Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing)

by Maggie Dana

  * * *

  Clients call with more work than I can handle and my days are filled, but sometimes sadness catches me off guard. It seeps in the window, slides beneath the door. I close my eyes and see Lizzie’s face etched like an old china plate from myriad days in the sun. I remember the way her lipstick always leaks into the small lines above her mouth, no matter how often she blots it, and I feel her arms squashing me into her heavy bosom whenever I need a good cry.

  I told her she was fat. Inexcusable.

  Guilt hands me the phone.

  “Lizzie, I’m sorry. Please—”

  A gentle click and the line goes dead.

  If she’d slugged me in the stomach, I’m sure I could’ve breathed more easily. I stagger from my office to the living room and collapse on the couch. I look around for my cat, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Desperate for something to hug, I snatch up a pillow and bury my face in faded green velvet.

  Harriet calls to ask if I had a great time in Cornwall and to regale me with details about the second-grade play I missed. Anna was an ear of corn. Spoke her lines like a pro, and do I have any idea how many egg cartons it took to make her damned costume? How much crepe paper? I admit I don’t have a clue.

  Should I tell her about my fight with Lizzie? No, I’m still too raw, too confused. What about Colin’s check? Ditto, because if I tell Harriet it’s now hidden at the back of my sock drawer, she’ll rant and rave about putting it in the bank.

  For services rendered.

  Lizzie’s wrong. I haven’t given up my independence. I don’t need Colin’s money to survive, nor do I need Elaine’s business. I’ll find other clients. So, for now, I’m leaving the check where it is. If I don’t cash it, I can’t spend it. And if I don’t spend it, I’ve proved I don’t need it.

  End of discussion.

  Colin rings up. His dog is failing and he’s dreading that last trip to the vet. And no, he hasn’t found the right time to tell Shelby. But he will, soon. He promises.

  Dammit, what the hell is he waiting for? Is he scared of confronting her? I know all about that. I spent years watching my father tread on eggs around my mother. I asked him once, why he let her push him around. His face turned kind of gray and I thought he was going to throw up. I never asked again.

  Armed with clippers and gloves, I pull weeds, hack at the wisteria, and find a spot for my little clump of thrift that survived its journey from Cornwall inside a plastic bag at the bottom of my suitcase. I scrub mold off the patio furniture and stamp out the burrows that run like varicose veins through the lawn. Mole control is Zachary’s job.

  Where the devil is he this time?

  My garden will have to wait. I throw down my tools and head for the beach to look for my cat. No sign of life at the Graingers. No dogs either. They’re an odd lot. Nobody in town seems to know much about them. Tom doesn’t appear to have a job and if he does, it’s something he does on the quiet. I study his multi-million dollar house. Its soaring rooflines and cantilevered decks must’ve given some poor builder a migraine. The back is mostly glass and there’s a green market umbrella propped up beside the double sliding doors.

  A flicker of movement catches my eye. Curious, I step onto the boardwalk that runs between the dunes and up to his deck. Sunlight glints on the glass. Another movement. I walk closer.

  Something’s in there. Trying to get out. Not a kid or a dog—

  Zachary?

  How long has he been locked up? A few hours? Days? Weeks?

  A rag doll, sprawled like a hit-and-run victim, lies on a picnic bench. I pick it up and sit down in its place, holding the doll in my lap. I stare at my cat. He prowls back and forth, tail vibrating like a compass. Miaowing. What am I supposed to do now? Break a window? Call the fire department? They hold a dim view of rescuing cats.

  Doors open and slam shut. Voices call out.

  I drop the doll on the bench and retreat to the edge of the deck. A dog barks and Zachary stops pacing. The door slides open and my cat streaks out, shoots past me, and leaps off the deck into the bushes. I make a move to follow him.

  Behind me, someone says, “Can I help you?”

  Whirling around, I come face-to-face with Tom Grainger’s wife.

  She’s even younger up close, no more than thirty. Below her loose yellow shirt, apple green tights sheathe long, firm legs. Her toenails gleam with red polish.

  “My cat,” I say, “was locked in your house, and—”

  “Cat?” She points toward the bushes. “But—that’s our cat.”

  Zachary erupts from a juniper with a mole.

  Traitor.

  “No, he’s mine.” I keep an eye on my cat as he treads with extreme care across the lawn to avoid the inexcusable blunder of tripping over his prey.

  “But we’ve had him since—”

  Her protest is cut short by the Grainger’s little girl—a flurry of dimples and dark brown curls—who skids to a halt in front of me. She looks up, eyes wide with curiosity. They’re heavily lashed, a deeper shade of blue than her mother’s.

  Carrie scoops her up. “Molly, this is our neighbor—Jillian, isn’t it?”

  “Jill, actually.” I nod toward Zachary. “And that really is my cat.”

  “I want Elsa,” Molly says, squirming to get down.

  I pick up the doll. “This?”

  “No, she’s talking about the cat.” Carrie shifts Molly to her other hip. Runs a hand through her blunt-cut brown hair.

  “Elsa?”

  “After the lioness in Born Free.”

  “My cat’s a male.”

  Carrie laughs. “I know, but Molly—”

  Tom Grainger and his dogs burst out of the house. The Labradors snuffle around my feet. One lifts its head to my knees. I cover my crotch. “My cat’s terrified of dogs.”

  Tom looks at me, eyes faintly mocking beneath brows as ragged as a parrot nest. “Really?” He turns to Carrie. “I didn’t know we had company.”

  “I’ve come to fetch my cat.”

  His beard twitches. “Your cat?”

  “Elsa belongs to Jill,” Carrie says.

  “His name is Zachary, not Elsa.”

  “I see.” Tom transfers Molly into his arms. “Come along, Princess. Let’s go and find—Elsa.” He glances at me, then hoists the little girl onto his shoulders and carries her off the deck.

  “Look,” I say, with an effort at friendliness. “My cat’s been disappearing, regularly, since that hurricane last September.”

  “That’s when we first saw him. We’d just moved in and Tom said he was a marsh cat.”

  “He’s a registered Abyssinian,” I say. “And where, exactly, did you find him?”

  “Under our deck. Eating a mouse.”

  “How did you get him to come out?”

  “Tuna fish and brie. It’s all we had in the house.”

  “He’ll suck up to anyone for cheese.”

  I look toward the lawn where Molly sits beside Zachary. There’ll be hell to pay when Anna finds out he’s got another girlfriend.

  Carrie says, “We won’t encourage him any more. We’ll get Molly a kitten, maybe from the kennel where we left Elsa”—she shrugs—“I mean Zachary, last March.”

  They put my cat in a kennel?

  “We have family in Vermont,” Carrie goes on. “Took the dogs, but my brother-in-law’s allergic to cats.”

  It all falls into place. “Did you leave him at Happy Tails?”

  She nods. “How did you know?”

  I explain about the other Abyssinian who stayed there and we share a companionable laugh. I like her. Pity I don’t care for her husband.

  “We took him to the vet, as well,” Carrie says.

  “Was he sick?”

  “No.” She hesitates. “Tom said it’d be better if he was fixed.”

  I stare at her. “But he already is.”

  She grins. “The vet thought we were mad.”

  * * *

  My phone rings when I’m half
way across the patio, arms full of indignant cat, so I run, holding onto him, because if I put him down he’ll probably bugger off again.

  Please God, let it be Lizzie.

  I pour Zachary into his straw hat, race for my office, and snatch up the receiver.

  “Where were you?” Elaine says. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  I won’t apologize. Not this time.

  “I’m sending Summerwind Cove,” she says.

  The big one. The last one. “I’m ready.”

  “Make sure it’s perfect,” Elaine says, and I bite my lip to keep from saying something I’ll regret. Only another few weeks. You can hang in that long. “Eight pages, four color,” she rattles on. “Use plenty of photographs, and don’t forget to include floor plans and the map.” I hear a rustle of papers, then she adds, “I’m including the text copy. Use it as is.”

  She can’t spell for toffee. It’ll need a thorough edit.

  “No problem,” I say.

  “Don’t lose my slides. They’re irreplaceable.”

  I suck in my breath. “I’m so glad you pointed that out.”

  “Yes, well,” Elaine says, and hangs up.

  Summerwind Cove. Expensive. Posh. Luxury condos and timeshares. Eighteen-hole golf course, members only. Two five-star restaurants, a marina, six tennis courts, and the best beach in town. Heli-pad, probably, judging by all the choppers that buzz the village, though that could be Channel 8’s traffic news. Anyway, Elaine won exclusive rights to promote and manage the place and she’s hired me to make sure everyone knows.

  And they will. I plan to pull out all the stops.

  Then I shall bow, quietly, gracefully, out of Elaine’s life.

  Her assistant—a pale young man with granny glasses and spots—shows up thirty minutes later. “It’s all here,” he says, dumping a box the size of a surfboard on my porch.

  Christ, it’s heavy. I haul it into my office and slit the tape with a razor blade, lift out layers of floor plans and site maps, architectural blueprints, photographs, and half-a-dozen huge travel guides. No wonder the box weighs a ton. Digging deeper, I find Elaine’s instructions wrapped around a stack of transparencies held together with a rubber band.

  “Don’t lose the slides.”

  The cheek. The bloody cheek.

  Twelve slides. I check them, twice, against Elaine’s list and drop them into a sturdy brown envelope.

  The phone rings. Is it Lizzie this time?

  “If you’re not busy,” drawls a voice I haven’t heard in almost a year, “I’ll be needing a place to hang my hat.”

  “When?”

  “The usual,” Dutch says. “I’m coming up for the Fourth.”

  Lizzie’s annual bash. The one I haven’t been invited to.

  “Sorry, Dutch, I’d like to oblige but I’ve got company from England that weekend.”

  “Can’t I bunk in with you?”

  “’Fraid not.”

  He chuckles. “Then I’m glad it’s that kind of company.”

  “It isn’t, but you still can’t share my room.”

  “Oh?”

  Something inside me lets loose and I tell Dutch about Colin and our plans to get married. Funny, really, to be spilling my guts to a guy I rarely see, a stranger almost, kind of like sharing one’s most intimate secrets with a shrink, I suppose. Never been to one, so what would I know?

  “Then I’m real happy for you,” Dutch says. “And remember. I’d make a mighty fine bridesmaid.”

  Dutch Van Horne?

  In peach chiffon?

  I can’t wait to tell Sophie she has serious competition.

  * * *

  Three days before Sophie and Claudia arrive, I go shopping at Sam’s Club and bump into Fergus. He’s choosing fireworks. Pawing through cartons of bangers and Roman candles with the gleeful expression of a kid.

  “Lizzie’s at the deli stocking up for the party.” Fergus grins. “We’ll see you there, won’t we?”

  I shake my head. “I have other plans that weekend.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “We’ll miss you.”

  Clearly, Lizzie hasn’t told him.

  Five weeks and two days since I trashed our friendship. I’ve called three times, been hung up on three times, written a long, apologetic e-mail, and sent two goofy cards.

  Nothing. No response.

  I’ve dropped off Lizzie’s radar.

  And I’ve no clue how to get back on it again.

  Chapter 25

  Sands Point

  July 2011

  Temperatures are in the mid-nineties when my guests fly into Hartford. Sophie, a veteran globetrotter, takes extreme weather in her stride. I’m not sure about Claudia. This is her first trip beyond England’s gentle climate.

  I reach the barrier as they emerge from the jetway. Sophie, cool as a flute of champagne in white silk and cream linen, doesn’t look as if she’s just spent eight hours on a plane. Claudia, wrapped in a raincoat and clutching an enormous umbrella, looks ready for a monsoon.

  We haven’t had rain since the end of May.

  After rounds of hugs and kisses, I shepherd my guests downstairs to claim their luggage. I warn them about the weather. The automatic doors swish open.

  Claudia gasps. “Oh, my,” she says, fanning herself. “I didn’t think it could ever get this hot.”

  But she revels in it. Wearing Zachary’s straw hat, she prowls the dunes with her sketchpad. She examines the vines, the wildflowers. Asks questions about the local fauna.

  “What’s this?” She bends to look at a horseshoe crab half-buried in the sand.

  “One of the oldest creatures on earth,” I tell her. “Older than the dinosaurs.” I flip it over and show Claudia the reason for its name—the outline of a horseshoe on the underside of its body. “Limulus polythemus,” I say. “It’s a living fossil and it swims upside-down.”

  “Show off,” Sophie says.

  I blush. My one claim to fame at school had been the ability to memorize Latin. A useless talent except when it comes to identifying obscure plants at the nursery—and showing off, of course.

  “Well, I think that’s splendid,” Claudia says, patting my arm. “Now tell me all you know about raccoons. Where would I find one?”

  I point toward a trash can. “Raccoons live on garbage. Tonight, they’ll probably tip that over and make a horrible mess.”

  Claudia is delighted. “Then I’ll sit out here and wait.”

  And I’ll worry about rabies.

  “You’d best sit on the front porch. My dustbins are in the driveway. You’ll see plenty of action.”

  The next morning, lying on my kitchen table, I find a pencil sketch of two raccoons, bibs around their necks, holding up knives and forks. Fish heads, garnished with potato skins and teabags, lie on a trash can lid. A cat, licking its lips, watches from behind a picket fence.

  * * *

  While everyone else gathers at Lizzie’s for the holiday, I plan a picnic of my own. Three Brits on a beach amid a bunch of Yanks celebrating their freedom from England.

  Sounds about right.

  I pack a cooler with spinach quiche, pasta salad, and a variety of fruits and cheeses. I stuff paper goods and plastic glasses into a basket, and I’m filling two insulated jugs with wine and iced tea when my fax machine churns out a note from Colin.

  I miss you so much I’m turning to liquid. I’m afraid the barman will find a large puddle in the morning and it won’t be spilled beer.

  Sophie drifts into the kitchen wearing a black tank suit, leather sandals, and aviator sunglasses.

  “My mother has the fashion sense of a sponge.” She adjusts her Ray-Bans. “I can’t bear to look.”

  Swathed in yards of cotton covered with parrots and palm trees, Claudia struts and spins like a runway model. “It’s a muu-muu,” she says. “I found it in a holiday magazine.”

  Sophie groans. “If only you’d left it there.”

  Claudia’s dress is a Van Gog
h canvas. Great daubs of orange and purple, turquoise and bright yellow. I love it. Especially the red and green parrots.

  * * *

  The tide’s coming in by the time we settle into the curve of my favorite dune. A few yards down the beach, a small American flag flutters from the top of an elaborate sand castle. I spread out my blanket, give Claudia the sturdiest chair, and dig a hole for the handle of her umbrella. Someone’s radio plays music from the sixties. Claudia smiles and nods her head to an old Beatles tune. At the high-water mark, kids with buckets search for treasures among piles of seaweed and shells. Others paddle in the surf and a group of teens plays volleyball in the hard-packed sand by the breakwater.

  We tuck into our feast and demolish it.

  “I ate too much,” Sophie says. “Anyone up for a walk?”

  “I’m too comfortable.”

  “So am I,” Claudia says. “Run along. Jill and I need to talk about our squirrels.”

  I stare at her. “We do?”

  “Lazy sods.” Sophie saunters off.

  “No, we don’t, but we do need to talk,” Claudia says, folding unused paper napkins in half and laying them in the basket. She collects our dirty plates, stacks them as if they were fine china, and places them beside the napkins, and I’m reminded of our tea in Land’s End when she rearranged spoons instead of telling me what was on her mind.

  “Talk about what, exactly?”

  “Your mother.”

  I groan. “Let’s not ruin a perfectly nice afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry, Jill, but it’s time you learned the truth.” Claudia’s face is somber. Her eyes are wary.

  “The truth?”

  “The reason Edith was so tough on you.”

  This is something I’d like to know, too. “I’m all ears.”

  “Edith Hunter isn’t your mother.”

  What?

  “She’s your aunt.”

  Around me life slows to a crawl, but sounds are heightened—waves roaring up the beach, the drone of hidden cicadas, a breeze whispering through sea grass. The perfume of beach roses wafts over me. I breathe it in. Simple, pure. Innocent. Then I close my eyes and try not to think.