, if she ran into a classmate while she was with her mother. Shame.

  Angela, who never met a purse she wouldn’t clutch, never met a restaurant bill she wouldn’t declaim as ridiculous. Ruthie wished she could touch Doe on the arm and say, One day you will miss her. You will miss being that loved.

  “Ruthie, hi. I didn’t see you—”

  “You know each other?” Doe’s mother interrupted. “How funny is that? Wow, this is such a small town, right?”

  “Shari, this is Ruth Beamish. My boss. I mean, my ex-boss.”

  Ruthie had never seen Doe anything less than perfectly composed. Even around two dozen clamoring, squirming kids, she’d pass out the art materials efficiently and answer questions politely. She rarely smiled, and never looked flustered, and now she was doing both.

  “Ooh, the good boss, right? I came up from Florida to live with Dora,” Shari said to Ruthie. “I mean, Doe. I’m trying to get a foothold. A foothold in Southold, ha. Doe loves it here so much, I thought, you know. I’m a masseuse—I mean bodywork, not just massage? I realign your body and your chakras. I have a card, but it has my Florida number on it…”

  “Mom, don’t pass out your business card—”

  “Anyways, I’m kinda stuck on Doe’s couch.” She nudged Doe, who recoiled.

  Ruthie saw Lucas push through the door. He tilted down his sunglasses when he saw them.

  “Well, good morning, beauties. Ruthie, I haven’t seen you in weeks.” With one glance he ignored Shari, instantly assessing her as someone he didn’t need to consider. He bent to kiss Doe on the cheek, but she stepped back. Lucas covered by stroking her arm.

  “I’m Doe’s mom,” Shari said.

  Ruthie watched as Lucas took Shari in, from toenails to breasts to lip gloss. “I should have known. Beautiful girls always come from beautiful mothers.”

  “Well, aren’t you adorable and handsome,” Shari said. “Let’s sit together and have coffee! I’m so glad I got to meet Dora’s friends. She hasn’t invited me anywhere. Like she’s hiding me. So this is so fun!”

  “Yeah,” Lucas said, with a glance at Doe. “It’s delicious.”

  49

  JEM’S PHONE

  Draft Folder

  From: Jemma Dutton

  To: Olivia Freeman

  Subject: snakebite

  If you get a snakebite, keep wound above the heart. Raise arm or leg, etc. Cut into wound with knife and suck out blood and venom. Then spit it out and rinse with Gatorade.

  We totally made that one up because we really, really wanted to suck out venom.

  Here’s what happened last week:

  He asked for a “real date.” He said when he has the house to himself. He kissed me.

  Ollie, I know something now. You can actually fall for somebody you’re really not sure you even like. You wait for his lame texts. You wonder if you like his smell. Something about him kind of turns you off, but you still like him touching you. It’s sick.

  Meret knows he goes for a coffee at eleven at Aldos, so she waits there or happens to be walking by. Yeah. How do I know this, because I was with him yesterday and that is why. She is flirting w him, she knows about my crush. She’s a witch, she just knows things. Annie tells me that on groupchat she’s calling me a slut and they’re betting on my losing it to him. Yeah. I’m a ho. Ha. Ho Ha. So yesterday Meret says to me, with Lucas right there—*puts on concerned face* “Aren’t you dreading the first day of school, Jem? I mean, especially you.” When I ask her why she just laughs and says Lucas doesn’t want to hear about high school stuff.

  Annie fills me in. Meret made up T-shirts with #MAYFLOWER on them and everybody is going to wear them first day of school. Even the stupid boys.

  Lucas told me he might be hanging out into September. Hale invited him, he has a house on Shelter Island. Lucas quit his job, so he says he needs “recovery time.” And he said why should he leave, when there’s a girl like me to hang with?

  So I have a stupid plan. It only requires losing my virginity, ha ha.

  Okay not ha ha, I’m totally serious. Kind of.

  The thing is, I have to pull a Crazy Ivan. Remember when Wash does it in Firefly? I’ve got to spin really hard and fast and go straight at it. It’s the only way to beat the bad guys.

  If Lucas and I hook up, I could ask him to drive me to school the first day in his white Jeep. Because you can ask something that little and they have to do it, right? I could kiss him with the top down. I could just sit there in the parking lot, kissing Lucas.

  Even if they do the mayflower thing, it won’t matter. I’ll just seem all older and above it. Meret will completely cave and find another victim.

  Do you think it’s creepy that my dad might marry Lucas’s stepmom? Because it’s not like we grew up together. And it’s not like Adeline is his mother. His mother died when he was I think sixteen? Which explains maybe why deep down he’s sad.

  He hates his ste
pmother, you can tell. I don’t know why. Adeline found a house she wants to buy in Orient and she’s going to renovate it for next summer. There’s a wing for me, she said. A wing.

  That just makes me feel all confused, honestly. And I can’t talk about it with Mom because Mom gets crazy eyes when Adeline comes up.

  It’s like Mom is mad all the time, or sometimes she’s just sitting there at the kitchen table, staring. This summer we broke this huge rule and I’m allowed to wear earbuds and watch something on my phone while we eat dinner. She started painting again, I guess that’s good even if the paintings aren’t? Dad is super preoccupied with Adeline. I get how Dad is happy, because love, obv, but being with Adeline is like a vacation from real life all the time. Nothing is hard. You just pay for things and get them. You can read the paper about some new play and just go, “We should see this in previews.” We used to go to the theater in New York like maybe once a year, and that was a huge deal.

  Turns out she has a plane, Ol. Like, when she goes to California or something? She goes in her own plane.

  Maybe you’d hate that. Maybe you’d say, she should be arrested for that Spinosaurus-sized carbon footprint.

  I just can’t stop myself. I check my phone like fifty times a minute. He hasn’t texted me in three days. And it’s Labor Day weekend and it feels like my very last chance. He might stand me up, he did it once before, when we were supposed to go to Roberta’s in Sagaponack and he said he was going to a party instead because she was boring. Turned out he was right because the dinner party got canceled because of this big storm and because Roberta wasn’t feeling well, so all I did was sit in another rich person’s guesthouse and watch TV on my phone.

  Is he ghosting me?

  Should I text him?

  What if he doesn’t answer?

  It’s like stepping off the edge of the world and never landing.

  From: Jemma Dutton

  To: Lucas Clay

  I’m off work at 1 we could maybe get ice cream or something LOL

  Ignore that LOL so lame