Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing)

by Maggie Dana

  England

  January 2012

  Sophie leans forward. “What accident?”

  “There’s some folks around here think he’s to blame because the missus can’t walk any more.”

  Missus?

  Dear God, don’t tell me he lied about that as well.

  Sophie kicks me under the table. “His wife?” she says.

  “They’re not married, but they may as well be,” Doris says. “They’ve been together for years.” She takes a noisy swig from her cup. Its delicate porcelain handle makes her gnarled fingers look even larger. “Anyways, after the accident Shel gave up her fancy job in London and turned her house into a hotel. Must’ve cost a pretty penny. Very posh, it is too.” Doris takes a huge breath, looks at us. “You should see the goings on over there. They’ve got one of them cajuzzi things. Big enough to hold six people.”

  “A Jacuzzi?” Sophie says.

  Doris nods vigorously. “Don’t hold with all that community bathing, myself,” she says. “Stuff like that’s got to be done private. I never let my old man see me without me knickers.”

  Stifling my grins with a napkin, I’m torn between laughter and disbelief. Colin’s common-law wife is a former career woman who, according to Doris, switched gears when life tossed her a curve?

  There’s a problem at the lodge and Shelby can’t cope.

  Like hell she can’t.

  “Tell us about the accident,” Sophie says.

  God only knows how she’s keeping a straight face.

  Doris glances over her shoulder as if expecting to see the village constable, ready to arrest her for gossiping. She lowers her voice. “Four, maybe five years ago, she and the mister had a big fight. The cleaning lady overheard them. Now, she wasn’t snooping, mind you, but they was yelling loud enough to beat the band.”

  “What about?” Sophie asks.

  “Money, more’n likely.” Doris leans forward. “Her money, not ’is. He don’t have any, you see. Anyways, like I said, the cleaning lady, who’s a regular customer of mine, swears blind he shoved her, and Miz Burnside went—”

  “Burnside?” Sophie says.

  “Our Shel,” Doris says. “Well, she went arse over teakettle down the stairs. But Shel insisted it was her own doing. Says she tripped and fell. She’s like that, you know. Generous to a fault, she is. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Well, the thing is, her career up in London was over, so she’s back here where she belongs, at the lodge.”

  My head is spinning.

  I expect Sophie to start pumping Doris for more, but she doesn’t need to. Thoroughly warmed up, Doris prattles on.

  “Burnsides have lived in that lodge for generations. One of them fought with the Bonnie Prince, and—”

  Another lie. Colin said the lodge belonged to him.

  “—I remember Shel as a little girl, and then a teenager and mad as could be because her Mum had a new baby. At her age, Shel told me, and I agreed. Well, really, she was almost forty and you’d have thought she’d be all done with that sort of stuff. Poor Shel. She used to come here a lot in those days. Get away from her little sister. That would be Diana, of course. She’s fifteen years younger than our Shel. Got herself a fancy education over in Switzerland. One of them finishing schools. Came back a few years ago to help out after the accident, but I think she’s got her mind on something else these days. ’Tisn’t the mister’s fault she’s always throwing herself at him.”

  Sophie says, “Oh?”

  “Speakin’ of the devil,” Doris says, hauling herself upright. “There they are now.”

  We turn and look out the window.

  Across the street, Colin pushes a wheelchair through the archway. Dusk looms above the rooftops and shadows lengthen on the ground, but I can see well enough to make out the woman’s pale hair hanging loose around her shoulders. A blanket covers her legs, her hands grip the arm rests. She can’t walk.

  And to think I was jealous of her.

  A younger, dark-haired woman stumbles beside Colin. She wears a calf-length red cape and matching miniskirt and she trips over the cobbles in her high-heeled black boots.

  Diana?

  She links her arm through Colin’s. He smiles, then bends to kiss her and his hair flops over his forehead. I bite my lip to keep from losing all my hard-won resolve. Shelby looks straight ahead. Doesn’t she have any idea at all what’s going on behind her back?

  I’ve never been unfaithful before, Colin said.

  My mouth turns sour. Disgust mingles with anger and shame. “I need another cup of tea,” I say, reaching for the pot.

  So, Colin doesn’t own the lodge, and according to Doris, he doesn’t have any money, either. How many more lies did I swallow? That check I lost must’ve come from Shelby’s account. I wish there was some way I could apologize, tell her how sorry I am about all this.

  After making sure we don’t need any more scones, Doris loads our tray with empty plates and lumbers off to the kitchen.

  The minute she’s out of earshot, Sophie says, “What the hell went wrong with Colin? What turned him into such a bloody shit?”

  I tell her what happened in Scotland. “And that’s not all,” I say. “His father swanned off to Australia, then Colin got married and his wife left him for another woman and took their only child to live in New Zealand.” I pause. “Unless he was lying about all that as well.”

  “Cripes,” Sophie says. “If true, it’s enough to curdle anyone’s blood.” She reaches for my hand. “Poor Jill. You must hate this, seeing him again. I’m sorry I dragged you here.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s helped me figure out the truth.”

  “Like what?”

  “That Colin took me for a fool. I was hoping for something else, some other reason he dumped me and ran. But Lizzie was right. He was a cruise-ship romance. Nothing more, and I was an prize idiot for believing him.”

  “Oh, Jill.”

  “Yeah, I know. There’s no fool like an old fool, huh?”

  Sophie sighs. “He used to be such a nice guy.”

  “And he could be again,” I say. “People can change, you know.”

  “But only if they want to.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “And Colin doesn’t want to. I mean, why should he? He’s got the best of both worlds. Freedom to travel and pick up with women whenever he feels like it, and Shelby and her sister at home, holding the fort because somebody has to.”

  “Shelby’s a bloody saint,” Sophie says. “Or a bloody fool.”

  “Or maybe she really does love him.”

  “And what about you?” Sophie says. “Do you love him?”

  I think about the place where I am now and how hard I’ve worked to get here. Something inside me lightens and shifts, and I feel myself slide beyond the reach of soft green eyes and a crooked grin. My road forward is suddenly clear. I’ll sell my cottage and buy something else to fix up and call home. Find another job or stick a Band-Aid on my business, get it up and running again. Whatever I do, I’ll work damned hard to make it happen.

  It won’t be easy, but I’ve done it before and I can do it again.

  “Jill?” Sophie says.

  “No, I don’t love him, but I’ve forgiven him.”

  Sophie cocks an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

  And I nod, because the past is a pair of jeans that don’t fit any more.

  Chapter 44

  London

  February 2012

  Rain lashes the Range Rover’s windshield as we drive back to London. Sophie turns on the radio. I hunker down and try to sleep, but images of the Colin I once knew keep colliding with the sight of him kissing Diana behind Shelby’s back. Did he really push her down the stairs? Is he responsible for her landing in that wheelchair? Somehow, I can’t get my arms around this one. It’s nothing more than idle speculation, village gossip at its worst. Colin’s a pathological liar, but he isn’t violent.

  With a s
hudder of distaste, I give his memory a final shove and it slithers out of my heart. Relief washes through me; then comes a trickle of pity for the man he’s become. I suppose that’s healthy, really. Better than hating him. Thank God I don’t love him any more.

  Sophie’s mobile rings.

  The hospital? Is it Claudia? Suddenly alert, I sit up and watch Sophie’s face as she answers, then relax when I see her nod and smile. “Sure, come on over,” she says into a phone no larger than a credit card. “We’ll be home by seven, so come over around eight.”

  Company? “Who’s coming?”

  “Ian,” she says. “He’s bringing Paul with him.”

  “Paul?”

  “Paul Lamont. The guy who kept you up all night on the plane.”

  I groan.

  “Come on, Jill. This is exactly what you need.”

  “Another sleepless night?”

  “No,” Sophie says. “Meeting new people. Socializing.”

  Right now, I’d rather fall into bed with a good book. “Okay, but do I have to get dressed up?”

  “Wear whatever you want.”

  “Sweats and fuzzy slippers?”

  “Of course,” she says.

  Yeah, right.

  * * *

  We hit heavy traffic in Reading and arrive home later than expected. The closest parking space is three streets away. Running through sleet and freezing rain, I’m numb with cold by the time we reach Sophie’s front door. She takes a shower upstairs and I opt for a decadent soak in the old clawfoot tub. Wallowing in hot water and a froth of vanilla-scented bubbles, I fold a towel into a pillow, lean back, and wait for my body to thaw out.

  I wash one leg, then the other, and stick my big toe up the water spout like I used to when I was a kid. Instead of making small talk with Sophie’s guests, maybe I should just loll about in Claudia’s new bathroom and pretend my life’s in perfect order.

  Steam fogs up the mirror and my bubbles collapse. The rosy picture I painted earlier about selling my cottage and fixing up another one gets stuck in my throat like a ball of wadded up duct tape. What the hell was I thinking? Power tools and ladders have no place in my life. Not right now, anyway. Without medical insurance, Murphy’s Law would be sure kick in and I’d fall through the roof, chop off a finger, or—

  There’s a rap on the door. “Jill, get a move on. They’ll be here in a minute.”

  Wrapping myself in a towel, I scurry upstairs as the doorbell chimes. I push a snarl of coat hangers to one side and pull chinos and a lambswool sweater from the wardrobe, then scrabble in my suitcase for clean undies and socks. I shove my feet into loafers and run a brush through my tangled wet hair. No time for makeup, just a spritz of cologne.

  Sophie yells, “Jill, do hurry up.”

  Carefully, I descend the stairs. Last thing I need is another sprained ankle.

  “Here you are,” Sophie says, handing me a whisky. “Jill, you remember Ian, don’t you? And this is Paul Lamont.”

  He steps out from behind Sophie’s boyfriend. “Hi, there.”

  “Oh, my God.” I suck in my breath. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “D’you guys know each other?” Sophie says.

  “Kind of,” he says, winking at me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I take it you guys are acquainted,” Ian says.

  The whisky burns my throat. “We’re neighbors.”

  He wears tan corduroys and a blue Oxford shirt over a navy turtleneck. Docksiders, no socks. Aren’t his feet cold? This is London in February, not July on the beach.

  “Neighbors?” Sophie says. “Does this mean that Paul is—?”

  “Yes,” I say, staring at the bearded man leaning against her mantel. “Except I know him as Tom.”

  Sophie takes Ian’s hand. “Let’s go and see about supper.”

  * * *

  I let Tom pour me another drink. If nothing else, just holding the glass gives me something to do while I reassemble what’s left of my composure. My face feels tight and shiny, my hair feels like a haystack ravaged by rain and high wind. I forgot to brush my teeth. We both speak at once.

  “My God, to think we—” I say.

  “Quite the coincidence,” Tom says. “I had no clue that your Sophie was Ian’s Sophie as well.” He tugs at his beard. “I must say, it was quite a surprise, seeing you come down those stairs.”

  “You probably think I’m an idiot,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “For not knowing who you are?”

  “And who is that?”

  The guy who wrote that charming story I read on the plane.

  “A best-selling author.” I haven’t read any of his thrillers, but Lizzie has and she thinks he walks on water. She’ll be gobsmacked when I tell her who he really is.

  “You flatter me,” Tom says.

  “Why did you keep it a secret?”

  He abandons the fireplace and sits beside me on the green linen couch I once shared with Colin. Funny, but my heart doesn’t lurch like a drunk when I think about him. No anger, no sense of loss either, just a calm, rhythmic pulse that feels different, as if readying itself for something quite new. I feel richer, somehow. Deeper and wiser for having invested myself in a relationship, even if it didn’t work out the way I wanted.

  “How would you have reacted if you’d known?” Tom says.

  “Reacted?”

  “To me.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. The same, I guess.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” Tom puts a hand on my knee.

  It feels warm, familiar, as if it belongs there.

  He says, “Jill, I’ve grown up with groupies. My father was once a successful politician. He had them, and then so did I. Surrounded by people who fawned over us for what we did, what we had, but not for who we really were.” He pauses. “I didn’t want to risk that sort of friendship with you. My fame, or whatever you want to call it, would’ve gotten in the way. It always does.”

  My heart pokes me in the ribs. “So, who else knows your real identity?”

  “My daughter, my agent. The publisher in New York.” Tom grins. “I suppose Molly’s guessed by now, but I’m not sure about the dogs.”

  “But no one in Sands Point?”

  “I like being anonymous.”

  Lizzie’s auction. The autographed first edition. “Then it must’ve been you who donated that book.”

  “And bought the moose,” Tom says. “It makes a great hat rack.”

  Who’d have thought he was Paul Lamont? I certainly didn’t, but now I know he’s a celebrity, I have to keep reminding myself he’s also my neighbor—an ordinary guy with two stroppy dogs who picks trash off the beach, fixes my toilet, and makes a killer macaroni and cheese.

  He asks after Claudia and I tell him she’s going to be fine, that she’s coming here to live with Sophie. Then you’ll be coming home soon, he says.

  Home?

  Do I still have one? Maybe the bank’s already repossessed it. I ought to have called Iris but I’m operating in what I don’t know can’t hurt me mode. Before I left, I called to tell her about Claudia and how I had no idea when I’d be back and she promised to hold off the bank’s SWAT team as long as she could. I haven’t heard, so I assume she’s succeeded … so far.

  But Tom’s right. It’s time for me to go home. Claudia’s on the mend, Sophie’s pulled her shit together, and I need to go and gather up mine. I glance toward Tom. He’s looking at me, smiling. He has such sweet creases at the corners of his eyes. His beard lies peacefully on his jaw and his hair no longer curls over his collar. Even his eyebrows are less shaggy. Carrie must’ve forced him to visit the barber before flying over.

  “What brings you here?” I ask.

  “Emergency script conference,” Tom says. He pulls an envelope from his pocket. “I brought you this.”

  A letter from the loan shark?

  “But how did you know I’d be here?”

  “Before lea
ving, I rang Lizzie. She said you were staying a while longer and suggested I deliver your mail in person.” He nudges my arm. “Well, go on. Open it.”

  The return address doesn’t ring any bells. I don’t know anyone named Bessie Walker, do I?

  Oh, my God. The contest.

  I rip the envelope and pull out a single sheet of paper. Scan it, then read it again more slowly.

  We are delighted to announce that Archibald’s Aria was chosen from over five-hundred submissions as the winning entry in our Picture Book division. You are invited to attend the reception and awards ceremony at Summerwind Cove on March 9, where you will be presented with a certificate and a check for three-hundred dollars. Please let us know …

  Chapter 45

  London

  February 2012

  I want to capture this moment and keep it in a bottle like a firefly on a hot summer night, press it like a wildflower and display it in a shadow box on the wall.

  I can’t remember the last time I felt so special, so rewarded for my efforts. Stuff like this happens to other people, not to me. I usually come in last, like the time Sophie and I ran the three-legged race at Parents’ Day. We fell so many times, the headmistress gave us a consolation prize for being good sports. A book of French poetry. Great for squashing the spiders that lurked in the school’s basement locker room. I turn toward Tom, eager to share my joy, but I can’t because if I open my mouth, my heart will leap out and clap its hands.

  Tom squeezes my knee. “Congratulations.”

  Congratulations?

  “Hey, wait a minute,” I say. He looks as thrilled as if he’d won the prize himself. “How did you know?”

  He winks and gives me a thumbs up, and my pleasure evaporates. He must’ve been one of the judges, maybe the only judge. I choke down my disappointment. For a second or two, I thought Archibald’s Aria had won fair and square. Now I feel, somehow, as if I cheated.

  Tom says, “My agent’s partner judged the picture book division, and before you go off half-cock and accuse me of nepotism, I’ll admit I knew about this, but I had nothing to do with picking the winner. In fact, I didn’t know you’d taken first place till I saw your illustrations on Judith’s desk last week.” He grins at me. “She wants to represent you.”