by Anne Calhoun
“That would be great, Tilda, if you were here because you were scared and afraid of being alone. Because that’s exactly why I’m here. I’m scared of losing you, of living the rest of my life without you.”
Her gray eyes gleamed before she looked away, up at the trees, down at the flagstone patio. “You bought me the bracelet because you love me. You were loving me, and I couldn’t bear to be in the room, because it wasn’t just sex anymore. It was supposed to lead somewhere I didn’t recognize, let alone know how to navigate. Sex had always led nowhere. No risk, no threat of connection. But that night at the hotel . . . you wanted it to lead somewhere. You wanted to connect it to our marriage. You were trying to make it mean something more than it had. And the bracelet. My God, Daniel. That bracelet.”
Her eyes were a mixture of disbelief and joy and terror. “Not romantic? They’re supposed to be romantic,” he said offhandedly, but he knew better. “I felt like I was losing you. I knew I was. I just didn’t know why.”
Her face grew serious. “I didn’t know how to take what you want to give. It’s a skill, you see, learning the knack of being loved, a skill I don’t have.”
“Currently. One you don’t have currently.” He looked at her, calm, not a hint of amusement in his eyes.
Her back stiffened. “I don’t want to be a project—”
“Goddammit, Tilda, I’m not a martyr. I’m not throwing myself on the pyre of your issues. I’m just better than the people who’ve left you. That’s why I stay. Because you’re amazing and I’m in love with you and I don’t fucking quit just because things get tough.”
“You swore,” she said. She was half laughing, half crying.
“Sorry.” He sat back and blew out his breath, then looked down at his clasped hands.
“I think that might be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Her voice was dumbfounded. “Then I’m not sorry. You did a bad thing, Tilda,” he said, without looking up. “You cut school, and got into trouble with boys, but you are not a bad thing, someone inherently destined to ruin every good thing that comes her way. But I can’t prove that. Life isn’t black ink on white paper, columns and numbers and script. It’s a work of art that integrates the past into the future. It’s impossible to prove a future in which I love you, you love me, and we never come to ruin. A future has to be lived. What you have to do is love me, and let me love you, day in and day out, year in and year out, until we die of old age, more in love than we are now.” He gave her a sidelong glance, a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. “How’s that for a ledge?”
She clapped a hand to her mouth to muffle her disbelieving laugh. “That’s a proper ledge. And to think I thought you weren’t daring enough for me.”
“People do tend to underestimate me,” he said seriously.
“I won’t make that mistake again.” She swiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, then drew in a shaky breath. “That’s all I do? Just . . . let you love me, and love you in return?”
“That’s it.”
She picked up the divorce papers from the table, and tore them in half, then in half again. The edges fluttered in the warm breeze until she secured them under the tea tray. “You asked me once who I’d put on the list for myself,” she said. Quiet, but sure. This came from a completely different place in her, a place he’d not yet seen. That alone gave him hope. “You. I’d put you on the list for me. No one else. Nothing else. Not Quality, or a global brand. You.”
“I’m yours,” he said. “Have been since the moment I saw you, in fact.”
“Sitting on a ledge,” she said.
“Sitting on a ledge.”
He leaned forward and kissed her, his hand around the nape of her neck. “Now what?”
“Dinner,” he said, then stood and held out his hand. She put her hand in his, and squeezed his fingers when he helped her to her feet.
“Yes, please,” she said, and gave him a quick kiss as she climbed the steps to the back door. She prepared dinner, nothing elaborate, a simple meal of cheese and olives, hummus and pita, a bright array of peppers and carrots for dipping.
That night, he moved his things back to the master suite on the third floor. Tilda gave him a shy, pleased smile as they got ready for bed, but while he half expected her to turn to him in the middle of the night, or to wake him as she so frequently had with her fingers trailing down his chest to his cock, or her mouth on his thighs, she did neither of those things. She had learned to mistrust her desires, and while he wanted her to be his wife in every sense of the word, he wouldn’t rush her through that process of reclaiming her sexuality. When she was ready, she would come to him.
With that in mind, he didn’t mention a trip to Huntington to see Jessie’s soccer game. She was still so quiet inside, like she needed some time and space to read letters or look at pictures; when there was a lull in the case, while some of the parties involved vacationed in Seychelles, Daniel felt justified in taking a Saturday off.
“So you’re not getting divorced anymore?” Angie sipped her coffee and watched Jessie’s game on the field.
“No.” He didn’t tell Angie about the pictures and letters strewn over every flat surface in the house. Something mysterious, almost mythological was happening in that town house. If he had to hazard a guess, Tilda, who loved white paper and black ink, was falling in love with art. But he kept his hypothesis to himself. If he spoke of it, sent it into the wind too early, it might drift away and disappear.
“What happened?”
“Her grandmother died.”
“You went to the funeral?”
“I went to the funeral.”
Angie didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to say anything. Daniel tried to get his thoughts in order, to explain the seismic shifts of the human heart to someone who only knew bedrock.
“Mom taught us to write thank-you notes, right? Because that’s what you do when you’re a part of a family, or community. She taught us to be kind and gentle and giving. Thoughtful. But she taught us something else, too. She taught us how to be loved. Every day with the touches and the smiles and the affection, the attention, she taught us how to accept someone’s love. To trust it. No one taught Tilda that. The only person she trusts to do it was her nan. Everyone else was suspect. Now Nan’s dead, and she’s trying to find her way. I’m walking with her.”
Angie stared at him. To someone who grew up with that foundation, the lack of it was incomprehensible, like trying to explain air to a fish who’d never felt the yank of the hook. Her mother ripped big chunks right out of her soul. Andrew gave her sex, the lure of touch, the high of orgasm, with nothing underneath it. He was trying to give her bedrock.
Angie finished her coffee and tossed the paper cup in the trash can at the far end of the field. Jessie stole the ball from her opponent, only to lose it to the halfback. Her ponytail swung as she took off back up the field, her little face set with fierce determination. “She’s the spitting image of you,” Daniel said.
“My girl,” Angie said fondly.
A red cab pulled into the parking lot, an unusual sight in suburban Long Island. Heads swiveled to watch Tilda get out of the backseat, claim her bag. She scanned the sidelines. His heart in his throat, Daniel lifted his arm and waved to get her attention. She waved back and set off toward them.
“Why didn’t you two come together?” Angie asked.
“I didn’t know she was coming,” he said. His heart was pounding like it had the first time he saw her, skittering in his chest, his entire nervous system lit up like Times Square.
“Hi, Angie,” she said, a little too brightly. It was as uncertain as Daniel had ever seen her. For Tilda, asking to be a part of the family was the riskiest thing she’d ever done. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Not a problem,” Angie said. “We’re glad you’re here. I’m so sorry
to hear about your grandmother.”
“Thank you,” Tilda said. “I miss her terribly.” Just then Jessie waved excitedly at Tilda, and Tilda waved back. “What’s the score?”
“Two to one. We’re up,” Daniel said.
Tilda greeted his mom and dad, then stayed by his side through a celebratory lunch at Chuck E. Cheese’s. The noise level was indescribable, games chirping and shrilling and blinking, like a children’s casino in hell, but Tilda gamely ate pizza, drank a beer, and played Whac-A-Mole with Jessie, before Angie gave them a ride to the train station. The rain that had threatened all day finally spattered against the train’s windows on the ride home. Her hand linked with his, Tilda watched houses and strip malls and roads flow past, then transferred her gaze from the suburbs to his face. “I understand,” she said.
“Understand what?”
“Why you go to the soccer games. You go to the soccer games because you always go to the funerals.”
“I never really thought about it, but yeah. Life’s going to come at you. You have to take the joy when you can.”
She sat in silence a little longer. “Take the joy when you can. I like that.”
“Good,” he said.
“I like that,” she said again, but more quietly, and that was enough.
– TWENTY-EIGHT –
The morning Tilda went back to West Village Stationery, she surprised Penny in the act of rolling up the metal screen. She crossed Hudson, jaywalking between eddies of traffic. “Good morning,” she said.
The screen clanged up while Penny turned, her eyes widening with surprise, then softening with sympathy. “Oh, honey, hi. How are you?”
“Fine,” Tilda said, and accepted the quick hug that came with the cheek kiss. “I could sleep all day, and I cry at the drop of a hat, and I’ve got the mother of all headaches, but it looks like I’m going to stay married, so . . . fine? It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I’m fine.”
Penny squeezed her hand, then gave her a little smile. “You should take another week off. Everything is under control here.”
“I really think work might do me good. And you haven’t had a day off since I left.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome,” Penny whispered back.
“The windows are fabulous,” Tilda said. Penny had somehow created chameleons and whimsical spiders out of papier-mâché using outdated samples and incorrectly printed cards. The chameleons sunned by tide pools collected between large gray rocks. Tilda peered into the tide pools and saw glints of jewelry and silverware. “Fabulous.”
“Palimpsests,” Penny said archly, and tapped the side of her nose. “I was inspired.”
They let themselves in, then locked the doors behind them. “We sold out of the stock Sheba gave us.”
“I’m going to see her later this week,” Tilda said. “I’ll ask her if we can have a few more pieces.”
“Double the price,” Penny said. “I sold to three A-list movie stars using Black Cards to pay.”
Tilda’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really. Once we hold the second show, the sky will be the limit.”
“How bad is the stack of mail?”
“I threw out junk mail, handled what was obviously business, and left the rest for you. Quality must have added you to a mailing list because you’re getting invitations to all kinds of trade shows.”
“About that,” Tilda said quietly. She looked around the tiny shop, the oasis of gleaming wood and brightly lit shelves, and heard the words this is enough whisper in her soul. “I’ve decided not to take the deal.”
Penny’s face didn’t change. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” Tilda said, and waited for her to offer her resignation.
“Good. I mean, it was a great opportunity, but I’ve been thinking about some things we could do together. You and me.”
Tilda felt her eyebrows rise. “What kinds of things?”
Penny reached under the counter and withdrew a portfolio. “I mocked up some invitations for Sheba’s next show. They’re not our usual style,” she said as she opened the flap and fanned out the designs. An art deco look in silver and blue, a seventies look in an orange that shouldn’t have worked, but did, an exquisitely layered Brooklyn Bridge creation of tissue paper from pencil drawing through ink sketches to the bridge’s iconic swoops in fine black cord. “I thought we could put out some feelers in the couture stationery market. It’s even more rarefied than what we sell now, but the market is there. With your connections and clientele, and my designs . . . we could see where it goes. When you’re ready.”
“On one condition,” Tilda said. “I’ll teach you the business side, and you’ll teach me the creative side.”
“I’m terrible with numbers.”
“I don’t have a creative bone in my body,” Tilda said.
“Everyone is creative,” Penny protested.
“Anyone can learn to make a balance sheet,” Tilda said. “You’ve got the talent to branch out on your own, Penny. When you’re ready, I want you to have the skills you need.”
She sorted the mail and caught up on business correspondence. Then she closed the door to her office and called Colin.
“Miss Matilda,” he said cheerily. “Bringing me good news on this fine summer day, I hope. Papers signed, everything tickety boo, yes?”
“Colin, I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to let the deal go.”
Over the phone connection, she heard a siren wail past. “Is this about the percentages?” Colin asked finally.
“It’s about my grandmother dying, and about what’s best for me right now.”
“Tilda, darling, we’re willing to wait a few weeks while you process your grief. More than that, and I can’t guarantee that this offer will be available,” he said. She heard the whoosh of steam, a barista calling out a mocha for Gerry. “Be very, very sure you want to take that chance.”
It was no risk at all. She was a connoisseur of risk, and this was nothing compared to sitting on ledges or throwing her marriage away. If she took the extension on the offer, it would keep her and Quality up in the air. Even though Colin couldn’t see her, she shook her head.
“I can’t guarantee I’ll be ready to move forward in a few months, let alone a few weeks,” she said. “I’ll send a note to the head of Quality, and explain my decision as best I can. It’s an incredible offer, and I’m very grateful for the chance, but right now I need to be in New York, and only in New York.”
She’d always suspected Colin used his charming public school persona to mask a rather sharp mind. “I understand,” he said, and from his tone she knew he did. “Best of luck to you, and keep in touch.”
“I will,” she promised.
—
A week later, while Daniel was off on a long Sunday training run, Tilda packed the letters and pictures back into the vintage suitcase and trundled it through the West Village to SoHo along with a batch of homemade scones. Talk therapy still wasn’t right for her. Instead, she was going to put her faith in the power of art to heal past wounds. After all, she represented the current darling of the art world, someone who knew all about getting lost and found again, and had the tools and language to help her work through it.
She owed this to Nan, to herself, to Daniel, to the life they would share. Art didn’t feel like therapy. It felt like joy. If she followed joy, it couldn’t be wrong.
Penny was waiting outside the building’s door, clutching a coffee and a bundle of flowers for Sheba. “Good morning,” Tilda said as she gave her a swift kiss on the cheek.
“I’m so nervous I’m shaking,” Penny confessed. “Seeing her studio, watching her work. It’s unbelievable.”
“It certainly is,” Tilda said, and then rang Sheba’s bell.
Sheba was standin
g in her doorway when Tilda climbed the last flight of steps. The scent of strong Earl Grey tea drifted into the hall. “What’s in there, child?”
“My life story,” she said, pulling pages from envelopes and flattening them on the worktable. “One of my grandmother’s letters to me, and one of mine to her. I have hundreds of these. You said once that I was a created thing, a work of art. I want to make these letters into art.”
Sheba smoothed her palm over the pages. “An elegant hand,” she said of Tilda’s page. “All angles and lines. Your grandmother’s writing is straight out of the copybooks from that era. Copperplate, I think they called it. What do you have in mind?”
“Absolutely no idea,” Tilda admitted. “I’m going to scan them and the pictures I found to ensure I always have the text and picture, but then, once they’re digital files, I thought I could print close-ups of certain words or pages, off center—”
“So you lose the context of the letter and keep only the lines and angles—”
“Exactly, yes, change the color of the font, or the page I print it on, include photos, that kind of thing—”
“Which you can do both digitally and with the actual letters and pictures—” Penny tossed out around a mouthful of scone.
“And create a palimpsest,” Tilda finished. “I have no idea how to do this. Will you help me?”
“You know the word comes from Greek and Latin roots that mean ‘twice scraped.’”
“No,” Tilda said, but she was no longer surprised by the synchronicity.
Sheba considered her. “The Romans wrote on wax tablets, which were heated and reused again and again, and the practice carried over to parchment. Nothing was thrown away until it was exhausted. That image resonates with me,” Sheba said. “Everything we’ve done and been is scraped over, melted down, but remains a part of what we become.”
She wandered off, pausing to check the adhesive holding a sketch to a larger image, then went into her storage closet. She returned with a stack of her own work, which she set down beside Tilda. “Take your time, child,” she said. Sheba crossed from the workspace to the kitchen, opened a drawer, and withdrew a key. “I miss having students. You two can use my space,” she said, and set it on the table at Tilda’s hip.