"What's that supposed to mean?" Marley asked.
"In three days they both start to stink."
"But you don't need to leave," Abby persisted. "Really, Caroline, it has nothing to do with you."
"Except that I'm in the way. I give you someone to talk to besides your husband, and now that I think about it, I haven't seen you and Paul in a real conversation since I arrived."
"We probably won't have a real conversation after you leave either."
"But you need to try," Caroline ordered. "You need to do your part, Abby. You can't just assume the worst and then play the victim."
"Do you think that's what I'm doing?" Abby looked slightly defensive.
Caroline reached for her hand. "I'm sorry. That came out wrong. But I do believe you have to fight for your marriage, Abby. You can't just roll over. I mean, you guys have been happily married for thirtyfive years, right?"
"More or less."
"And you don't want your marriage to end, do you?"
Abby shook her head.
"Well, do you know the main reason men cheat?"
Both Abby and Marley were staring at Caroline with interest, although Marley couldn't get over the irony that Caroline, who'd been married more briefly than any of them, was dispensing marital counsel.
"Okay, I'll admit I saw this on a talk show, but it made sense: The main reason men cheat is because they're lonely."
Marley laughed. "Yeah right."
"I said the main reason, not the only reason."
"I can tell you the reason my husband cheated," Marley said. "It's because he couldn't keep it in his pants."
"People assume that's true of all men. But according to this guy, a lot of men are lonely, and they don't get the kind of attention they need from their wives, so they go looking elsewhere for it."
"So you're saying this is the wife's fault?" Marley felt angry.
"That's what it sounds like," Abby said. "Are you suggesting that if I were more attentive and affectionate, and if I said and did everything Paul wanted, my marriage would be affair-free?"
"I know," Marley teased, "you can start meeting Paul at the door wearing nothing but an apron!"
"With a martini in my hand," Abby said wryly.
"Then you ease him into his recliner," Marley joked. "And fetch his slippers and pipe."
"And I should probably have a chocolate cake in the oven." Abby laughed.
"Fine, fine." Caroline held up her hands. "I'm just telling you what I heard. You don't have to shoot the messenger."
"I'm sorry," Marley said to Caroline. "But you hit a sore spot with me. I used to try to do all that, and John cheated anyway. In fact John had been cheating on me right from the beginning. I only found out a lot later."
Caroline nodded. "I realize there are men like that. They cheat because they want to. It has nothing to do with the wife. Believe me, I've run into a few of those."
"Married men, hitting on you?" Abby asked.
"Oh yeah." Caroline sighed. "Sometimes I think I'm just one of those women who attract the worst kind of jerks. Although time and age have taught me to look for certain signs."
"Like a wedding ring?" Abby suggested grimly.
"Or the thin white line where a wedding ring should be," Caroline told her. "But it's more than just that. There are lots of signs if a person is willing to look."
"Yes, but you're a decent human being." Abby frowned. "I'm not so sure about Bonnie Boxwell."
Marley looked at her watch. "Oh, I need to get moving. Jack offered to meet me at the gallery at ten thirty."
"So no hard feelings?" Caroline asked Marley. "You don't think I was blaming you for your husband's infidelity?"
"No hard feelings." Marley blew kisses to her friends, then left.
Once she got in her car, where her paintings were being "stored," she took time to check her appearance in the visor mirror. She fluffed her hair slightly and even applied a bit of lipstick. Of course, she then questioned why she was making this effort. To appear professional, she told herself. Although she wondered if it might be something more, too, something to do with the owner of the One-Legged Seagull. But she wasn't going to think about that now.
As she drove the few blocks to the gallery, her nervousness grew. It was one thing for Jack to show interest in a portfolio based on snapshots of her work. But seeing the full-sized art was another story. He might change his mind. Still, she told herself, she would take any rejection like a professional. She would even invite him to offer critique. Of course, she might have to bite her tongue to keep from defending herself, but she thought she was grown up enough to do this.
She parked by the back entrance, as Jack had instructed, and was getting a painting out of the car when he came out to help. Before long they had all eight paintings unloaded and spread out around the back room. And like Marley had said, she might as well have been standing there in her underwear. Totally exposed. She had never even shown her work to Kevin. She'd heard his critiques before and had the self-awareness to know she couldn't have listened to him tear into her art and then continued working for him.
Jack rubbed his chin as he scrutinized an acrylic she'd done on the heels of being separated from John. She called it Seattle Night on the Waterfront, but looking at it now, she could see how some people might describe it as moody, depressing, overly emotional, or just plain bad. "Interesting style," he murmured as he moved to the next painting.
Marley flinched. Interesting was one of those words that could go either way. In her experience, while working at the gallery, it usually meant someone didn't care for a piece but didn't want to admit it. She tried to think of a response, but everything that came to mind sounded either defensive or rude. So she just nodded.
Now he was looking at one she called Seattle Cityscape. She remembered the foggy night she'd taken the photos that inspired the image. That was shortly after the divorce became final. "You're definitely into impressionism."
"Yes." She wished she could think of something more intelligent to say. She considered excusing herself and making a run for it. She could sneak back to pick up her art sometime when Jack wasn't around.
He moved on to study a still life she'd painted the previous summer. She simply called it Poppies. Unlike the other two, this one was cheerful, and possibly amateurish. It was so hard to judge one's own art.
She felt a hot flash coming on. She didn't get too many of those, but when she did, it was as if her inner thermostat had been turned to high and before long her face would be flushed. To make matters worse, she'd forgotten to apply her deodorant that morning.
"Excuse me," she said as she pulled out her cell phone. "I forgot that I need to make a call about my house."
He nodded and she hurried out the back door and down the alley a ways, where she held the phone to her ear and pretended to be deep in conversation as she waited for her heart rate to slow and her temperature to drop. She decided to call her son. She pushed speed dial, and to her relief, Ashton answered.
"It's your mom," she said, "frantically calling you for some reassurance."
"Reassurance?"
"Yes. You know I'm relocating to Clifden, but I've just done something incredibly dumb."
"What?"
"I'm letting a man who owns a gallery look at my art. And I'm so nervous I'm having hot flashes."
Ashton laughed. "Good for you, Mom. It's about time you took a serious risk."
"So you don't think it's ridiculous for me to have someone looking at my art?"
"Your art is good, Mom. I've told you so lots of times."
"But you're my son. What else can you say? It's kind of like when I used to tell you that you were good at sports."
He laughed. "No, it's nothing like that. We both know I sucked at sports. But you really are good at art. Leo thinks so too."
Marley took a deep breath. "Okay. Thank you."
"So hold your head high, and even if the gallery rejects your work, remember how subjective ar
t can be. And remember that you have talent."
"Thanks, darling. Give my love to Leo."
"Are you still coming for the drumming concert on Sunday?"
"I wouldn't miss it."
Then they hung up, and Marley took her son's suggestion seriously. Taking in several deep breaths, she held her head high and returned to the back room of the gallery, where she would handle her rejection like a grown-up. After all, Ashton was right. Art was entirely subjective.
When she came into the back room, she heard laughter. And there, in front of her paintings, stood Jack and a dark-haired woman who looked to be in her thirties. They were laughing, it seemed, at her work.
"Oh, there you are," Jack called to her.
Marley was incensed but determined not to lose her temper. "I can see my art isn't right for your gallery." She picked up a smaller painting and was reaching for another.
"No, I like your work," Jack said.
"So do I," the woman said.
Marley turned and looked at them skeptically. "Then why were you laughing?"
"You didn't think we were laughing at your paintings, did you?" Jack looked surprised.
"Well, I ..." Marley wasn't sure what to think.
"I'm sorry, Marley, I should've introduced you to Jasmine," Jack said. "She works for me, and I asked her to come in and see your art."
"And you were laughing," Marley reminded him.
"Not at your work," Jasmine told her. "I think your art is lovely."
"We were laughing at a funny thing that just happened in the shop."
Jasmine started chuckling again. "I kid you not-a woman just came in here and asked if we had any velvet paintings. I wasn't sure what she meant at first, so I asked her to explain, and she said, `You know, those pictures that are painted right onto velvet fabric.' And then she told me she'd seen one with a bullfighter once, and she wanted to hang it in her bedroom."
Marley couldn't help but laugh. "Seriously?"
Jasmine nodded. "And seriously, I was just telling Jack that I like your art."
"That's the truth." Jack nodded. "I'll take all eight on consignment, if you like."
"All eight?" Marley felt slightly lightheaded.
"Of course, that means work for me," Jasmine told her. "I'm the one who gets to rearrange things to make room for them."
"Would you prefer to have just a few?"
"No," Jack said. "I told jasmine that I want her to find a space for all of them. You'll be our featured artist for a while." The bell on the door sounded, and jasmine excused herself
"I'm so embarrassed to have assumed you were laughing at me," Marley said after jasmine left. "Now you know how insecure I am."
He chuckled. "Trust me, I know how that goes. Imagine how I feel-I work in a gallery where my own art is hanging, and I can overhear people saying that a piece looks flat or unrealistic or whatever."
Marley nodded. "And art is so subjective."
"So I've developed some rather thick skin." He removed the painting from her hands and set it on the counter. "You said you were calling someone about a house. Does that mean you've already found a place to live in Clifden?"
"I have." She smiled sheepishly now. "But the truth is I was using the phone as an excuse to get away before I suffered a total meltdown. It's so hard having someone look at your work."
"It's sort of like they're looking at your soul, isn't it?"
She nodded. "I know that's not really true. Most people just look at the surface of art, thinking about whether or not they like it."
"Well, I do like your work." He grinned. "I suppose that means I like your soul, too."
Marley felt another hot flash coming on. But she didn't run this time. Pretending that all was well and that it was natural to be flushed and hot, she took her time to fill out the consignment forms and agreed to let Jack frame her work at her expense, whether they sold or not. Then she shook Jack's hand and, feeling the third hot flash coming on, she thanked him again and went on her way.
Once she was in her car and a few blocks away, she let out a loud hoot of happiness. At last it seemed that things were starting to happen for her!
Chapter 30
CAROLINE
Caroline wouldn't let Abby talk her into staying in their home, not for one more day. This was not because Caroline blamed herself for their marital troubles; she simply knew they'd need some privacy to resolve anything.
"I don't want to hear about you inviting Janie to stay here either," Caroline warned Abby as she carried her last load out to her car. "You and Paul need your space."
Abby just sighed. "I really don't see what difference it would make."
Caroline locked eyes with her. "Look, Abby, if I had a marriage with as much going for it as I think yours does, I would be willing to fight for it."
Abby looked slightly surprised. "You would? Really?"
"You bet I would. Paul is a good guy. Oh, he's got his faults. But I really think he loves you, Abby. And you guys have built a great life together. Would you really want to lose that?"
Abby started crying again. So Caroline dumped her load of clothes and whatnot into the back of her car, then wrapped her arms around her friend. "Abby, listen to me. I wouldn't tell you this if I didn't love you. But, seriously, if you don't do your part to make this marriage work, I know you'll be sorry later."
"But what if I do my part and it still doesn't work?"
Caroline released Abby. "At least you'll know that you tried your best. You won't have anything to feel guilty about later."
Abby sniffed and nodded. "You're probably right."
"I'll be in touch." Caroline closed the hatchback.
"I almost forgot to ask, Caroline." Abby squinted in the sunlight. "But where are you staying?"
"At Mom's."
Abby blinked. "You're kidding."
"Nope."
"Oh, Caroline, now I feel really bad."
"Don't. I think it's going to be a good thing."
"But her house, you said it's horrible-a dump site."
"Oh yeah. It is. But I promise you, before I go to bed tonight, there will be one room in that place that's not a health hazard."
Abby just shook her head, but Caroline gave her a bright smile. "I think it'll be good for Mom to have me there. It might help to bring her back to reality, you know?"
"I suppose that could happen."
As Caroline drove across town to her mom's house, she suspected this plan might bring her back to reality too. She just hoped that she and her mom didn't end up in some kind of knock-down, drag-out fight when Caroline started clearing out her old bedroom and throwing junk into the trash. Worst-case scenario: her mom would throw such an out-of-control fit that Caroline would simply call 9-1-1 and get some professional assistance. Really, she hoped it wouldn't come to that.
Caroline stopped by a one-stop-shopping store on her way to her mom's. She gathered things like garbage bags, cleaning materials, and an electric fan that was fifty percent off.
After that she swung by McDonald's again. Only this time she got food for both of them. Her plan was to sit in the kitchen and peacefully eat together. Hopefully her mom would relax and be content to snooze in front of the TV like she usually did in the afternoons.
To Caroline's relief, that's exactly what happened. Knowing her time was limited, Caroline went directly to her old bedroom as soon as her mother nodded off. Opening the window wide, which was no easy feat, she pushed out the old screen and began shoving boxes of magazines and paper, old clothes, and mostly plain-old garbage directly out the window. She could only imagine how the yard would look when she was done, but she would eventually bag up all the junk and get it out of sight.
Midway through this nasty clean-out, Caroline almost screamed when she discovered a dead mouse. Using two old magazines, she scooped the critter into a box of ratty-looking old clothes, muttering, "Rest in peace," as she laid an old sock over him. She wished she'd had the foresight to purchase rubber glove
s and a surgical mask, because it was obvious that other critters, including spiders, had inhabited this space over the past several decades. It took an immense amount of self-control, or maybe it was just plain desperation, to continue.
"I can do this," she kept telling herself as she hefted box after box out the window. At least she was in fairly good shape, thanks to Pilates and yoga. Even so, she knew she'd be sore afterward, and she tried not to think about how good it would have felt to have a date with Abby's Diamond Lil tonight.
After the room was cleared of everything except the bed (which looked questionable), a bedside table, her old dresser, and a wooden chair, Caroline tiptoed down the hallway to discover that her mom was still snoozing. Caroline went out to retrieve the cleaning supplies from her car. She cringed to see the heap of garbage outside of her window.
"What are you doing there?" A boy who looked to be about twelve looked curiously at her from the sidewalk. "Having a garage sale or something?"
Caroline laughed. "No. I doubt anyone would want to buy any of that trash." Then she got an idea. "Hey, would you like to make some money?"
He looked at her suspiciously, as if he was remembering some parental instruction about stranger danger.
She pulled out the package of black trash bags and held it up. "I'll give you twenty bucks to bag that stuff up and carry it over to the side of the garage for me."
His eyes lit up. "Twenty bucks?"
She nodded and held out the bags.
"Let me go ask my mom first," he told her.
"Sure." She tossed the box of bags over by the frightening pile. "I'll just leave those there in case you want to do it. But if you do it, be quiet, okay? My mom's sleeping in the house and she can be kind of grumpy."
He nodded. "I know. My mom's afraid of her."
"I am too sometimes," Caroline admitted.
Then he dashed down the sidewalk and disappeared into a blue house. Meanwhile, Caroline gathered up what she thought she'd need for round two of this cleaning match, then quietly slipped inside. Once again, she was relieved to see her mom was still sound asleep. She filled a bucket with warm water, then returned to the stark-looking bedroom, where she plugged in the fan and set it on the chair by the open window. She began scrubbing the lower half of the spotty walls with a product that was supposed to eradicate mildew. When the pale yellow walls were spot free, she started to clean the old linoleum floor. She began by sweeping up old mouse droppings and other debris into a dustpan. As she dumped this out the window, she observed the boy dragging a big black bag across the lawn.
As Young As We Feel Page 23