by Orly Konig
The back door opens and George steps out. “Hey, Maya. Vale took my truck to the store. We’re almost done with the bathroom; you’ll be showering in there tonight.”
“Good news. Thanks.” I duck into the studio. Good news? The bathroom being almost finished, or that my husband isn’t home? A question I prefer not to explore. Not now at least.
For the next few hours, I lose myself in painting. The scrolls on the saddle pad require a steady, slow hand. There’s an ornate pattern, but all I can see is the thin tip of the paintbrush as it glides along the pencil marks. Coloring inside the lines. Ever since I grabbed that first fat crayon and Winnie the Pooh coloring page, I’d painted perfectly inside the lines.
I like my crisp edges. I like knowing where I’m going and what to expect. I like clear pictures. So ironic, then, that my life has turned into an abstract painting with jagged lines jutting out in unexpected places, colors overlapping haphazardly, and lines running off the page.
I dip the brush into the black paint and trace the outer edges of a swirl. Another dip and I fill in the narrow strip, careful not to bump out of bounds.
I lean back and look at the faint pencil marks I’ve drawn on the wooden carousel horse. Guidelines. Dip, paint, and the guidelines transform into a bold statement of color. If only my world was this precise. But no, someone erased the guidelines for my life.
* * *
“Hey.”
I jolt upright, almost knocking over the small can of paint next to me. “You scared me.”
“I knocked, but you obviously didn’t hear me. You’ve made great progress.” Vale motions at the horse.
I stretch my back, arching, and then bending left and right. “He’s coming along. This part will take longer than I anticipated, though.”
“Why?” Vale steps closer and peers over my shoulder. “Wow, that’s some detailed work you have ahead of you.”
“Right? Hank had his signature details on all of the animals, but this guy got extra love. And that love now translates into extrasensitive restoration work. The previous renovations painted over most of the intricate work. I was surprised how much more I found once I stripped those layers.”
Vale walks around the horse, surveying with an architect’s eye for detail. “You’ve done a beautiful job. It’s clear how much he means to you.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, feeling suddenly shy.
“It’s time to get ready for the party,” He shows his watch.
“Do we have to?” I groan. I’d forgotten about it. No, not exactly. I’d chosen to ignore it.
Every year, my mom throws a First-Saturday-of June pool party. The irony is that the pool doesn’t get any of the party. No one swims. No one wears swimsuits. They don’t even come in casual pool-party attire.
The parties, however, are always a hit. For everyone but me.
“Please can we skip it? I have work to do, you have work on the bathroom, and you’re leaving tomorrow.” I’m grasping at curly straws.
“Nope, we’re going.” Straight answer from my straight-straw husband. “Bathroom is done. You can’t use that as an excuse.” He reaches a hand to help me up.
* * *
“Maya, you look beautiful.” Dad leans in for a hug and kiss.
Thomas slaps Dad playfully on the arm and shoos him away. “You clean up okay, Sis.” He pulls me into a bear hug then whispers, “She’s been looking at the door and her watch every thirty seconds waiting for you. Be prepared.”
I feel my whole body constrict.
“And no, you’re not making a break for it.” He releases the hug but grasps my right hand and pulls me in the direction of the patio. My head whips around searching for Vale, who’s already deep in conversation with a man in pink Bermuda shorts and a white T-shirt.
“Don’t leave me,” I mouth. Vale waves. Either he didn’t pick up what I said or he’s issuing a challenge. Fine.
Thomas leads me to one of the bars strategically placed around the pool. As usual, the only things in the pool are large floating candles. I order a gin and tonic from a bartender wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Tiki lights flank each bar and create a perimeter around the pool and patio. I notice a handful of tables on the grass beyond, each with a hurricane lamp in the middle. Waiters, also clad in Hawaiian shirts and khaki shorts, wander around with trays of hors d’oeuvres. No hubby manning the grill over burgers and hot dogs for my mom.
“Bree said you had breakfast together yesterday.” He sips at a beer in a frosty mug. Mom doesn’t miss a detail.
“Then you already know what we talked about, and thanks for the chat because there’s nothing more for me to add.” I kiss his cheek and search for someone whom I desperately need to talk to.
“Not so fast.” He puts a hand on my arm. “I also talked to Vale this morning.”
I take a long, slow drink, enjoying the sting of the gin. I motion the bartender for another. One G&T won’t get me through this interrogation.
“Why aren’t you going with him?”
“If you’ve talked to everyone, then you know the answer. Don’t be Mom.”
“Don’t be nasty.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Will you two stop? Nothing’s changed.”
I whip around at the sound of his voice.
“Simon?”
He laughs and nudges Thomas. “She always was sharp, wasn’t she?”
“You mean sharp tongued.” My brother smirks.
Simon pretends to size me up. “Nah, she’s harmless.” His grin widens in response to the rising color on my cheeks.
“Why are you here?” I ask, wanting to regain some power, although I’m clearly outnumbered.
“I came with a date.”
“A date?”
“It’s what single people do when they want to spend time with someone.” He winks at me, and my face flushes hotter.
“Or what married couples do to reconnect with each other,” my brother adds.
“You two suck. Enjoy each other’s company.” I gulp the last of my drink and motion the bartender again. This will cost me tomorrow, but tonight, I don’t care.
“Oh, relax.” Thomas steps closer. “More tonic than gin,” he directs the bartender before strutting off to play the perfect son next to the perfect hostess.
“Huh.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I turn to Simon but miscalculate the distance between us and bump into him.
He puts a hand around my waist to steady me. His touch ignites the spark I’d felt this morning when he’d hugged me at the hospital. Where is this coming from? And why now?
“I thought your relationship with Thomas would have mellowed.”
“Why?”
“You’re not kids anymore and not vying for Mommy’s attention like you used to. Although what do I know? I don’t have anyone to compete against.”
“I was not competing with Thomas. And I was not vying for my mom’s attention.” Even to my slightly tipsy ears, I sound shrewish.
“Okay, Maya, whatever you say.” He winks, his fingers tapping a beat on my hip, sending shivers of excitement to parts that shouldn’t be reacting.
I sidestep. “So who’s this date?”
“Her name is Manda. I met her when she came to visit her grandfather at Tower Oaks. We’ve been out a few times.”
“How did you and Panda end up at your ex’s party then?” I scan the yard for anyone who could be connected to that name.
“Her name is Manda and she’s friends with Bree.”
“Where is Bree?” I twirl, hoping for a rescue.
“Sick kid.”
“Oh. Where’s Panda?”
“Manda,” he says pointedly, although he doesn’t hide his amusement. “She was talking to one of her clients.”
“Won’t she be looking for you?”
“I’ll go find her in a minute. But I wanted to talk to you.” His tone loses the playful smirk from a minute ago.
“What about?”
“Us.”
“Us? There is no us.”
“There was. And suddenly there wasn’t. I don’t think we’re as through as you pretend.”
“Didn’t we already have this discussion? And you’re wrong.” I take a gulp of my drink, the clear liquid scalding my throat. “But I do have a question: What letters?”
“Letters?”
“The other day you mentioned sending letters. It’s been bugging me, but we haven’t had the opportunity to talk since.”
He lifts his glass and studies the contents. I stare at his hand, the index finger separated from the other three, its tip almost at the lip of the glass. Stop it, Maya.
“Forget I said anything. It’s ancient history,” he responds to the ice cubes, swirling the drink. Mint and lime infuse the air.
“You don’t bring something like that up if it’s not important.”
He lowers his drink and his eyes settle on me.
Suddenly self-conscious under his scrutiny, I take a long drink of my gin and tonic even though it’s more melted ice than gin, and I’ve lost all taste for it.
“You really never got any of my letters?”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice. I’d thought he was so angry and hurt that he never wanted to hear from me again after I left so abruptly. But if he’d written, why hadn’t I gotten those letters? “Did you send the letters to England?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “We can’t undo the past.”
Would I want to if we could? Some. But maybe not all the right parts.
“Simon,” I take a half step closer.
“Don’t.” He sets his glass down on the tray of a passing waiter, his eyes on something in the distance. “You should get back to him. And I have to find my date.”
As Simon walks away, I notice Vale standing across the pool with a cluster of people. Our eyes meet, and he turns back to his companions. My parents are not far from Vale, talking to another couple I recognize but can’t place. The woman says something, and Mom laughs, touching her arm. Dad says something to the man, and they clink glasses in solidarity.
I check my watch. Somehow in the all the fun I wasn’t having, an hour and a half has passed. I set my glass next to Simon’s and join my parents.
“There you are, darling.” Mom kisses my cheek. “You remember Kathleen and Edward Moore, right?”
“Of course.” I smile and extend my hand, the perfect daughter of the perfect hostess.
I contribute the minimum to the discussions on gardeners and the photography exhibit at Gallery Michele. I zone out when the discussion turns to tennis. I’d never gotten the hang of the sport, much to my mom’s disappointment.
“Maya, we’re so excited for the carousel reopening. I’ve been hearing wonderful things about your restoration work.”
I thank Kathleen for the kind words and shoot a questioning look at my mom. Her face gives nothing away.
“There you are.” Vale fills the space my father had occupied next to me moments before. He doesn’t put his arm around my waist like he normally would have. Like Simon had just done. I shiver.
“Are you cold?” I can’t tell if his question is tinted with concern or sarcasm.
“No. Yes. I don’t know. Just a sudden chill.”
I scan the dimly lit backyard until I glimpse Simon with a tall, leggy redhead.
Vale puts his arm around my waist. “We should get going. I have an early car tomorrow.” He’d turned me down when I offered to drive him to the airport. I’d been equal parts disappointed and relieved.
We say good-bye to my mom, find my dad and Thomas, then walk down the long driveway, lined with solar lights.
We get to our car and Vale reaches around me to unlock the passenger door. I turn into him, our bodies connecting. His eyes bulge in surprise.
I tip up until our lips meet. He steps forward, pushing me half a step into the car. My back arches over the contour of the car. A moan bounces between us. Me or him?
He breaks the kiss, his tongue flicking my ear, trailing down my neck. My knees buckle and I grab a fist of his shirt.
He pulls away, and I’m left blinking into the night, my parents’ over-the-top house lit in all its glory behind him, the muffled mingling of music and laughter carrying in the dark of the night.
“Let’s get home.” His voice is thick and low.
I slide into the car and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to focus on the passion that burned inside me moments ago. I won’t think about what ignited it. Or who.
Twenty-seven
I listen as the town car crawls out of the driveway then down the street. Vale tried to convince me to stay in bed this morning, but that didn’t seem right, especially after last night.
The annoying clock ticks 5:23 A.M. A bit early to start on anything. I unfold from the kitchen table and take my coffee to the front porch. Birds are tweeting their morning hellos, no doubt comparing good worm-hunting stories. A man wearing shorts and a sweatshirt, his hood pulled up over his head, walks by with a bulldog dragging at the end of the leash. The dog seems as thrilled about being awake as I am. His head rolls in the direction of the porch and he makes a grunting noise but doesn’t have a chance to build it into a bark before his owner tugs at the leash and hisses a “move it already.”
Vale was reluctant to move this morning as well. He’d apologized for the trip, even offered to cancel, although we both knew it was a halfhearted offer. Maybe last night was the beginning of a fresh start after all. Or maybe it was a desperate attempt at salvaging the unsalvageable.
I breathe in the warmth of the coffee. I want that “it’s going to be okay” feeling Vale promised. I really do want to believe last night was a new beginning.
The wind kicks up and I pull the throw blanket tighter around my shoulders with one hand, the other cradling the coffee mug close to my chest.
I listen to the thump-thump of tennis shoes on concrete as a lone jogger passes by, to the scraping of rubber wheels as the neighbor moves his trash bin. The morning noises get louder, more urgent. The easy quiet of the night pushed aside for the frenzy of another summer Sunday.
I want to reclaim those hours not long ago, when my mind had given way to my body. For the first time in over a year, I didn’t think and I didn’t second-guess. I let my body need the contact, the release.
And this morning? I’m pretending not to hear the whining of the guilt.
Through the open door, I hear my phone ping with an incoming text, and then another. Reluctantly I untangle from the blanket and walk to the kitchen. The phone glows on the kitchen table.
I’ll see you in a week. I love you, Maya.
It can be the beginning of our next chapter. I just have to make it so.
There’s still four hours before visiting hours at the hospital. Hopefully work will keep my mind occupied until then.
In the bedroom, I pull on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt Vale left on the bed. The bed. I see two bodies, arms and legs entwined. Did Simon make love to Panda last night?
“Stop it.” I turn from the bed and stomp away from the swirling emotions. Where did that come from?
The studio feels cold this morning. I tuck my hands inside the sweatshirt sleeves and survey the carousel horse. There’s still a lot of work to be done, and my deadline is getting close. The black swirls on the saddle pad are done, but I want to give them a bit longer to dry before I start on the rest of the saddle pad details. I can start on the girth this morning though.
I mix the paint but can’t bring myself to go closer to the horse. Even the lyrical notes of Chris Botti aren’t soothing my jitters. I punch the “off” button on the CD player.
“Get a grip, Maya,” I scold myself. I dip the brush into the paint then lay the first strokes onto the raised-wood girth.
It takes a few strokes before I settle in, but I’m soon lost in the repetition and detail. The chime of an incoming text doesn’t register immediately. It’s
only when the reminder chimes for the third time, that I finally connect with the sound.
“Hank is asking for you. And we should talk.”
Hank. I glance at the clock and suck in air. How did it become one o’clock in the afternoon already?
I clean my brushes and cap the paint container. The rest of the girth will have to wait. And I still need to decide if the inscription stays or gets filled in.
I jog across the space between the studio and house, a silent argument running in my head over whether to change or just go. I smell of paint and my hands and clothes have splotches everywhere, but I don’t want to lose more time. A nagging anxiety pulses through my decision-making. I grab my keys and bag and dart for the car.
Absently I glance in the rearview mirror and groan. I have a big black splotch on my cheek. Oh well, maybe it’ll nudge the conversation directly to the merry-go-round. Maybe Hank can tell me what he’d like done with the inscription.
* * *
The hallway seems to stretch forever, an eerie quiet that makes the hair on my arms stand.
Hank is propped up in bed, the TV flashing pictures with no sound. I knock. He turns to look then rolls his head back and blinks at the TV. Maybe he doesn’t recognize me? Maybe he’s upset that I didn’t come earlier?
“Hi, Hank. What are you watching?” Another step forward, and now I can see the flashing pictures of Wheel of Fortune. We stare at the screen as Vanna turns glowing letters to display an incomplete phrase. “Do you know this one?”
There’s a rustle from the bed. Hank shakes his head, but he still doesn’t say anything.
I ease into the chair and we continue to watch the soundless flashing of images. When the show is over, Hank flicks the remote control at the TV then levels his attention on me.
“You have paint on your cheek.” No hi, hello. No pleasantries whatsoever.
I rub at the spot again and wince at how raw my cheek feels from all the rubbing. At this rate, I won’t have to worry about removing the paint because there won’t be any skin left.
“I was working this morning.” Duh. There’s something in his demeanor that’s setting me on edge. It’s not the Hank I’ve come to know over the last few weeks.