Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing)

by Maggie Dana

  “I guess so. Why?” The numbers flash, then blink to one minute past midnight.

  He leaps out of bed, wraps himself in Anna’s Scooby Doo towel, and races through the door like Cinderella after the ball. Doors open and slam shut. Did I do something wrong? Is he venting his frustration on my kitchen cupboards?

  The noises stop. Footsteps. Coming back upstairs. He slips into my room, smiling and carrying the hunk of cake Lizzie insisted we bring home. A pink candle is stuck on top. He hands me a card.

  “Lizzie told me your birthday’s really today.”

  My fingers tremble as I slit the envelope. It’s the one I bought for Anna, and beneath a leprechaun perched on a pot of gold, he’s written:

  Happy Birthday, my darling.

  p.s. Is it okay to tell you that I love you?

  “Oh, yes,” I say with a gulp. “Oh, yes, please.”

  “Then,” Colin says, taking my hands in his, “I love you, Jilly Hunter, and I always have.”

  I pull him back into bed and we find all sorts of ways to eat cake I never dreamed of before.

  * * *

  We spend most of Sunday in bed. Zachary, banished from the room, skulks in the hall but I’m too delirious with desire to feel sorry for him. Making love with Colin has blown me away. Literally. Lizzie’s right. It is like riding a bike, except this time, I seem to know what I’m doing.

  I’m feasting on Colin the way my parrots feasted on those pears. I’m insatiable. The utter joy of being alive astonishes me. I’m vibrant—aware of myself in ways I never knew existed until now. I remember reading somewhere you’re a different person every seven years. That’s how long it takes the human body to slough off all its cells and replace them with new ones. Well, I’ve got news for the boffins who came up with that theory. It only took me three days. I’m not the same woman who met Colin off the plane last Thursday. She was flat. One-dimensional. The new me has more facets than a three-carat diamond.

  Richard complained I was cold. Frigid. He’s right. I was, but only with him. With Colin, I’m the sweet spot on a tennis racquet. A violin tuned to perfect pitch. Crystal that shatters at just the right note.

  Colin’s stomach grumbles and I plummet back to earth.

  He admits to hunger. So do I.

  We make mushroom omelets, light the fire, and watch The Bridges of Madison County. I’ve seen it before, but Colin hasn’t and by the time we reach the scene where Meryl Streep is caring for her sick husband, Colin is crying.

  “Shelby would never do that for me,” he says, taking off his glasses and rubbing them vigorously.

  No, she probably wouldn’t.

  Colin sighs. “Too self-centered. Too young, I suppose.”

  But I’m not. I’d take care of this lovely man. I’d wash his socks and iron his shirts, providing I could find the iron, and I’d love him until we were too feeble to do more than blow kisses at one another from matching wheelchairs in the corridors of some grotty nursing home. I want to grow old with him. I want to fall asleep in his arms and wake up with him beside me. I want to remember things with him because I can. He’s part of my past. We share memories nobody else has.

  * * *

  My cat is nowhere to be seen when I leave the next morning to take Colin to the airport. I’ll worry about Zachary when I get back.

  Colin wants to go shopping.

  “What for?”

  “I’m not going to tell you.”

  The only place in Boston I know how to find, besides the airport, is Quincy Market. We have lunch there. I pick at a salad while Colin ploughs through a heap of pad Thai, then excuses himself to visit the men’s room. He’s gone a long time and I’m about to go looking for him when he comes up behind me and puts a small box on the table.

  “What’s this?”

  “Happy birthday,” he says.

  I open the box. In a nest of white tissue lies a heavy gold chain. The kind of jewelry I’ve always admired on others, such as Elaine who can afford luxury like this.

  “Do you like it?” Colin asks, sounding anxious.

  “It’s gorgeous—but …” I fight against tears. “It’s too much.”

  Colin puts his fingers on my lips. “I can afford this. It’s the first of many things I want to give you,” he says, clasping the bracelet around my wrist, where it settles into a deeply satisfying curve.

  At the airport we cling to one another and make plans for me to visit in May. Two months? Two whole months. How will I be able to wait that long?

  How will he?

  He walks backward through the security checks, clutching his bag and looking at me as if his heart is about to break.

  * * *

  Tense and aroused, I drive back to Sands Point. My thighs tremble. I squeeze them together, hard, to quell the ache down there.

  That’s what my mother called it. Down there, a bit of forbidden territory like the chocolate truffles she bought for Christmas one year and hid so Dad and I wouldn’t find them. That wasn’t her only euphemism. Having one’s period was being unwell, submitting to sex with your husband was doing one’s duty for England, and bearing children was God’s punishment for Eve’s sin. Poor Eve. She gets blamed for an awful lot of stuff.

  One day, when I was seven or eight, I asked Mum if it hurt to have a baby. “Of course not,” she replied. “What’s painful about finding a baby under a gooseberry bush?”

  “Thorns?” Even then, I had a quick tongue.

  Later, when I was thirteen and embarrassed by my rapid development (another bit of Mum’s doublespeak) I asked if she’d fed me.

  “What a silly question,” she said. “You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”

  I looked down at my burgeoning bosom. “I mean, did you—?”

  “Absolutely not!” my mother said. “That’s for gypsies and poor people. Not for those of us who can afford bottles and proper milk.”

  * * *

  Lizzie’s in her kitchen, glasses perched on the tip of her nose, paying bills. The table is littered with bank statements, cancelled checks, and catalogs for clothes Lizzie will never, in a million years, fit into.

  “I’m too wound up to go home,” I say, twisting my bracelet, loving the way it feels, sensuous and fluid against my skin.

  “That must’ve cost him a dollar or two,” Lizzie says.

  “Colin says he can afford it.”

  “Good,” Lizzie replies. “This means you can plan on being a very expensive mistress.”

  “Oh, God. Is that what I am?”

  “What else?” Lizzie says. “Unless he’s going to dump Shelby and marry you.” She adjusts her glasses and peers at me, pen poised for action as if she’s going to take down my answer. “Okay. Which is it? An illicit weekend now and then, or the start of something big?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Lizzie sighs. She drops her pen on the table and pulls a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge. “Sounds as if you need to talk.”

  I sink into a chair.

  “So tell me everything,” Lizzie says, pouring wine.

  It doesn’t take long. A few broad brush strokes about Colin’s years in Scotland and his life at North Lodge with Shelby and how they no longer have much in common.

  “Do you feel guilty about her?” Lizzie asks.

  “Horribly, and I wish I didn’t.”

  “It’s Colin’s problem, not yours. Let him deal with the guilt,” Lizzie says. “Besides, it’s not as if he’s actually married to Shelby.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Jill, I know how your mind works, so stop feeling guilty, okay? You’re not responsible for this. Sounds to me as if Colin and Shelby were on the rocks way before you came along.” Her eyes grow soft. “Are you in love with him?”

  “I think so.” I drain my glass. “Yes, definitely. Love.”

  He turned me inside-out like a kid glove, one finger at a time.

  Or is it lust? I think of the way I behaved over the weekend. Can Lizzie see it in my fa
ce? If she asks, I’ll pretend it’s the wine that’s making me blush.

  “Jill, is this what you want?” Lizzie asks. “Are you okay with being the other woman in his life?”

  Beneath the table, I cross my legs. The feeling’s still there. Insistent, throbbing. Am I fooling myself? Am I willing to settle for dessert when what I really want is the whole meal? Peau de soie gown, six bridesmaids, and fuck-me shoes? The weddings Sophie and I planned but never had? Richard and I were married by a justice of the peace in a sorry little town in New Hampshire, with the JP’s frumpy wife and her cleaning lady for witnesses and a hastily-purchased bunch of carnations for the bride. I’ve always despised carnations.

  Yes, it’s exactly what I want. What I’ve always wanted. A guy to share my life with, but why do I have the feeling Lizzie won’t approve?

  “I’ll take whatever I can get,” I say.

  For now.

  “In that case,” Lizzie says, “I have only one question.”

  “What?”

  “Did you have fun?”

  I let out a sigh. “Oh, yes.”

  She laughs and tops up our wine. “A toast,” she says, raising her glass. “Here’s to your new sex life, and I know you find this hard to understand, but being pampered by an attentive man isn’t a sin. It’s manna for the middle-aged soul.”

  I mumble something about not being used to this sort of thing.

  “Rubbish. You’ve scrimped and saved. You’ve gone without so the boys could have it all. But now,” Lizzie says, “it’s your turn.”

  Is it? Could I really sit back and let someone else swamp out the gutters, prune the wisteria, and point up the chimney before it falls down? Somehow, I don’t think this is what Lizzie’s talking about.

  I try to stifle a very big yawn.

  Lizzie pulls me to my feet. “Jill, go home and get some sleep,” she says, shoveling me out the back door. “You’ve just had a mind-blowing weekend. You probably have things to think about.”

  Her words sit beside me all the way home. I try to leave them in the car but they follow me inside. Visions of champagne, filmy lingerie, and long, rocky beaches float through my mind. Is this where I’m heading? Three nights in Bora Bora, all expenses paid? Am I about to become a kept woman? If so, I’ll have to buy a whole new wardrobe. I don’t think mistresses are supposed to wear sweatpants and old sneakers.

  * * *

  Dearest Jilly

  Wow! I didn’t think in my wildest dreams it would be like this. Thanks for the best four days of my life. I’m reliving each moment in the privacy of my mind. Everything was so special. The flight home was uneventful. The lady next to me fidgeted the whole way. She prayed and crossed herself on take-off, and I fell apart every ten minutes because I was thinking about you.

  * * *

  My office overflows with unfinished work. Deadlines approach. I need to find my cat. Pay bills. Write another letter to Colin.

  He falls apart thinking about me.

  Must get motivated. Keep focused on what needs to be done. Sod that. I’ll cope later. Claudia’s latest pictures, squirrels celebrating St. Patrick’s and Valentine’s Day, lie on my desk. I make scans and e-mail them to Joel. Then a pile of unopened junk catches my eye and reminds me I’d better go and check my mailbox. Grabbing my coat, I head for the main road.

  My box overflows with circulars and Wal-Mart flyers. I riffle through them and find an alarming number of window envelopes with Past Due stamped on the front. Walking home, I worry about paying the bills while keeping an eye out for my cat. He’s been gone since Monday. It’s now Friday. Where the hell is he this time? Partying with the marsh cats? Lying dead under a bush? Living with somebody else? My heart lurches with the possibility of loss.

  The phone is ringing.

  Colin?

  But it’s Harriet. “Are you busy?”

  I close my eyes and pretend the heap of work on my desk doesn’t exist. “No.”

  “Good, then come for dinner tonight. We’re making samosas and chicken marsala.”

  “Fabulous.”

  “See you at six,” Harriet says and sings off.

  My business line rings and I race for my office.

  “Is the Pinewoods layout finished?” Elaine says.

  Pinewoods?

  It has to be here, somewhere. I remember it arriving, shortly before Colin did. I rummage through all the piles.

  Elaine says, “When will I see the revisions?”

  Shit. Where is the damned thing? Ahhh, there it is. In my filing tray. I open the folder and my heart sinks because I’m looking at hours of work, fixing mistakes Elaine has insisted I made. I didn’t, but there’s no point in arguing.

  “How about Monday? Is late afternoon okay?” I check the file again, then the calendar, and heave a sigh of relief. This one’s not due till next Wednesday. Counting the weekend, I have another four days.

  “That won’t do. I need it by ten.”

  “Monday?”

  “No, tomorrow.” Elaine hangs up.

  Tomorrow?

  The cow. The bloody-minded cow. I bet she did this on purpose. Jill, stop being an ass. Get over it already. This woman is your most important client. Her work pays the bills. Cancel your date with Harriet and get busy.

  No.

  I’ll do both. I’ll have dinner with my friends and then I’ll deal with Elaine’s latest crisis. Even if I have to stay up all night. A note from Colin rolls out of my fax machine.

  Dearest Jilly … I can’t sleep for thinking about you. I lie in bed and relive all the details of our time together—from the easy way we talk to the very easy way we make love. God, you’re gorgeous.

  * * *

  After too much wine and way too much of Harriet’s delicious curry, I soak up a pot of coffee, pull an all-nighter, and deliver Elaine’s job just before ten. But she wants more, and keeps me there till late afternoon, rearranging photographs and trying to come up with new things to say about the same old houses in the same old subdivisions that have been on the market for far too long.

  This isn’t part of the deal, but I do it anyway because I can’t afford not to. The economy sucks and local business is tightening its belt. Elaine’s the only one with money to throw around.

  Must find more clients. But where?

  Finally, Elaine is satisfied and I crawl home, fall into bed, and don’t wake up till Lizzie bangs on the door at noon the next day, arms full of the Sunday Courant, with my cat leaning against her legs.

  “Where did you find him?”

  “On your front porch.” Lizzie dumps the newspaper on my table. Her eyes sweep over my bathrobe, my bare feet. “I don’t suppose you’re up for a walk?”

  “Give me ten minutes, and put the kettle on. I need a shot of caffeine.”

  I check my office for a fax—

  I printed your last e-mail and took it with me on a walk with Meggie through the woods. It was misty. So was I. Meeting you has woken me from a gray fog of no emotion. I think about that odd time we had at Heathrow when I drove down to say goodbye. Your ankle was hurt and wrapped in a pink bandage. You tried so hard to finish that G&T. Did either of us realize what was happening? Even then?

  —and neglect to shove Zachary off the laser printer.

  * * *

  For a while, we have the beach to ourselves. A brisk wind whips my hair into knots and I can feel ridges of hard-packed sand through the soles of my sneakers. Three months from now, this stretch of beach will be inundated with day-trippers, empty soda cans, and other people’s problems. Last summer, two families from Brooklyn who’d apparently been feuding for years took up residence on each side of the breakwater and slugged it out every weekend from July to September.

  Lizzie removes her sunglasses. “Is that Tom Grainger?”

  Coming toward us, I see my neighbor and his dogs. Labradors. Not my favorite breed. They’re big and slobbery and like to shove their noses in personal places.

  “Good morning,” Tom says.


  The dogs, thank God, gallop off.

  Lizzie says, “Lovely day.”

  While they chat about the weather, I scrape furrows in the sand with my heel and size up the guy next door. He’s not much taller than Lizzie, a solid rectangle of a man with an unruly beard, silvery-beige hair that touches his collar, and eyes the color of a storm at sea.

  He catches me looking at him and grins.

  Perfect teeth, probably capped. False?

  He’s got a wife half his age.

  Chapter 19

  Sands Point

  April 2011

  I spend Easter Sunday with Lizzie’s family. Fergus, dressed as a rabbit, organizes an egg hunt. Kids and eggs tumble around the garden like multicolored bubbles.

  “Did you have this nonsense in England?” Lizzie removes a ham, smothered with apricots and raisins, from the oven.

  I eat one of the raisins. “Hams?”

  “Egg hunts.”

  “Eggs and bunnies weren’t on my mother’s list of approved Easter activities.” I swipe another raisin. “We all went to church.”

  “Probably a good thing,” Lizzie says. “Do you have any idea how much money Fergus spent on candy and baskets, to say nothing of that outfit he’s wearing?”

  The back door crashes open and Tyler shoots into the kitchen pushing a dump truck full of foil-covered eggs. His father is right behind him.

  “Jill, I’ve got another update on your squirrels,” Joel says.

  A large, fluorescent-pink rabbit waddles in. Tyler shrieks and runs off, scattering eggs on the floor.

  “Giant bunny turds,” Lizzie says.

  Fergus pops one in his mouth and trundles after his grandson.

  “The guys in marketing,” Joel says, “still love the pictures—”

  I cross my fingers. Claudia’s latest, squirrels painting Easter eggs, arrived last week.