Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing)

by Maggie Dana

  Colin pulls me down beside him and picks up a stone.

  “This is me before we met,” he says, drawing a large, uneven circle. “This one is you.” He makes another, overlapping the first. “And both are you and me—joined forever.”

  I catch my breath.

  “Before we’re born,” Colin says, pulling me close, “our soul splits apart and half of it is given to someone else. So, all of our lives we’re looking for the person with that other half.”

  Me, I’m your other half.

  “And if we’re lucky enough,” Colin goes on, “to ever find that person, our soul can say, ‘At last, I can rest. I have found my missing half.’” He takes off his glasses, wipes them on the cuff of his pink shirt. “When I saw you last year, coming down those stairs, I knew the love of my life was the girl I met thirty-five years ago.”

  Leaning forward, I trace the outline of Colin’s circles. His hand closes over mine. I shut my eyes, but this crescent-shaped beach—this sliver of sand with its towering cliffs and vibrant ocean—is still there. It’s branded itself onto my brain and I can’t shake the feeling that in some strange, unfathomable way that has nothing to do with Colin, I’ve come home.

  * * *

  Our last afternoon, we tramp along the cliffs, plowing through waist-high patches of purple heather. We scramble over tussocks of sea grass the color driftwood and stop to kiss when bells from the village church strike up a simple carillon.

  “Forever, Jilly,” Colin says. “For the rest of our lives.”

  Can’t get much clearer than that.

  Still, it’d be nice to have him on bended knee, asking me properly.

  Colin challenges me to a game of tag and we chase one another around huge thickets of vanilla-colored broom Claudia says are called, appropriately, “Cornish Cream.” Gasping for breath, I collapse among dense little mounds of thrift—clouds of pink blossoms like balls of crisp tissue—and decide to bring one of them home. A memory of Cornwall to plant in my garden.

  “They’ll never let you back in the country with that,” Colin says.

  I ease a plant from the ground. “They will if they don’t know about it.”

  “What is it, anyway?”

  “Armeria maritima.”

  “You’re not planning to dig up one of those, are you?” Colin points toward a clump of broom the size of Claudia’s Morris Minor. “I suppose you know what that’s called as well.”

  I laugh. “Cytisus scoparius.”

  “I love it when you talk dirty. Let’s go to bed.”

  My longing for him is suddenly so powerful I have to lean on him as we stumble the last hundred yards to the cottage. Colin takes the flowers from my hands and dumps them in the sink. I reach for his face and draw my finger down his cheek. It leaves a trail of sandy wet soil and makes him look incredibly young—a kid who’s been out playing in the dirt. He picks me up and kicks open the kitchen door.

  “A girl could get used to this,” I whisper into his ear, peeking at Claudia’s ancestors. They don’t seem nearly as censorious as they did the first time Colin carried me upstairs. Reckon they must be used to us by now.

  Later, when we’re sprawled on Claudia’s brass bed, sweaty and spent from loving one another, I glance over Colin’s shoulder at Alexandra.

  This time, she smiles at me. I swear she does.

  * * *

  I’m glad its gloomy and gray. I couldn’t leave Cornwall, or Colin, if the sun were out. But unlike the journey down when neither of us stopped talking for more than a minute, we’re quiet for most of the five hours it takes us to reach the airport. Colin, because I assume he’s wrapped in thoughts about returning to his other life; me because I can’t quell the fear that by loving Colin I’m somehow betraying Harriet. Does he realize she’s gay? He was charming to her at Lizzie’s dinner party. The only sour note was Bea’s joke about the innkeeper’s daughter, and now I know the truth about Nancy, I’m not surprised Colin didn’t laugh.

  So, how do I tell him about Harriet and Beatrice? Or should I say nothing? Just invite them for a picnic when he comes in July and let the chips fall where they may? I know I’m being idiotic. I know my imagination has run amok because I’m seeing problems where none exist. Colin hasn’t said a word against gays—just against his ex-wife—and I can’t say I blame him.

  We arrive at Heathrow in a deluge, park the car, and race for the terminal. Steam rises from damp shoulders. People shake off umbrellas, fumble for passports and tickets, wait patiently in line. Loudspeakers blare, children cry. Armed guards keep watch.

  Welcome back to the real world.

  After checking my luggage, we ride the escalator up to the small, dimly-lit restaurant where we said goodbye the last time. Colin nudges me and asks if I’d like another gin and tonic. I settle for coffee and a toasted ham sandwich. He elbows his way to the bar, orders our food, and carries it back to the booth I’ve just claimed.

  We’re almost finished with lunch when Colin hands me an envelope. “Don’t open this till you’re on the plane,” he says.

  “Why not?”

  “Save it for later.” He stands and makes his way back to the bar. Returns with a huge gin and tonic. “Tradition,” he says, and we take turns tasting one another like we did with that mug of tea.

  The loudspeaker announces my flight.

  We relinquish our table to another couple and edge sideways through the crowd. It closes around me and I lose sight of Colin. He reaches for my arm and pulls me from our intimate hideaway into the open concourse and I feel like a newborn being expelled from a dark, cozy womb into the bright lights and babble of a delivery room.

  Trolleys loaded with luggage rumble by. Oceans of people surge back and forth in the midday rush to catch planes for Rome and Madrid, Amsterdam, Paris, and Boston. Colin and I stand in the midst of it all clinging to one another like two souls washed up in a storm.

  His voice is a whisper. “You can’t leave.”

  Then tell me to stay here and marry you.

  “They’re calling my flight,” I say.

  We walk, holding hands so tight I don’t think there’s any blood left in mine, to the point of no return. I won’t see him again until the end of July. A bored-looking official hurries me through security and now I’m on the other side and I can’t touch him any more. I drop my bags and turn around. Colin takes a step toward me. A policeman bars the way.

  He’s carrying a gun.

  * * *

  The airplane is packed, every row full. I shove my box with Claudia’s squirrel calendar in the overhead bin, squeeze past a couple of businessmen, and sink into my window seat. I pull Colin’s envelope from my purse—what’s he going to surprise me with this time?—and gasp loud enough to make the man sitting next to me lower his Financial Times.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  I count the zeros again to make sure.

  But no, it really is a ten followed by a comma and three zeros.

  Ten-thousand dollars?

  He’s given me a banker’s check for ten-thousand dollars?

  No way can I accept this. I’ll have to send it back. Then I finger my bracelet and remember Colin’s words the last time we said goodbye.

  It’s the first of many things I want to give you.

  After two glasses of wine, the numbers begin to sink in. I look at the check again and imagine all I could do with this money. Fix the roof, buy another car. Pay off my credit card. Or open a savings account and put a serious dent in my home equity loan.

  Tell Elaine to take her business and shove it.

  Yes.

  Well, maybe not quite like that, but I’ll stop accepting her work. I’ll finish off what I have, do a bang-up job on the Summerwind project I’ve already committed to, and walk away.

  She can find someone else to kick around.

  I have a third glass of wine and decide it’s time to tell Lizzie the truth about Colin and me. No more pretending we’re just casual lovers.

  Bett
er practice my speech.

  Chapter 23

  Sands Point

  May 2011

  By the time we touch down, I’m almost word-perfect. I’m also losing my nerve. The wine has worn off and I’m worried about Lizzie’s reaction. She’s not going to like learning she’s been left out of my loop.

  I’ll go straight home and call her tomorrow.

  No. Get it over with. Now.

  So when I reach the village I hang a right and drive out to Lizzie’s.

  Fergus is in the barn, cutting wood. “Hey Jill,” he calls out. “Nice trip?”

  “Fabulous.” I wave at him and climb the steps into Lizzie’s back porch. I can see her through the window, bent over the kitchen table working on a crossword, glass of wine at her elbow. She looks up and grins.

  Maybe this won’t be as bad as I fear.

  “You’re glowing,” Lizzie says. “I guess you had a good time, huh?”

  “The best.”

  “Then sit down and tell me all about it.” She points toward her glass. “Want some?”

  “God, no.” I sink into a chair. “I’ll pass out if I drink any more.”

  I’ll also forget my speech. Stalling for time, I pick up Lizzie’s cow-shaped salt-shaker and fiddle with its cork. How will she react to my news? I feel like a shit for having lied to her. Well, not exactly lying. More like not giving her the full story. Lizzie’s a dear and I love her madly, but she’s got a bee in her bonnet about Colin. She doesn’t think he’s serious. Okay, time for me to set her straight. Maybe I’ll describe Cornwall and Claudia’s cottage first, then make her laugh over my delusions about Alexandra’s portrait, and after that, I’ll—

  Lizzie reclaims her cow. “Come on, Jill. Stop messing about. I’m waiting.”

  Something, jetlag probably, hijacks my script. “I’m going to tell Elaine to take her work and shove it.”

  I don’t know who’s more startled by this. Lizzie or me.

  She recovers first. “You’re joking, of course.”

  “Dead serious.” I flourish Colin’s check. Wave it under Lizzie’s nose. God, did I really do that? What the hell’s gotten into me?

  “Ten grand,” Lizzie says, nodding. “Very nice, but it won’t keep you for more than a few months. You need to work and right now you need Elaine’s business.”

  “Not any more.”

  Lizzie sighs. “Jill, you’re having an affair. I bet your feet haven’t touched the ground all week. But what happens when reality steps on your toes? What if Colin decides he’s had enough? Or you do?”

  “This isn’t an affair.”

  “Looks like one to me.” Lizzie glances at Colin’s check, lying beside her crossword on the table. “Jill, this is exciting and glamorous and right now I’m envious as spit because you’re having all this fun while I’m stuck here with—”

  Fergus’s chainsaw fires up.

  Lizzie closes the window, turns to face me. “Jill, I’m—”

  “We’re getting married.”

  She jerks as if I just slapped her. “What?”

  “Colin and I are going to get married.”

  “On the basis of a weekend at the beach and ten days in Cornwall? Are you mad? This is a cruise-ship romance. You barely know this man.”

  “I’ve known him all my life.”

  Not exactly true, but I’m in no mood to split hairs.

  “You knew him as a kid,” Lizzie says. “A teenager. Thirty-five years of life have happened since then. His mother committed suicide, his father abandoned him, he had a shitty marriage, and now he’s living with a woman he doesn’t love.”

  She doesn’t know the half of it.

  Better not tell her about his ex-wife and Nancy. That’d really send her up the spout. Lizzie looks at me. I glance away, try to stop the flush that’s creeping up my face. Dammit, she’s right, but she’s wrong, too. Yes, all that shit happened, but—

  Lizzie grabs me by the shoulders. “He’s changed. So have you. It’s called getting older.” Her voice softens. “Okay, so when did this turn serious?”

  I hesitate. “At the beach.”

  “In Cornwall.”

  “No. Here.”

  Lizzie lets go of me. “Back in March?”

  “Yes.” My voice is so quiet I can barely hear it myself.

  The atmosphere in the room shifts and I feel as if I’m in the eye of a hurricane. High winds have already blown through—trees are down, the power’s out—but you know the worst is yet to come.

  “Why, Jill? Why?” Lizzie says. “Why did you plan a wedding behind my back?”

  She points to the fridge where a Union Jack magnet holds a postcard of Land’s End I sent her last week. Colin and I stood on the rocks and waved at her.

  “I suppose this means you’re going to live in England?” she says.

  “Colin’s coming here.”

  “I don’t believe it. I don’t fucking believe it.”

  “It’s true. He is.”

  Her blue eyes glitter with tears. Her dear, sweet face twists with pain. I barely recognize her.

  “No, Jill. Not that. What I don’t believe is that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

  I went to the mall without telling her. Bought luscious underwear. I was right about those Calvins. They looked stunning on him.

  “I suppose you told Harriet,” she says.

  I shake my head.

  “The boys?”

  “They have no idea.”

  “Great, Jill. The most important people in your life are the last ones to know.” Lizzie glares at me. “So, when did Colin break the news to Shelby?”

  Again, I hesitate. “He hasn’t. Not yet.”

  She pins me with a look. “But he has asked you to marry him?”

  Forever, Jilly. For the rest of our lives.

  “No.” The word slips out before I can stop it.

  “Then what the fuck are you thinking about?”

  The closest I’ve come to a ring are those circles Colin drew in the sand. I step toward Lizzie, hold out my arms. I want a hug and I bet she does too, but she backs away.

  “We don’t need words to tell us we belong together,” I say.

  Lizzie groans. “Just because you’ve had the greatest sex since Claudius’s wife screwed half of Rome doesn’t mean squat if he doesn’t leave Shelby, and it means even less if he doesn’t ask you to marry him.” She gives an obscene little laugh. “Or are you planning to ask him?”

  “You’re out of touch. Lots of women ask men these days.”

  “Jill, you’re the one out of touch.” Lizzie grabs her wine, takes a slug. “Remember your pet peeve? Middle-aged men and trophy wives? Well, this is my pet peeve, Jill. Strong women who turn to mush the minute a man scoops them up.”

  “Colin hasn’t—”

  Lizzie narrows her eyes. “He’s transformed you from an independent, confident woman into a nineteen-fifties housewife. I’m surprised you’re not wearing heels and an apron.”

  “You’ve no idea what it’s like for me, do you?” I say. “You have a secure job, a devoted ex-husband, and your mortgage is paid up.”

  “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “The hell it does.”

  “Jill, be reasonable.”

  My self-control snaps like frayed knicker elastic. I’m too tired, too bloody tired and too bloody mad to care any more. Why can’t Lizzie see it my way for once? Why does she have to be always right, and me always wrong?

  “Stop raining on my parade,” I yell. “I’ve found a man I love who wants to take care of me and you’re fucking jealous.” I grab onto a chair for support. “You’ve always been jealous. I’m thinner than you. Younger. You couldn’t hold onto Trevor so you’re taking it out on me.”

  There’s a dreadful silence, punctuated by a chainsaw.

  “I think it would be best,” Lizzie says, in a voice I’ve never heard before, “for you to leave before I say something I’ll really regret.” She pre
sses her hands on the table and leans forward, head down, not looking at me. “I can’t cope with you any more.”

  My temper needs a time out. “Lizzie, I’m sorry.”

  “Now, Jill. Go away. Now.”

  Choking back sobs, I stumble onto the porch. I lean against the wall, shivering and breathing hard. My heart’s pounding so fast I’m afraid to open my mouth in case it leaps out.

  Behind me, the door opens part way.

  “You forgot this.” Lizzie thrusts Colin’s check into my hand. “Your fee for services rendered.”

  The door closes and I hear the lock click into place.

  Chapter 24

  Sands Point

  May 2011

  Tears blur my vision and I run a stop sign at the end of Lizzie’s road. Almost hit a guy walking his dog. What the hell have I done? Why did I make such a balls up of telling Lizzie the truth about Colin and me? I knew this would happen. I should’ve gone straight home. Slept on it and told her in the morning.

  Heart pounding, I grip the wheel and turn onto Bay Street. A crowd in evening dress lingers on the sidewalk outside The Contented Figleaf. Waiters circle with trays; ribbons and posies dangle from umbrellas. Silver balloons hang from the branches of a dogwood tree. Someone’s anniversary? A graduation?

  A wedding?

  My car mounts the curb. Bounces off. Clang. Metal strikes the ground and I catch a glimpse of dull chrome as my last hub cap rolls into the gutter. I pull over and sling it in the trunk. Slam the lid. A boy on a bike rides by and gives me a funny look.

  Somehow, I get myself home without further mishap. I fall into bed and thrash about like the guy in that TV commercial whose shitty mattress has him tossing and turning all night. Red-eyed and exhausted, I get up at eight and spring Zachary from the kennel.

  He’s gone before I even unpack.