Truth of the Matter

by Beck, Jamie

  Next I choose a titch of manganese violet to add to a new white blob, and use a number 6 filbert brush to make little circles of clouds. Years away from the canvas show in my overblending. Sighing, I squiggle a number 10 palette knife to create different clouds and add back dimension by leaving some thicker paint on the canvas.

  I sit back, chest heavy. This used to feel natural—like an extension of my soul—but now it’s as if I’m a novice again, exploring the canvas for the first time. Like any skill, painting well requires constancy. Momentum builds from there. If I hadn’t quit, I might have become as good as George MacDonald, a contemporary in Richmond who makes his living on his work. Instead I’m in a shed—granted, a lovely one—painting clouds badly.

  Closing my eyes, I push aside recriminations. I knew I’d be rusty. Get over it, Anne. Eventually it will all come back.

  I attack the canvas with a fan brush.

  Time flows without notice, so I gasp when Katy enters the shed.

  “What are you doing home?” I ask.

  Her gaze is fixed on my painting. I fight the urge to cover it. “The bus for my game doesn’t leave until four, so I came to grab a snack.”

  “Oh, that’s right! Your game.” I need to clean up so I can go cheer.

  “What’s this?” She leans forward, inspecting the work.

  I wave her off. “Nothing. Just playing around.”

  “Why clouds?” Her gaze is narrow. “Seems simplistic compared with your old work.”

  “It is, but I’m really rusty. I need to get the feel of it again.” I set my brush down. “Since you left your project out, I figured you wouldn’t mind if I took a peek. The base of the trunk looks really cool.”

  She casts a glance across the room. “Thanks. I’ve done some hand tearing and some cutting with the craft knife.”

  Hopefully I didn’t wince, although the thought of her in here alone with a knife really pushes me to the edge. “Have you picked out the photos you will use as the ‘fruit’ on the branches?”

  “Not yet.”

  While she’s thinking, I decide to tell her about my decision to accept Dan’s invitation. “Listen, I want to tell you something. Dan asked me out to dinner. Not a ‘date date’ exactly, but it could lead there in time. I don’t need your permission, but I’d like to know if it bothers you.”

  She twists her mouth and nose. “A little.”

  Whatever her flaws, she’s honest to a fault. “Can I ask why? Has he done or said anything that makes you dislike him?”

  “No. It’s not him.” She picks at her eyebrow as her face pales. “It’s just . . . once you start dating someone, then there’s no hope that you and Dad will call off the divorce.”

  Her eyes shimmer, making my whole chest ache. I had no idea she was clinging to that fantasy, but it’s probably normal. Throughout the summer, a little part of me wanted that for all of us, too.

  I hug her, which she doesn’t fight. “I’m sorry this is all so hard.”

  She eases away, wiping her eyes. “I’m being selfish, I know. I just miss seeing Dad every night, but I don’t expect you to take him back for my sake. You deserve someone you can trust.”

  “Thank you.” I kiss her head before fully releasing her. Her concession is a marathon win and shows the progress we’ve made these past few weeks. “Now, how about I make us a quick quinoa salad with leftover chicken and tomato before your game?”

  She nods and follows me out of the shed. “Mom?”

  “Hm?”

  “It’s good that you’re painting again, even if it’s only clouds.”

  I smirk, teasing. “Let me guess. You’re happy because painting will leave me less time to keep track of you?”

  “Well, duh.” She makes a silly face—something I haven’t seen in too long. “But really, it’s nice to see you doing something that makes you happy. Something you’re good at, too.”

  I stop, touched and teary, which seems like too much emotion for her small statement. Yet the otherwise simple aside marks a turning point for us. For the first time in months, Potomac Point feels like less of a mistake.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ANNE

  A sharp note of grapefruit lingers in the air and clings to my skin. As expected, my new tub is divine, although soaking in bath oil for twenty minutes has made my fingertips prune. They also fumble with the clasp on my necklace. It’s as if I’m sixteen again. When I’ve wished for my youth back, this isn’t what I had in mind.

  I wriggle into the saffron ruched cotton dress, which is extra snug thanks to weeks’ worth of comfort eating. Twirling from left to right in front of the mirror, I see that, in my excitement about having a reason to dress up, I’ve overshot. On my way to the closet to look for something much more casual—jeans and a flowy top—the doorbell rings.

  After grabbing a tissue to blot my clammy forehead and neck, I shake out my hands while trotting across the living room. Standing at my front door, I blow out the breath I’d been holding. With my heart flitting around my chest like a moth in a jar, I open the door to greet Dan.

  “Wow.” His appreciative gaze raises all the hairs on the back of my neck. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” I nip at my lower lip. Dark jeans hug his long legs, and he’s rolled the sleeves of his fitted, untucked striped shirt. Unlike Richard’s manicured hands, Dan’s are rough and manly. That’s more noticeable when he isn’t in his work boots and scrub clothes. “You clean up pretty good yourself.”

  “Thanks.” His gaze is fixed on me. His shoulders are relaxed. He’s not fidgeting. Clearly he’s been on a few dates since his divorce. Pointing at my shoes, he asks, “Are those comfortable?”

  I kick one of the spiky heels up and joke, “Comfortable enough to sit through dinner.”

  Dan wrinkles his nose. “Well, actually, I got us tickets to the Taste of Potomac tonight.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Twice a year a bunch of local restaurants offer small-plate meals to ticket holders for a fixed price. Basically, you stroll around from place to place, sampling light meals paired with glasses of wine. A ton of folks participate, so it’s social. I thought you might enjoy the chance to get to know town better, and it’s more interesting than sitting in one place all night.” Dan is a man full of surprises—thoughtful ones, to boot. “But it’s a walking tour. I should’ve run it by you first.”

  I touch his arm. “Not at all. That sounds fun. I’ll change into more comfortable shoes, though. Give me thirty seconds.”

  Dan steps inside while I dash to my room, kick off the heels—gratefully—and find footwear that complements my dress without cramping my toes and arches. When I return to the living room, he’s studying a photo of Katy and me, which he sets down when I approach. “Has she used the studio yet?”

  “Yes. Her worktable is a mess of ripped photos right now.” The X-Acto knife still gives me pause, but she hasn’t used anything other than a rubber band to inflict pain on herself since that one cut. Hopefully, she won’t need that crutch too much longer. “Thanks again for the lightning-speed conversion effort.”

  “No big deal. Glad it’s keeping her occupied.” He drops his chin, as if regretting the implication of the offhand remark.

  “So am I.” I grab my purse to signal a preference not to discuss Katy tonight. She’s been less surly with me lately. What other things might’ve been different for our family if we’d seen a therapist years ago? Life seems to be improving, but my stomach is still hard as a rock most days, waiting for another shoe to drop. Her spending time this weekend with Richard and Lauren will be a huge test. Katy said she was ready to try another sleepover, so I suppressed my protective instincts and let her make that call. Lauren will never be my favorite person, but she understands the stakes. “Shall we go?”

  “Of course.” He holds the door for me—a gentlemanly gesture I appreciate.

  I stop beside the immaculate silver Audi A4 in my driveway. “No truck?”


  “I’m off duty.” As if that explains his preppy choice in cars. Dan opens the passenger door for me.

  Once I’m sealed inside his car, my nerves jingle. No matter what we said, this nondate date is a date. Dan consumes most of the front seat. It’s delicious and terrifying, so I roll down my window. Casual, casual, casual.

  He swivels toward me. “Here’s the deal with this event—you can go to any and all of the stops in any order until ten. There are two Italian places, one gastropub, a Thai teahouse, and a French restaurant.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “Where would you like to start?”

  I consider the options. “Let’s start with your least favorite and end with your most.”

  “Save the best for last?” He shifts the car into reverse and pulls out of my driveway, a dimple creasing his cheek.

  “Always.” I twine my fingers together to keep from fiddling with my purse strap. It’s been eighteen years since my last first date. Or any date with someone other than Richard. As suspected, it isn’t easier at thirty-seven than it was at nineteen. In fact, it’s harder. Will there be a first kiss? I squeeze my knees together and knot the purse strap around my hand.

  Dan’s tapping his right hand against the steering wheel to the beat of some country song, but neither of us says a word. My stomach might as well be a tumbleweed rolling down the road, and I forgot tissues, so I can’t blot the perspiration on my forehead.

  “I have a confession to make,” Dan finally says.

  Uh-oh. “What’s that?”

  “Well, even though this is a not-a-date kind of date”—he slants me a sideways glance above a crooked smile—“I’m still kinda nervous.”

  “Oh, thank God. Me too.” I press my palm to my chest and chuckle. “This is all new to me, but why are you nervous?”

  “You’re a little intimidating.” He keeps his eyes on the road, but I can see the flush rising above his collar.

  Now he’s pulling my leg. “What could possibly be intimidating about a middle-aged, divorced, stay-at-home mom?”

  He takes his eyes off the road only long enough to give me a glimpse of his frown. “You’re smart and went to a great college. You’re independently wealthy. You’ve lived somewhere other than Potomac Point. And you’re talented.”

  “You’re talented, too, Dan. Look at how you’ve remade my home and that shed.” I replay his list of my attributes in my head, having not seen myself in that light in forever. “Thank you, though, for the compliments.”

  “Just trying to explain the knots in my tongue.”

  Only a confident man could make himself that vulnerable. The car no longer feels as small or hot. “That’s surprising, though. You can’t have a shortage of dates.”

  We roll into a parking spot in front of Mama Bella’s.

  “I’ve known most of the women here too long—or at least long enough to remember where all the bodies are buried, so to speak. And anyway, I was a mess for some time after my divorce, as I told you. It’s not easy to trust again.” He turns off the car.

  “That’s the worst part. Before I left Arlington, my neighbor, Evie Connors, told me to get on Tinder and Bumble as soon as she heard about Richard and Lauren.” I shudder. “Can you imagine? Even if I was ready to actually date, I wouldn’t put myself on those shelves, so to speak.”

  “Friends made me sign up for that stuff, too, but most of the women were too young for me.”

  Most men want younger girlfriends, like those women are some testament to their virility. Then again, maybe that was part of Dan’s problem. Young women who want kids might be reminders about why his first marriage ended. That thought plants a little ache in my chest.

  He exits his car, so I do, too. The town looks festive. Store lights are aglow, and tiki torches are located outside the participating restaurants. Couples mill around, hand in hand.

  “I’m looking forward to this,” I say.

  “Me too.”

  His hand grazes my lower back as we scale the few stairs to the restaurant, and I almost cry. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched that way, I’d forgotten how lovely it is.

  When we get inside, Dan retrieves our tickets from his wallet to show the maître d’, who marks them and hands them back to Dan before leading us to a two-top near a window. The stereotypical dining room looks like something from a soundstage, with classic checkered tablecloths and Chianti bottle candleholders. Trellises smothered by plastic ivy are pressed against the wall.

  The maître d’ snaps his fingers to grab a waiter’s attention and says something in Italian before he bows and returns to his station.

  Before I sip from my water glass, the waiter swings by our table. “Tonight our Taste of Potomac menu consists of Eggplant Rollatini with a little Romano and fresh basil, paired with a Chianti. I can’t substitute the small plate, but if you’d like to upgrade to a different wine, that’s an option for a small fee.”

  Dan looks at me.

  “I’m fine with the Chianti.” I probably should pass altogether because my alcohol tolerance is low and wine can make me drowsy. Then again, I can’t imagine being drowsy when my nerves are crackling.

  Once the waiter leaves, Dan leans forward comfortably. I resist the urge to back up, although his energy rubs against my skin. My heart is beating so fast I won’t need to work out for a week.

  “It’s a bit cheesy in here, but even though this is my ‘worst’ of the bunch, the food’s not too bad.”

  “I don’t mind cheesy. It’s kind of cute. Besides, the real test of any restaurant is its smell. I’ll take garlic and onion over nouveau decor.”

  He relaxes into his chair. “How’s your grandmother doing?”

  “The same. Good moments and bad.” I’d already filled Dan in on the obituary, though I didn’t mention her animosity toward my great-grandfather. “The good ones don’t last long, though, so I hesitate to squander precious time together by pressing her with questions about the past.”

  “How heartbreaking.” He sets his chin in his palm. “As for Billy, some people never get over their first love, I guess.”

  That’s part of why Richard’s rejection hurt so much. But lately I’m more confident I’ll get over him. “The thing is, Gram did get a second chance at happiness. My grandfather was a wonderful man who gave a lot more affection than he probably ever got, honestly. The more I think on it, the sadder I get. He obviously knew of her past, so I wonder if he always felt like second best.”

  “Did he seem unhappy?”

  “Not to me, but how could he be happy if she wasn’t as invested?”

  “Guess that depends on his expectations.”

  “You think he didn’t expect his wife to love him deeply?” I unfold the napkin on my lap.

  “How do you know she didn’t?”

  “She said Billy was her soul mate.”

  “So? She loved Billy one way, and she loved your grandfather another. They raised a son and a granddaughter. Lived in this community together for decades and socialized. He could’ve been plenty happy as long as the way she loved him met his expectations.”

  “What’s that even mean—met his expectations? Love is love.”

  He frowns, shaking his head. “Everyone loves a little differently—some show it more than others, some need more reassurance than others. Just like some people are happy with very little, and others can have the whole world and still be unhappy. My mom spent most of her life cleaning toilets, raising a bunch of hellions, and losing my dad at forty. Still, she woke up every day and chose gratitude. She always says, ‘Laugh hard when you can. Cry hard when you must, but do it quick. Ain’t no reason to waste time being sad about what you can’t change.’”

  “In other words, low expectations make for happier lives.” I imagine my own mother must’ve subscribed to that same philosophy. My few real memories of her are all warm ones—filled with her smiles and laughter—despite being married to my aloof dad. “She sounds like a great mom.”

/>   “She is a great mom. Like you.”

  I shake my head. “I’m hardly great.”

  The waiter arrives with our wine and rollatini. I take a huge gulp of wine, grateful for the interruption.

  After the waiter leaves us, Dan asks, “Why do you say that?”

  I wave the question away, not wanting to talk about motherhood on my first unofficial date. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  The rollatini is tender and cuts with the side of my fork.

  “Okay.” He nods and chews his first bite with a pleased expression. “How do you like this?”

  I taste it. “If this is your least favorite place, then we’re in for some great food this evening.”

  We each sip some wine, and my muscles are finally relaxing when I hear a voice that makes my entire body tense.

  “Lookee here.” Tori sidles up to the table with her husband, who’s a decade or more her senior. He’s got kind eyes and radiates warmth, so she got better than she deserves. “Dan Foley out on a date when, for years, you’ve been telling everyone you aren’t interested in dating. Guess you just needed to meet the right person.”

  There’s a brittle quality to her voice, almost as if he rejected her at some point. If so, my association with him will only make her more hateful toward me. It’s a selfish thought, but I don’t want her to take it out on Katy.

  “Tori,” Dan replies, neither confirming nor denying our status as he stands to shake her husband’s hand. “Andrew. This is Anne Sullivan. She’s new to town.”

  I could kiss him for using my maiden name.

  “Hello, it’s nice to meet you, Andrew.” I shake his hand. “Hi, Tori.”

  “So how’d you two meet?” Tori might be smiling, but her eyes are calculating.

  “Dan did some work at my house.” I take another swig of wine.

  She nods, facing Dan. “Imagine my surprise at seeing her again after so many years. Who would’ve guessed we’d end up volunteering together at the high school?” Tori casually anchors her hand on her hip. “I see Samantha is following up on your idea. I hope it doesn’t blow up in our faces.”