Summer Breeze

by Nancy Thayer

  “Yes, isn’t it clever?” Shauna was unwrapping another piece. Lifting it away from the Bubble Wrap, she carried it to the display counter and delicately placed it there.

  It was a giant, anatomically correct foot, the toes lying just inside a large mouth.

  It was the ugliest thing Bella had ever seen. But Slade burst out laughing.

  “That’s pretty funny, Shauna.”

  “I know, right?” Shauna was a chubby woman, cool in a loose muumuu with a fish pattern. Her dark hair stuck up in ringlets all over her head. “Gosh!” she said, her attention caught by what lay inside the display case. “Look at these earrings! They’re fantastic! Bella, how much are they?”

  “Penny Aristides made them.” Bella came to stand next to her at the counter. “We’re not going to sell them until the grand opening this Saturday.”

  “Oh, damn, so you won’t show them to me now?”

  Slade slid behind the counter. “Of course we’ll show them to you, but you’ll have to come to the grand opening to buy them.” He opened the case and took out the velvet tray of earrings. “Are these the ones you like? They’re twelve hundred dollars.”

  Shauna gulped. “Don’t I get a discount as someone with work on commission with you?”

  Bella stepped in. “We’ll think about it, Shauna. I’m not even sure your pieces are right for this shop.”

  “Look at the bum from here,” Slade told Bella.

  She turned. The white object gleamed as if lit from within. It curved and swooped and hinted at crevices and clefts.

  “I don’t call it Bum,” Shauna corrected Slade sniffily. “Its title is Home.”

  “You’re showing in Northampton?” Bella asked thoughtfully.

  “Yes. At Warner’s. He’s sold a pair of hands of mine for a thousand dollars. The collection is called ‘I Sing the Body Electric.’ ” She walked back to the table to unwrap the final piece. “This piece is called Clever.”

  Bella and Slade took turns examining the object, which was a knee in all its articulate complexity. The femur, tibia, and patella were clear, and the knee could be bent slightly and restraightened.

  “That was a bastard to create,” Shauna said. “It’s a genius design.”

  Slade said, “Bella, I think you should try these three pieces at the opening. See how people react to them.”

  “Hey, they’ll love them!” Shauna declared.

  “Maybe,” Bella mused. “They are unusual, Shauna.”

  Shauna narrowed her eyes.

  “But I agree with Slade,” Bella continued smoothly. “I’d like to exhibit them this Saturday. Let me get some paperwork on them.”

  Bella went to her desk in the back room and found her folder with the legal contracts for commissions. She brought it to the showroom, took out the relevant papers, and had Shauna read them. For Shauna and Natalie, Bella would take a forty percent commission on each piece. The furniture she was free to price as she wished, and as Slade advised. Shauna was older, and had never been a close friend; she had an established reputation in the area and had had her work praised in the Boston Globe. Bella realized with a jolt that during this transaction all her emotions and lust had smoothed themselves down, like feathers effortlessly, naturally, gathering themselves into tranquillity. Odd.

  Shauna energetically signed, gathered up her papers and her Bubble Wrap, and left. “See you Saturday night!” she called from the door. “Don’t sell those earrings before I get here or you’re in big trouble!”

  “She’s a bit of a character,” Slade said softly as they listened to Shauna’s car pull away.

  “Yes, and her artwork is bizarre,” Bella replied.

  “But kind of fascinating.”

  Bella was standing on one side of the glass display case with the folder of papers in her hand. Slade was on the other side, holding the porcelain knee. Bella looked up at him.

  “I’ll, uh, just put these papers back in the desk,” she told Slade.

  “I’ll put the knee over on the cabinet,” Slade said. His voice had thickened.

  Bella’s pulse picked up as she returned to the back room and settled the folder in its spot again. What was she about to do? Whatever it was, wherever it took her, she knew she had never wanted anything so much in her life.

  She smoothed her hair. Licked her lips. A slight trembling was overtaking her.

  She returned to the front of the store. Slade was across the room, just standing there, waiting for her.

  Tires crunched on gravel. Bella froze. A door slammed.

  Aaron walked into the shop. He wore khakis and a white button-down shirt and a red tie and an enormous smile. “Bella! I got it! I got the job!”

  “Oh, Aaron!” Her response was genuine. “Congratulations!”

  Aaron had never looked happier, healthier, stronger, or more impressive. In two steps he crossed the room, grabbed Bella up, and swung her around in his arms. Head thrown back, he laughed, and Bella laughed with him. Whatever came next in her life, she knew that, first of all, she wanted Aaron to have this moment fully, this jubilation.

  “They chose me! Over twenty-three candidates, they chose me! Seven of them were from San Francisco! And they chose me!” He gave Bella a long, hard kiss.

  “Aaron,” Bella gasped. “I can’t breathe!”

  Laughing, he released his embrace and set her on her feet. At the same moment, he noticed Slade over at the back of the shop, lounging against the wall, all black, thin, and somber. For just a fraction of a moment, Bella felt a chill when she saw the deadness in Slade’s eyes. The blankness. As if a light had gone off. Then Slade came to life, smiled, walked across the room with his hand extended.

  “Congratulations, Aaron.”

  “Thanks, Slade.” The two men shook hands. “I’ve got to say I’m excited. Well, obviously.” Aaron looked around the room. “Hey, Bella, it looks great in here. I can’t believe it’s the same place that used to be your mother’s store.”

  “I know,” Bella agreed. “Slade helped so much. He knows everything about furniture, and if he hadn’t recognized some of the family pieces as valuable antiques, the store probably wouldn’t exist. Certainly not as it is now. But this furniture changes everything.” She sensed she was babbling. She felt as if she were treading water between two powerful currents, both forces rushing at her, sweeping off in opposite directions while she struggled to remain in place. “Slade brought in these carpets, Aaron. Aren’t they gorgeous?”

  Aaron looked. He walked from one to another, to another, and bent down to brush his hand across the silky nap. “They are. Such intricate patterns. And amazingly soft.” Standing up, he announced, “I’m feeling like buying a bottle of really expensive champagne! Shall I get it and some glasses and bring it back here?”

  The pause, the moment of held breath among the three of them, was probably less than a second, but it seemed to ring like a clarion in the room before Slade broke the silence.

  “Thanks for the offer, Aaron, but I’ve got to go. Congratulations again.” He strode across the room and out the door. A moment later, the van roared away.

  Aaron turned to Bella. “Want to share some champagne with me?”

  “Absolutely. Just let me lock up the shop.”

  “Hey, Bella,” Aaron called. “I have an idea. Let’s bring the champagne to your parents’ house. Then I’ll take everyone out to dinner. Your parents have been so good to me these past few months, and, oh, I don’t know, I feel like a party.”

  Bella burst into tears.

  “Hey,” Aaron said. Gently, he put his hands on her shoulders, studying her face. “Why the tears?”

  “You’re just so thoughtful, Aaron.” Bella wept.

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “No, it’s a good thing. I guess I’m just so happy for you. I’m so proud of you. I know this is absolutely a huge achievement, Aaron.” She wiped her eyes. “It makes me want to, oh, I don’t know, set off fireworks in your honor.”

  H
e grinned. “We’ll set off fireworks. Later.”

  19

  For the fifth time in as many seconds, Morgan checked the clock on their bedside table.

  “If Josh isn’t here in five minutes, I’m divorcing him,” she said through clenched teeth to the empty bedroom.

  Downstairs, Felicity was feeding Petey his dinner. She would take care of him tonight while the O’Keefes attended the opening of Bella’s.

  At least Morgan would attend the opening.

  She ran her eyes over her reflection in the mirror. Good. She looked good. She’d gone shopping with Natalie and Bella yesterday, all of them trolling for the perfect dress, and the other two women had convinced Morgan to purchase something more daring and edgy than she’d ever consider by herself. The dress was pale beige, tight fitting, with a straight-across bateau neckline in front and a plunging back crisscrossed with straps. Morgan’s skin was tanned to almost the exact shade of the silk, so in certain lights she appeared nude. She wore the sensational diamond studs Josh had given her when he signed with Bio-Green, and no other jewelry. She wore her lowest high-heeled sandals because tonight she didn’t want to tower over Bella, who was going to wear new four-inch heels and still would be shorter than Morgan, and tonight, really, was Bella’s night.

  Still, Morgan looked fabulous. All she needed was a husband who would occasionally cast a glance her way. They’d been fighting so much about his not being home that they’d driven themselves into a rut; every time Morgan opened her mouth to say anything, Josh looked wary, guilty, defensive. And he always looked so tired.

  He was going to look dead if he didn’t make it home in time for Bella’s opening!

  The front door slammed. Footsteps thundered up the stairs. Josh burst into the room, undoing his tie as he ran.

  “I’m here. I just need to shower and I’m ready.” He began ripping off his clothing, dropping his pants, jacket, shirt, and boxers on the floor. “Is Bella’s air-conditioned?” he yelled from the bathroom.

  “It is,” she told him.

  The shower drowned out anything else he said. He was quick, soon striding back into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist, when Petey came toddling eagerly in, Felicity behind him.

  “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” The little boy threw himself at Josh, who grabbed him up and kissed tickles into his tummy.

  “Um, I’ll just wait in Petey’s room.” Felicity scurried away, closing the door behind her.

  Morgan glanced at the clock again. Okay, they’d be late, but she couldn’t begrudge her son these precious moments with his father, who seldom got home before Petey went to sleep for the night. Josh fell on the bed, lifting his son up high, lowering him to kiss his belly, and Petey giggled, squirmed, and chortled in an ecstasy of happiness. Josh’s towel fell away from him, exposing his long, strong body in all its glory. Damn. Would she ever stop being attracted to the man? Why would she want to? She just wanted him to be equally attracted to her. Didn’t he ever think, The hell with this project, I’m going to go home and seduce my wife?

  Josh saw her looking. His smile turned mischievous. “I’ll tickle your tummy later.”

  Oh, Josh! It all flooded back. Morgan grinned. “I hope so.” She swept Petey up in her arms. “Enough excitement, big guy. You need to settle down for your bedtime story with Felicity. And Daddy needs to get dressed. We’ve got a gala evening ahead.”

  She carried Petey into his own bedroom, where Felicity awaited on the floor, building a tower with blocks. She was both familiar and enough of a novelty for Petey to want to be with her, and he immediately switched his attention to his babysitter. Morgan kissed his cheek, but he wasn’t interested in his mother right now.

  Back in their bedroom, she watched Josh slipping on a black silk tee shirt and his Armani suit. “The Ruoffs are coming. Definitely,” he told Morgan. He ran a brush through his wet red hair. “Should I take time to shave again?”

  She ran her palm along the bristles on his jawline. “You look sexy as hell like this. And I promised Bella we wouldn’t be late.”

  “Great, then, let’s go.” Josh bounded out of the room and down the stairs.

  “Thank you,” Morgan said to the empty room. “I’m glad you like the dress.”

  She hadn’t slept at all last night. She hadn’t slept well for a week. At three or four in the morning, roaming Aunt Eleanor’s darkened house, Natalie would sink to her knees, overcome with a terror she could never expose to any person who knew her.

  In New York, when she worked on abstract painting with Archibald Mackintosh, a huge sandy-haired Scot with a captivating accent and a tendency to roar, Natalie had thought she might have talent simply because Mackintosh was so very picky about which students he’d admit. He’d admitted her; therefore, she showed promise.

  Natalie had liked the freedom of abstract painting—the swoop of the brush, the impulsive splat and dot, the fun of it, the play, the color, the movement. It opened her up to new insights into her own art, whatever that would turn out to be. It was childish for her, like finger painting, playing in the sand on the beach, like dancing with her shadow.

  Yet for her it was superficial. It was not work; it did not call up from her depths the kind of determined involvement, the soul-baring struggle, the exertion, the reach, and the gloating Yes! of her still lifes. Because she’d paid good money for the course, she did not let herself drop out.

  Quickly, Natalie became friends with some of the other painters. They got together after every class in a local coffee shop or bar, depending on their moods. Everyone criticized Archie—he was manic-depressive, irrational, inconsistent in his instruction and his criticism. He exaggerated terribly, he raged and tore up their work, he wept and begged their pardon, he fell on his knees in front of a painting that pleased him. He was nuts. He was brilliant. He was amazing. He was someone important to know.

  At the end of the first year, Archie actually admired one of her canvases. He praised her. She felt the other students watching enviously. She signed up for his next class.

  Larry Somerkind was in the abstract class, too, and after a while, in an, well, abstracted sort of way, Natalie and Larry started dating. Like Natalie, Larry had a day job to support his art habit. Both were so busy with work and classes, snatching any spare moments for painting, that a relationship didn’t really interest either of them, although they did become friends and, briefly, lovers.

  That had more to do with Natalie’s imagination than with Larry or lust. When Natalie first attended art school in Boston in her early twenties, she and a group of other students had become enchanted by the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood of painters in England: Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Holman Hunt, Millais, and their women models—especially Lizzie Siddal. Siddal painted also, becoming briefly famous before her tragic death. Natalie had idolized Rossetti and Siddal. Romanticizing love with an artist, in New York for the first time, Natalie had met a man who she thought had real artistic and romantic potential.

  She spent Christmas with Larry, and New Year’s Eve. They critiqued each other’s work, they gossiped about the other artists, they were good friends. Natalie had never imagined a man caring much about her; her father certainly hadn’t. So she was satisfied with Larry’s lukewarm affection, and he seemed to be with hers.

  Then came the exhibition organized by Archibald Mackintosh. It was held in a gallery on Second Avenue, and the work of only five of Mackintosh’s students had been chosen to be shown along with the works of students from other teachers. The exhibition dazzled with champagne, canapés, chic art lovers, and critics from other art schools and Manhattan newspapers. Natalie wore her highest heels; Larry, who wore glasses and a plaid muffler around his neck no matter the weather, accompanied her, because his painting had been chosen for the exhibit as well as Natalie’s.

  Natalie’s painting sold. Larry’s did not.

  Of course, they had discussed this possibility before, both of them claiming with humble insistence that their own particular piece
wouldn’t sell, that his, or hers, certainly would, and no matter what, they understood that someone else’s reaction to a piece of art was a purely personal emotion that would not make a bit of difference to their relationship.

  Yet, when it happened, when the lights went out and the gallery door was locked and Natalie and Larry went with other artists to a pub to celebrate, Larry was so obviously miserable that he couldn’t wholeheartedly congratulate Natalie. And she was so sensitive to his hurt feelings that she couldn’t celebrate as flamboyantly as she wished.

  Then Aunt Eleanor’s offer came. Buoyed with the knowledge of the sale, Natalie was willing to risk leaving the New York art scene and move to the country. By then it was obvious that she and Larry were not going to become a true couple. He raised no objection when she mentioned moving to the country. He didn’t suggest coming with her. She guessed that in his deepest heart, he was glad she was going.

  Now here she was, the afternoon before the opening of Bella’s, and Natalie was hit with a panic attack like she’d never experienced before, not even in New York.

  She was accustomed to these fits of fear before a show. She had always had a mini–nervous breakdown before any formalized exhibition of her work, but this time it was different. This time, for some reason, it seemed real.

  Because this time, she had put her heart and soul into her work. Because with the three charcoal drawings, of Petey, Louise, and Aaron, she had truly surrendered, in a way she’d never dreamed of, to whatever mysterious flame burned within her, flaring through her to reach out to the world. Of course her friends thought the pieces were good. They were her friends. But was her work genuinely good?

  She wasn’t certain she could allow herself to trust her instincts. She’d been so absolutely sure that Ben Barnaby had been attracted to her that summer day in the boat when he took her to his private cove tucked behind the willow tree. It was the same kind of natural belief arising from the depths of her cynical heart that made her draw those lines of charcoal on a piece of paper. It was the knowledge, immediate, definite, undeniable: This was hers.