At Last

by Aliyat Lecky

  “Happy birthday, love.” Richard’s arms encircled Helen’s waist shortly after she and Angie had reentered the tent, steering her toward the dais where an easel stood. “I hope you like it,” he whispered a kiss into her ear. He waved the two package handlers over. His ecstatic mood was contagious. For the first time all evening, Helen found that she was excited. She could tell by the size and shape that she was about to be gifted with art, specifically, a painting. Was it the Patricia Olson or the Gregory Euclide she hinted at the last time she and Richard spent the day visiting the new art studio on the Westside of Plymouth. She glanced at the crowd facing her for some clue before the unveiling. Angie stood front and center with a huge grin across her face. Helen saw this is as an optimistic sign. She had no doubt Angie knew exactly what lay beneath the tarpaulin cover.

  The two men placed the gift gently on the easel and stepped back into the crowd. Helen looked from her husband to her best friend to the covered birthday gift. Richard and Angie made a silent, yet significant exchange before he spoke again, this time more to the party guests than the birthday girl. He positioned himself so that the present stood between them.

  “I really wanted this gift to express my love for you, and to express to you what an inspiration you are to me, Helen. How better else than this?” Without taking his eyes off Helen, he removed the tarpaulin with a very deliberate, one-handed, grand flourish. “I love you.”

  Helen was only slightly aware of the awestruck silence which immediately surrounded her. She was also oblivious to the shocked verbalizations and general ovation rising from the partygoers out of the silence. The audible hum quickly grew to a chorus of appreciative murmurs. The image on the canvas was stunning. A present-day portrait of Helen Dahl. Its beauty shocked no one. No one except Helen. She stared, incapable of looking elsewhere, at her own likeness. She was moved. She was, in fact, overcome with an emotional response that, if given the choice, she wouldn’t like to share with anyone.

  Richard’s gesture, meant to express his feelings for his wife, was enough to elicit a response from their guests that was quite unexpected. The fantasy of several men present was brought to fruition. Quite a few of them had imagined Helen in this way many times. Some of the women could include themselves in this group. The rest present simply thought that the painting was beautiful. The artist’s rendering of the subject was breathtaking. The likeness uncanny. The painting left no doubt in any observer’s mind. Helen Dahl was a sexual creature.

  The painting captured a private moment, as she was getting ready for some formal occasion. She stood, leaning into a large mirror, examining her reflection, hand poised as if applying her makeup. The tight, heavily embroidered corset gown she wore barely covered her sizable breasts, and was partially unzipped, as if waiting for help to close it completely, and leaving her back exposed. Though much of the final details were unfinished, the portrait was stunning. Not only the subject, but also the quality of the work. The artist, so clearly talented, had been able to capture not just the intimate details of her physical appearance, but her personality as well.

  Richard and the rest of the group gathered before the painting did not see what Helen saw. They reacted to the sexy image. Helen responded to something much deeper. The artist seemed to have reached into her soul, translated what she discovered, then exposed it all on canvas. If Helen hadn’t known before how much Richard loved her, then surely this gift was proof. No one but Richard knew her this well. No one but he could have provided such insight about Helen in order for the artist to reveal so adequately this much of her innermost self. To expose the very fabric of Helen, her psyche to the depths, which stared back from identical eyes.

  She focused on the eyes, never forgetting for a moment that she was staring into her own likeness. Helen was enthralled by what she saw in them. She stepped further back to get a broader look. Every brush stroke revealed private bits of her in ways that she herself would not dare to explore. There she stood suddenly stricken by her own reflection. Her hand seemed to be halted in midair as if, while examining the effects of her makeup, she had caught a glimpse of something in her mirror image that was unfamiliar. Her expression was one of uncertainty, as though she discovered something in herself that she was unwilling to face or disclose to even to herself.

  Helen exhaled. She felt uncomfortable being so exposed to so many. Her first instinct was to cover the painting. Her thoughts turned to Richard. She wondered how he could have possibly conveyed so much of her inner self that the painter could take the information and portray her so accurately. Her confidence, and the fact that she likes what she sees in the mirror, yet perceives a glimpse of her own vulnerability, and the doubts which recently crept into her life. The desire for more.

  As Helen turned to thank Richard, the expression on his face disappointed her immediately. Or was it relief she felt? Disappointment and relief are often not so dissimilar, after all. When she looked at him, she realized that he too was surprised by what he saw, and had no idea what to expect. Clearly, he was seeing it for the first time, and could not have made a contribution to its creation. At least not in the way Helen had assumed. Richard’s eyes raked across the canvas as he responded to the sexual aura of the painting. Pride and desire registered in his face. He saw the figure, his wife as a sexual creature, and little else. Helen had Richard to thank for the gift, but not the insight into her core, or her heart. If not him, then who?

  Helen shook the fog from her head and leaned forward to kiss her expectant husband. “Thank you. I love it, Richard.” She found her place in his arms as the music began again. He danced her to the middle of the tent as the band played. “Really, it’s beautiful.” The crowd parted as the couple made their way to the center of the dance floor. Helen felt Richard’s pride grow as he spun her out on the dance floor. When he pulled her in again, close, she felt his intentions for later when they would be alone. She swayed absently into his arms as the band continued to play. He held her tightly about her waist, sighing lover’s enchantments, and whispering forever love and eternal devotion.

  THREE

  THE EARLY MORNING breeze swept in through opened second-floor French doors. The heavy morning air, already warming; an indication of the heat to follow midday, pushed against the dewy moisture which lay still on the ground and held low the cool air which offered only early relief from the heat. A slight chill raised a shudder though Helen’s back. She lay asleep and unaware that she had missed the only cool air she would be afforded for the day. Without fully waking, she turned in bed, and reached to pull the sheets to cover her naked shoulders. Somewhere just beyond her sleepy awareness, were sounds of dishes clinking and shuffling feet that threatened to shake her from her slumber. Helen lay curled in the middle of the bed, only subconsciously aware of Richard’s activity out on their private balcony. Each time he passed her, languid on the bed, he smiled down at her slowly waking form, and remembering fondly their sexual exploits of the previous evening. He longed to kiss her from her sleep, but didn’t. Not until the surprise he planned was set.

  Helen awoke from her dreamless slumber, shaken by motion beside her on the bed. Richard was seated beside her and massaging her shoulders.

  “Good morning, sweetness.” He nestled his face with hers, rubbing his nose and lips across her cheek to her mouth. “I made breakfast. You want to get up?” A gentle command, rather than a question.

  “What time is it?” She yawned, turning on the bed with her arms above her head. An act she regretted immediately when Richard stretched himself on top of her in an offer of a different kind. His weight was oddly unbearable. His breath smelled of coffee drank hours before. She had enough of what he wanted to give the night before. Presently, she much preferred breakfast. “Breakfast. That sounds great. I’m starving.” She gave his mouth a courtesy peck before easing him off and bounding out of bed to grab her robe before heading out to the private balcony.

  Breakfast looked delicious. He had outdone himself. At least the
cook had outdone herself. Helen settled into her seat with great enthusiasm. It was then that she remembered she had not eaten since lunch the day before. She had not partaken in any of the celebration feast. Not even the cake. Add to that an all-night session of lovemaking with Richard, and it was no wonder she was ravenous.

  They ate in companionable silence. Helen was grateful and appreciated the time to gather her thoughts. She felt gratified that Richard seemed to be absorbed in his own thoughts. He sensed that something was wrong with his wife. She seemed out of sorts. She had arrived from her trip, but had not really come home to him properly. She spent very little time in his company at the party, preferring instead to spend time with the guests. When finally the last guest said their goodbyes, she avoided him for as long as she could before he found her in the study staring at the painting. Still in her gown, she had denied she was doing so when he questioned her about it. Furthermore, even though she accepted his hand and allowed him to lead her to their bed, and later climaxed beneath him, she was not fully present. There was something between them. He felt it, and he was certain she did as well. Something was wrong, and he intended to find out what that something was.

  “Did you like the present? You haven’t said much about it.” He decided to begin the conversation on an agreeable topic.

  “It’s beautiful. I told you that. Whose work?” She nodded over her shoulder, indicating to the painting that was safely stored down in the study. “When did you have it done?” She spread orange marmalade on her toast.

  “Noami Collins.” He smiled at her enthusiasm. He did love her. “She’s a local artist. She finished all she could without any final comments from us. If we like her work as is…” He noted Helen’s nod of approval before continuing. “…she has a bit to do in the background detail, and some other touch-ups, then, of course, to seal and frame it. If you don’t like something about it, she’ll fix it. Either way, she’ll want you to sit for her. It’s up to you.” Richard took her hand gently into his. “Listen. I’d like to say…to ask if everything is okay? I get the impression that you are a little preoccupied.” The silence reassured him of nothing. “A little, anyway,” he added, regretting his go-to-it tactics.

  “Richard, I’m just a bit tired. Moreover, I am frustrated with the book. It is not where I want it to be. You know how I am. I’m not happy with it.”

  Relief registered clearly on his face. He accepted her answer easily. He didn’t want details. What he really wanted was reassurance, as empty as that was. He had always taken what she told him at face value. He never once considered that digging a little might be of benefit when Helen got into one of her moods. She said she was fine. He saw no reason to believe otherwise. It was far easier to think all she needed was a little alone time and an obscenely expensive bouquet of flowers. He would see that Rachel, his secretary, saw to the latter before the day’s end.

  ***

  THE SOUND OF the front door closing signaled Richard’s departure at last. Helen had been pretending to work on her novel while Richard cleared the remainders of breakfast from the terrace. He had insisted on spending a leisurely morning at home with Helen despite her appeal for him to do otherwise. She wanted to be alone with her contemplation. Instead, Richard gave her little time to think. Except for the time he spent in the shower and dressing, he remained in her presence the entire morning. Helen stood in the shower with her hot forehead rested against the cool tile. Guilt weighed on her heavily. As if great amounts of water from the shower jets pooled and collected on her neck and back and settled like a heavy yoke. Only small traces of the water escaped around her waist, falling about the curve of her hips, and spiraled down the length of her legs. Very little water emptied into the drain between her feet. Mostly, it lay on her shoulders like guilt.

  Helen was unhappy with her life, and was beginning to realize that she must hold herself accountable for her own discontent. She felt culpable for what she had done, and for what she was doing to Richard. She felt guilty for being a loving, devoted wife. She felt guilty for being the best mother she could be to the two beautiful children they shared. Most of all, she felt guilty for not knowing why she felt as she did, and for wanting something else. For feeling remorseful about a good life. Her life. She felt shame for not recognizing what she was feeling. She felt guilt for her guilt. Helen was aware also that the self-reproach she was experiencing had something to do with her own insufficiencies as a wife and mother. Precisely what those inadequacies were, she could not say. Yet she felt them anyway.

  Later, Helen stood staring down into her car, her attention completely on the covered portrait she had deposited on the back seat. The painting was the physical representation of their relationship. What was it that he had said the evening before? “I want this gift to express my love for you.” She bit her lip as she stored his love gently in the back of her car. Richard had invested years and faith in her. He had supported her in every endeavor. He didn’t deserve to have her feel this way about him. About them. He did not deserve to have her feel as if she did not love him. Helen buckled her seatbelt. She reached back to uncover the painting and stared into her own perplexed eyes, so full of verity and uncertainty.

  In that instant, Helen began to see things clearly. She covered her portrait, unable to face herself any longer. She did love Richard. Her feelings for him had not changed in over twenty-five years. The crucial question had stared back at her from eyes on painted canvas. How did she love him? How, indeed, had she loved him all those years? Until recently, had she considered that there was any other way of loving? She loved that he opened doors for her, and that she was treated with the respect of a well-known, well-liked state senator’s wife. That he had given her entry to a life she loved. He gave her two beautiful children that she loved, of course, but had she loved him assiduously? Helen tried to imagine the pain of being left by Richard, the anguish she might suffer if he was no longer in her life. How would she feel if he did not love her? Would that be the worst for her?

  The memory of a cab ride home all alone after Maggie’s betrayal surfaced once more. She imagined that there could be no greater pain than she suffered that rainy night, and the shadowed months that followed without the benefit of perceiving life as it changed around her. To have a year of your life rendered hopeless, without the subsidy of recognizing the changing seasons or the potential each season brings—that was heartbreak. She would not feel heartbreak if Richard no longer loved her.

  Helen collapsed into her driver’s seat. Richard’s last words before leaving had been, “When you see Sydney and the girls, give them a hug for me. Oh, and don’t forget to meet with Noami Collins. She’s expecting you. All the information is on her card.” He was almost out the door when he came back, lifted the hair to expose her neck, and kissed her sweetly there. She loved when he did that. Then he added, “I love you.” He meant it. She responded the same. “I love you.” She meant it. She touched the back of her neck gently, and smiled at his tenderness.

  ***

  “HELLO. YOU HAVE reached Noami’s Art Studio. I am unable to take your call at the moment. Please leave a message, and I will return your call as soon as it is feasible.”

  Damn. “Yes, hello. This is Helen Dahl. You were recently engaged to complete a portrait for me. I am calling to confirm an appointment—”

  “Yes, Ms. Dahl,” Noami answered the phone, cutting her caller short. “I apologize for not picking up immediately. I was working. I’m looking forward to meeting you.”

  Helen was surprised by the youthful voice at the other end of the conversation. “Great. Mr. Muir, my husband, informed me that our appointment is at three today, correct?”

  “Right, but we are not meeting at the studio. Did he give you a second address?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you don’t mind. I prefer to meet with clients at a coffee house called Sappho’s Repose.”

  “I have the address, on Hennepin, downtown Minneapolis, is that correct?”
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br />   “Yes, it’s across and a little down the way from the State Theater.”

  “No problem. I’ll see you then. Thanks.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Dahl. See you at three.”

  “Goodbye, then.” Helen checked her watch. She was running a little late for her lunch date with Sydney. With any hope, she would bring Erica and Sammi. That would be nice. She had not seen her granddaughters in weeks.

  Palomino’s was always busy for lunch. Helen automatically held her breath as she squeezed past seated diners on the crowded floor while keeping her eyes on the back of the hostess. She waved at a few acquaintances already enjoying their meals. The paella Sarah Abbott was being served looked delicious. She had planned to order the Chop Chop Salad, but changed her mind. She would much prefer the highly seasoned, yellow saffron rice and seafood concoction. It looked as fattening as it smelled delicious. A point she hoped someone might make to Sarah, given her quickly spreading bottom. Maybe just a half order, then. Helen did, after all, have a fairly large breakfast.

  “Hello. My name is Randy. I’ll be your server today. Can I start you off with a drink?”

  “Yes. I’ll have a diet Pepsi with lime,” she answered after checking her watch for permission to add a shot of rum. Too early. As Sydney was on her way, possibly with the girls, and it only being just past noon, she added, “With lots of ice. Thanks.”

  Palomino’s was abuzz with excitement. Most customers chatted vivaciously with friends at their tables, demonstrating the ease of privilege, and enjoying the clamor of an up-to-the-minute city eatery. To some, the modish restaurant was a place to be seen by the trendy chic, and those who aspired to appear so. To most though, the refectory was a place to get a good meal and a potent drink. The latter were barely tolerant of the former, whose loud conversations and overuse of their cell phones was a clear indicator to which group they belonged.