by Kieran York
“Who’s being ratty now?”
“Esther, romance is a cumbersome chronicler of human expression.”
She added, “Remember batteries not included.”
“You’re terrible. Someday a flipping black hole is going to swallow you.”
“Speaking of which, you know how powerful black holes are. Those concentrated fields of gravity don’t even allow light to escape from them. One intermediate class of black holes could explain how super-massive, light-sucking monsters develop in the heart of galaxies.”
“Light-sucking monsters? If I were you I wouldn’t try to impress this poor Carrie with any astro-chat. And stay away from alien munchkins, too.”
“Listen, the restaurant is a couple of blocks away. Got to smear my lips and apply some powder to my cheeks. Have a terrific night painting your memories.”
“Have fun, and don’t let your whiskers get bitten off,” I said as I heard the click of the phone.
I took two more photos then ambled away from the market. Merchants were beginning to pack up their wares. The shadows of early evening fell, and I watched the rhythms of the traffic. I turned back for one more glimpse of the place where Molly and I had briefly reunited.
I wondered what she might be doing now.
Chapter 13
Esther had left an early morning voice mail saying she would return to the hotel midafternoon, and we would have a gabfest then. She sounded elated. I spent the remainder of the day attempting to finish my latest painting. After quick calls to Roxie on the home front and Fiona stationed at the gallery, I poured my soul into my work.
By two in the afternoon, I needed a break and hoped that Esther might be on her way back to the hotel. Curiosity was running at an all-time high. I called her. She was on her way and said she wanted to do a little shopping before returning to the hotel.
I jumped right in to glean as much information as I could. “Are you going to give me the latest space info report? How is that light-sucking monster of a black hole? Or are you going to tell me what happened on your date?”
“Iron emissions reveal that a black hole is spinning rapidly and chomping matter quickly.”
“Good, we’ve got the space narration out of the way. Let’s cut to the chase. Get to the human interest portion of your story, Esther.”
“Okay. And before you ask. Forty-two.”
I laughed. “Would that be her bust measurement or her license plate number?”
“Danielle, sometimes you can be a real turd. It’s her age. So she is well beyond the age of consent.”
“Just not as well beyond as we are.” Before my tittering became a source of annoyance, I stopped. “I’m truly thrilled for you. Nothing like a vacation romance. I assume the stay-over with Carrie went well. Any more details you want to offer?”
“Her full name is Carrie VonHuber. She owns a travel agency. Has a lovely, immaculate apartment with a roommate she wants you to meet.”
“Let’s retrace our steps. Travel agent. Did she take you on a trip around the world?”
“You are rotten. Are you taunting me to amuse yourself or as a method for diverting the question of going out with her roommate?”
“Is her roommate over the legal age? I’m not interested in being charged with degeneracy by dating a teenager.”
“You’re hardly reprobate material,” Esther said dryly. “Her roommate is a gorgeous, classy lady of fifty-four. I think you can handle that. You can be so damned boring, Danielle.”
“I’m not interested in meeting anyone, even if she is of age. But thanks for the offer.”
“I’ll put it another way. Her name is Bethany Cortland. She’s a manager with a major airline. Prior to that, she was a flight attendant. Hair like Joan Baez—sort of salt-and-pepper on top and darker sides, same trim. And we’re meeting them for dinner tonight after they get off work.”
“Esther, I need to paint.”
“You need to get out with a charming woman. As far as that goes, you need to get laid by any available woman. And I take it Molly hasn’t bothered to call.”
“Not a word.”
“There. That settles it. You need to get out. I’ve always maintained if your sexual appetite is sustained, your painting improves.”
“Quite the opposite. My creative endeavors seem to detract from desire. I direct my sexual energy toward my work. Sorry, I’m not available right now.”
“What did you do last night? Another painting?”
“Nearly. I’m finishing up even as we speak.”
“If it has ‘Molly’ in the title, I’m going to scream.”
“It’s called A Scene from Our Story.”
“Another picture of Molly?”
I didn’t answer.
“Your silence is telling me I’m right. Face facts, Danielle. She hasn’t called. And you’re pouring your heart out painting pictures of her. You’re getting myth mixed up with history.”
“This painting is different. I’m trying to capture a look of hers as she shopped. It was unlike any I’ve ever seen.”
“And you remember all her expressions for the eight years you were together?”
Pain gripped my heart. “I think I may well remember them all.”
“To me, it seems she’s ignoring you. She knows where you’re staying. She knows where your work is being shown. Damn it, Danielle, she can call if she’s interested and she hasn’t called.”
“I’m well aware of that,” I shot back.
“Bethany Cortland is a sublime woman. She is hot and smart.”
“What about your sweetie? Why were you checking out this Bethany?”
“I have wonderful peripheral vision. I noticed Bethany, but I notice all lovely women. She’s about your height, a little slighter maybe. You’re both skinny broads.”
“Why don’t you take both Carrie and Bethany out tonight? I have to finish this painting. And stop heckling me about my weight.”
“Consider the painting finished. Get fixed up and let’s party. Only one night. I’m sure she couldn’t put up with you on a second date. Even if you feigned charm.”
I rolled my eyes. “It could be a mutual rejection, you know.”
“Nope. She’s adorable. She’s articulate. Lovely. She’s trim. Harp-string muscles.”
“Harp-string muscles. Is that British for saying she’s extremely masculine?”
“Oh, no. Trust me. She’s all woman. When I commented on her athletic body, she corrected me, saying she’s well-trained. Toned and feminine. And she abhors competitive sports. See, you’ve got a commonality right there. Come on, Danielle, stop being catatonic. End celibacy. It might not even be a resounding success, but do try. You’re hardly the lascivious type, but you could attempt to be a wanton, brazen bitch for one night.”
“I’m not searching for a torrid affair.”
“Contrary to what you think, sex isn’t on the protected species list. While you still have a full range of motion and some energy, give it a go.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Here’s how it’s going down. I’m going shopping for a new pair of shoes. I’ll be back at the hotel by four or so. I’ll get ready. Then we can go to the restaurant together where we’ll meet our dates. Come on. I flew all the way over here for you.” Now she’d resorted to whining.
I paused and reviewed my options. “Okay, I’ll go.”
“That’s my girl. As the Brits say, do try to make an effort. A little makeup might not hurt your chances. Don’t be timid. Glam up a tad. And be friendlier.”
“Is Carrie all for this double-date junk?”
“Yes. She mentioned she hoped you weren’t going to be a storm cake.”
“Storm cake,” I repeated. “Storm cake?”
“I told you Carrie is a total and complete hoot and has a full vocabulary of these British sayings. You’ll enjoy yourself. And maybe you’ll enjoy Bethany.”
“Esther, I’m not all that good with age differences.”
“five years is nothing. And come to think of it, twenty-plus years is marvelous. Now, cheer yourself up.”
“Have you ever been accused of being a control freak?” I asked.
“Not to my face. No one would dare.” A moment later she muttered, “I have been called a general before, though.”
I laughed. “So, what time are we leaving?”
“five. We’re meeting them at six. But I want extra time to scrutinize your outfit and make sure you’re presentable. If you’re not, it might take an extra half hour to do something with you.”
“What could you ever imagine doing with me that would only take half an hour to render me resplendently gorgeous?”
“You’re right. Meet me now and let’s begin with a new shoe wardrobe. Then we’ll go to an adorable little boutique and get you fitted out in something that meets with my approval. A hair salon. After that—”
I cut her off. “I’ll be ready at half past five. I’ll give a quick perusal in my mirror. That should be enough.”
I’m sure most of London heard her groan. “Danielle, I beg of you, do make an effort.”
“I’m not out to chase women. I’m trying to finish a painting. When I know the time is right for me, I’ll make an effort.”
“Here they call it pulling a bird.”
I was certain she could feel the glare through the phone. “From Ovid’s The Art of Love, there’s this quote that mousetraps don’t run after mice.” There was a pause. “Well?”
“The Brits pull birds. Nothing at all to do with mice. Just be ready.” She hung up.
A few curse words tumbled from my lips. The dread settled into my psyche. Strangers made me uneasy.
Chapter 14
Returning to my canvas, I glanced at my wristwatch. I wanted the time to approach A Scene with empathy. I needed to achieve what seemed to be an impossible balance. As I painted, I thought about those glances of Molly’s. At the stall, as she thumbed through the book, there was recognition, suddenly a sliver of pathos, and then abject sorrow. She held the book to her bosom as she lowered her head.
Perhaps Molly was recalling Pamela and the two decades they’d shared. She had obviously loved Pamela. Or at least felt something. At any rate, for a brief moment she seemed completely vulnerable. I wanted to recount and preserve that split second. I wanted to understand the years of thought that bunched up within a human soul. The exploration of memories compounded. And I wanted them recorded via art.
The knock on the door proved an intermission. Spencer had come to check on how I was doing and if I needed anything.
He stared at the painting. “I adore A Scene,” he said with a note of awe. “Aren’t you ever going to take a break?”
Spencer had become my personal liaison—my champion and my moaning post. “I’m finishing up this work, and then I’ll socialize. A date of sorts.”
“The newest releases are posted on the web page, so maybe they will do the work of a dozen personal appearances.”
“I’m sure Fiona buys into that.”
“Her raison d’être is selling, not buying.”
I gave him a playful shove. “Spence, you’re the best. And you do like the newest painting, so I am saved. You’ve been under Fiona’s tutelage for long enough to get her astute observations when it comes to art.”
“I’ve been raised on art, actually. A complete tutelary.”
“I’m finishing up the painting. Then I’ll get showered and dressed, go out and party, while wishing I were back here with brush in hand.”
“Social butterfly.” His grin was contagious. “Go out, fuel up, and pretend to be having fun.”
“Pretend is so much like lying.”
“Danielle, you’re empowered by understanding the difference. Maybe that’s what helps you paint. On the other hand, exploiting the use of pretence isn’t your greatest attribute. You’re personable, but your social skills…” He scrunched his face as if searching for the right words. “Well, not so much.”
“I’d have to say I agree, Spence.”
Although I enjoyed his company, I was glad when he left. I wanted to finish working on the stretched canvas. While there was a celebration of the heart when I completed a painting, getting to that point always produced tension. I always felt a flicker of fear that I might have taken it too far, or incorrectly. Although I was certain it wasn’t rational, I could see the parallel between creating and loving.
Risk was involved in allowing the passion needed for each of these wonders. And it took the exact requirement. The contrast—chiaroscuro—could be in varying intensities. Words, caresses, brushstrokes, they all needed to be forged with such care and precision. I had only learned this with years of experience.
After applying additional paint, making corrections, and carefully examining the painting, I showed my approval by giving it a thumbs-up gesture. I signed it, feeling great satisfaction and fulfillment.
Glancing at the brushes, springy pallet knives, and splattered palette paper pad, I considered the cleanup. As I’d done what seemed to be a million times before, I took the implements of my trade to the sink, carefully cleaned them, and wiped them down completely. I pressed them back into the storage case. I glanced at the painting. Yes, I thought, it was what I wanted. I crushed the messy paper I’d torn from the palette pad and tossed it away.
As I shed my clothing and stepped into the shower, I turned to look in the mirror. I’d been blessed with health and much happiness in my life. But age was a great leveler of self-expectation. We all wanted age to evolve us gently and with human grace. Yet there was always an awkwardness about age. Nature automatically deconstructed us. In various increments, we lost what we had been.
My limbs were good, and I’d not allowed many rolls or cellulose. I exercised and attempted to maintain a dietary plan that met with my doctor’s recommendations. My face was lined, and I had no desire to “touch” it up. Just as in my paintings, I had enjoyed creating those facial road maps.
The image of me at sixty had become a woman with an ever-so-slight girth around my thin frame, graying hair, and lines upon my thin face. My face was more haggard than it once was. The coloring not as pink with youth’s luminosity. It could be worse, I thought with a pause before turning the shower’s handle. The water hit my body in sheets and splashed downward. My body sagged very little, everything remained in working order. And I still smiled freely. So yes, it could have been far worse.
After suds and water had thoroughly doused my body, I patted myself dry. I had laid out my cloth armor on the bed. I layered a vibrant crimson turtleneck over lace lingerie and slipped into a pair of tawny-colored slacks. I wished my creativity included fashion design. I wrestled my arms into a matching lightweight jacket. Finally, I stepped into shoes. I’d never taken the time to coordinate fashion colors as I did with oils and acrylics. Esther would say more was the pity on that one.
I put on a multicolored, multi-stone gold necklace. Somewhat splashy, with spots of crimson, purple, and many shades in between, the main stones were agate. My dangling earrings matched the necklace. As an afterthought, I slipped on an oval ring.
I hadn’t come to London to date, nor to involve myself in a fashion show. Regardless, if I had, I wouldn’t have been a frou-frou woman. This was an outfit for galleries, going to dinner, and not impressing anyone with anything other than pointing to my artwork.
Looking out the window, I thought about all the chic and trendy people walking below. Londoners had a certain tailored sense of fashion. I probably wouldn’t be mistaken for a Brit, although that would have been nice.
I wondered about the interior dressings of my timeworn body—my soul enshrined inside. Youth often provides exuberance, passion, and exploration. Age can provide wisdom, experience, and knowledge. But any one of those attributes might be traded off. Well-seasoned souls needn’t be ancient. Conversely, well-aged bodies could be energetic, inquisitive, and fervent.
Age proved such a quandary. And no cross-ref
erences seemed available as one moved across its charts.
Chapter 15
Bethany Cortland’s laugh was jubilant. We were in the midst of a wonderfully lingering dinner at an exquisite restaurant called Chantilly Park. High-end and tucked away in its own enclave, it was perfect and intimate. We sat in a private dining room with yards and yards of lace curtains and delicate antique dining furniture. The walls were alabaster and the feel was light and airy with tints of baby blue and bamboo-colored décor.
Bethany was indeed as lovely as Esther had described. At first glance, she was chic, trim, and gregarious. The way she carried herself was spirited and self-assured. Her dress was a grade above casual. She wore a pastel purple silk overtop that was neat and trendy, taken in by a golden coin belt. Black wool slacks and matching pump shoes were definitely stylish. Her attire seemed expensive, with what looked to be pricey jewelry. She wore layered gold chains around her neck, and on her left finger, she sported a large, oval diamond cluster ring. Fashionable, yet not ostentatious.
I imagined painting her portrait. Her eyes, the brightest cerulean blue I’d ever seen, much less painted, glowed like translucent sapphires held up to the light. Her short, elegantly clipped hair was salt-and-pepper with side waves in dark brown. The bridge of her nose, cheekbones, and jawline were slim and nicely formed. With her rosy complexion, I would paint her flesh tones lightly and with a hint of alizarin crimson. Most extraordinary was her mouth. Her teeth had a lustrously white look of being recently polished.
More than anything, her joyful love of life and positive outlook on the world enchanted me. While Esther and Carrie chatted, I told her she seemed to be at home with herself.
“Why not?” she said. “I’ve traveled the world over many, many times. So I guess it’s second nature to be at home wherever I am. Do you like travel?”
“Not so much. I do love London,” I said. “I’ve been to Europe several times but concentrated mainly on art. I’ve been a part of group exhibitions. And all my wanderings took me to museums and galleries to see the magnificent art.”