by Nina Laurin
Either way, I can’t very well invite her over. Where do you live? Can you drive down to Cleveland? We can meet at a coffee shop and discuss.
The moment I hit Send, I hope it doesn’t scare her off, make her think I’m trying to defraud her. I tell myself it’s not an unreasonable request. It’s a valuable painting, after all, and aren’t you supposed to be at least a little wary of strangers on the internet?
My doubts turn out to be in vain. A reply arrives minutes later. !!Sure! It’s not a problem, I live a half hour from Cleveland. We can meet at a coffee shop by the waterfront. So excited!!
We agree to meet at a Starbucks, anonymous enough yet out in plain sight. It’s a long drive for me, almost two hours, but I’m not chancing it by meeting in Columbus or, God forbid, here in town. I’m not doing anything wrong, yet I still feel like a criminal.
The painting is in one of those cardboard sleeves, rolled up neatly. I roll it out just to be sure. It used to hang in the bedroom but having it there was too much for me, and even Byron agreed. The line had to be drawn somewhere, and a painting of a naked couple above our bed, a couple that was, beyond all plausible deniability, my husband and his first wife, turned out to be it.
If this Rea only knew I’d be glad to give it away for free.
Wasting no time, I get ready. I put on a plain T-shirt and jeans, my hair up in a ponytail, and a baseball hat on my head, which clashes furiously with my cream wool fall coat. Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead in public looking like this. I know it’s silly but I’m still a little paranoid someone might recognize me so it makes me feel reassured. With my purse slung over my shoulder, I carry the cardboard sleeve to my car and put it in the trunk. I throw glances at the windows of the neighbors’ houses from under the bill of my hat but they’re all dark and empty. Everyone is at work; there’s no one to observe me. That persistent feeling on the back of my neck can only be my own guilt.
By the end of the drive, I almost manage to relax. My favorite music from my iPod pouring from the speakers, the sunny weather, the lack of traffic—I take it all to be good omens. Maybe I’ll even take a long walk along the waterfront after. Or go shopping. Or buy myself a mimosa at a café to celebrate.
No, no. I’m supposed to be getting used to not drinking.
Much to my consternation, Rea is late. I fidget on my uncomfortable Starbucks chair, my skinny cappuccino untouched on the table, and can’t stop checking on the cardboard sleeve, which is leaning on the side of the chair next to me. As if someone might grab it and take off with it. Every time the door opens, my head snaps up, and my heart starts pounding.
Finally, a woman enters, gaze searching distractedly until it alights on me, then on the sleeve. Her face illuminates with tentative recognition, and she advances toward me, uncertain.
I get up and give her my sunniest smile. “Rea?”
“Yes!”
We hug, and she gives me two kisses, one on each cheek. It’s like an awkward Tinder date, and I’m sure that’s what everyone thinks. Rea is maybe five to eight years older than I, and, even though I hate to pigeonhole someone based on their clothes, she’s kind of a granola hippie. She’s wearing those flowing pants and a tank top, a magenta-and-gold wrap in her dreadlocked hair, bracelets clanging on both her wrists. Byron’s university students would probably lambast her for cultural appropriation. But as long as she has ten grand in cash to pay for a Colleen May painting, who cares?
“So,” she says as soon as we sit down and the entire coffee shop stops staring at us, “can I see it?”
“Um,” I say. “Of course.” I throw a glance around, at all the people sitting mere feet from us, and I’m not so sure this is the place to unroll a rather frank nude painting. Rea gets it.
“We can go to the bathroom,” she says eagerly. I start to get up but she catches my wrist. Her touch makes me squirm. Like I’m a teenager selling pot, and I expect her to turn out to be an undercover cop and to bust me any moment.
“Wait. Do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“How come you have a Colleen May? I mean…where did you get it? She’s not that well-known—I mean, not that mainstream.” Beneath her healthy bronze tan, she blushes noticeably. What she meant to say, clearly, is that I’m not cool enough to know who Colleen May is.
I don’t exactly see myself telling her, Oh, I’m her husband’s new wife, and I snuck it out of Colleen’s own house without him knowing.
“My mom bought it,” I say. I’d thought of the story before I even placed the ad. “Years ago. At some little gallery thing, I think. I must have been, oh, twelve or thirteen years old. It wasn’t a big deal then—I mean, she wasn’t famous yet. But my mom passed recently, and—”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Rea interjects on cue. I move my hand away, dodging her attempt to put hers on top of it.
“And I was going through the stuff she left me and saw this thing. It’s quite…striking. You’ll agree once you see it. So I googled the artist, and it turns out it’s worth more than I thought.”
Rea nods along. To my relief, not only is she buying it, I’m noticing a look of glee she works hard to hide. To her, I’m the naïve little girl who put the rare painting on Craigslist like an idiot, and this is something Rea thinks she can take advantage of. Next, she’ll say it’s not that impressive, part of the less acclaimed period of Colleen’s work, and oh, look at this crack in the paint right here, and try to bargain down the price.
Well, she has another think coming.
For some reason, that makes me feel better—about myself, about this whole venture. I have the upper hand. I know something she doesn’t. I feel daring, and not waiting for the feeling to pass, I open the cardboard sleeve right at the table.
“Have a look,” I say, and grin in the face of her hesitation. I slide out the canvas, tilt it so only we can see, and unroll it as far as I can.
“Whoa,” says Rea. The smug look is gone, replaced by that of awe. “That’s…intense.”
“Yes.”
“Her early work. It has a rawness to it.”
Rawness is an understatement. “Magnificent, isn’t it?”
“How much did your mother pay for it?” She’s still unable to take her gaze off the painting.
“I have no idea.” Figuring I had teased her just enough, I roll the painting back up. She bites her lip, her eyes following the canvas until I put the cap back on the cardboard tube. “Can’t have been that much.”
“Lucky her.”
“Lucky me,” I say, grinning again.
“Are you sure you want to part with it?” She meets my grin with her own uncertain smile. “I mean, I know I’m sort of shooting myself in the foot here, but…it’s so beautiful.”
I sigh, pretending to think about it. “What can I do?” I say. “Student loans.”
We share that shaky, slightly forced laugh of two strangers bonding over mutual mundane struggles. Just as I’m ready to move on to the next phase—price negotiation—Rea leans in.
“So how much do you know about Colleen May, exactly?” she asks. I didn’t expect this question, and it makes me fidget under her curious stare.
“Well, that she was sort of famous. And that she died.”
Rea nods. “Eight years ago. Of course, the paintings’ value soared. The fact that it was such a sordid story sure did help.”
I can barely hide how incredulous I am. The gall of her! Then I remember: Rea has no idea how closely I’m connected with Colleen. She’s just hoping to snag a painting for a bargain price and sharing juicy gossip.
“She committed suicide, right?” I ask. I’m aware that my posture becomes too straight, my facial expression too forcefully neutral. But I’m confident Rea won’t notice. People generally don’t notice awkwardness and flaws in others because they’re too busy thinking about themselves. She is no exception.
“Oh, there’s more to it than that. I read this article online that said—”
&
nbsp; “An artist who commits suicide,” I interject. “Not the first time that happened.”
But my heart is starting to beat awfully fast. When I pick up the cold cup of cappuccino, my fingers are trembling just enough for it to be noticeable.
Byron told me he was once married and she died, on one of our first dates. He didn’t tell me about the suicide until much later. I was a little hurt that he would keep something so big from me when we were supposed to have no secrets from each other, but I tried to be understanding—it’s not something you want to lead with when you’re starting a brand-new relationship.
“Yeah, but there’s more to it than that,” Rea says. I blink at her.
“Really,” I say hollowly.
“I know! At first, they investigated it as…how do you say it? Foul play?”
“Yes. Foul play.” I gulp, feeling a little nauseous. “Why did they think that?”
She shrugs, her dreads rolling along her shoulder, bangles going clink clink.
“You didn’t know? She drowned. Jumped in the harbor. Except, get this…They never found the body.”
I don’t see what’s so special about that—chances are it might happen when you drown in a body of water that size.
Rea leans in conspiratorially. Her eyes sparkle with unhealthy interest.
“And her husband at the time? He was some kind of failed writer who now teaches literature. And for a while there everyone thought it wasn’t suicide at all. Everyone thought he did it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I tell Rea I have to go to the bathroom, grab my coat, my purse, and the painting, and go lock myself in a stall.
As I struggle to catch my breath, clutching the cardboard sleeve hard enough to crush, I can’t make my thoughts flow in order. I want to call Byron, right this second, from this narrow stall stinking of cleaner. My hands leave sweaty prints on the cardboard. I want to shred this stupid painting and flush it down the toilet, ten thousand dollars be damned.
I resist the urge to call. His phone is on Do Not Disturb during his lectures anyway. But I do compose a text, my fingertips trembling. Honey can you call me please?
I don’t even know what I’d say. I just want to hear his voice.
As I exit the stall, the phone dings, the sound sharp and sudden. I give a start and nearly drop my purse as I scramble to get it.
Hey! I was just about to text you actually. Em and Andrew are coming over for dinner, can you scare something up? Doesn’t have to be fancy. I’ll pick up wine on my way & they’re bringing dessert.
Betrayal, hurt, and anger boil over, as sudden as they are intense. I throw the phone back into my purse with violence. Scooping up my coat, I grab the painting with my free hand and push open the door.
Rea—oh God, I managed to forget she existed—gets up when she sees me rushing toward her.
“Oh, by the way,” she says, “I didn’t want to bring it up right away, not that I don’t trust you and everything, but maybe we should have that painting appraised first. I know a…”
Her expression changes as she glimpses my face. I walk right past her as if she were a ghost and continue toward the exit.
“Connie!” she exclaims behind my back. “I’m sorry! What did I say? Wait—”
The door of the café swings shut behind me, cutting off her voice midsentence. A girl about to go in stumbles out of my way, indignant. Does she look familiar? Everything swims in my vision because I can’t blink away the tears—if they escape and run down my cheeks, they’ll be real. I run to my car, throw the painting in the trunk along with my coat, and slam it shut with a heavy feeling of finality, like a gunshot.
* * *
Outside the house, I sit in the car for a while. Instead of settling my nerves like I hoped, the drive made everything worse. I spent the better part of the two hours ruminating, going over every word in my head until everything has spun completely out of proportion.
If it were me, if I got into an accident on my way home, got hit by a drunk driver—a stretch of the imagination in the early afternoon, but still. If I died on the spot, would my husband be over it in a week? You are being awful, Claire, I say to myself, although even that sounds like Byron’s voice. How do you manage to make everything about you?
But there’s a difference, a big difference. Isn’t there? I thought about it countless times before, more than I like to admit. He knows that she chose to leave—did it on purpose. The ultimate betrayal. If someone did that to me, would I spend the rest of my life trying to atone, clinging to their memory, wondering if I did or said something to cause it? Or would I hate them for the rest of eternity?
This is what I used to think, anyhow. But this…this opens up entirely new possibilities I previously haven’t considered. Foul play.
They can’t have seriously thought he had something to do with it, can they? I wonder if it’s what’s making me so angry or the fact that he never told me.
The dashboard clock says it’s four thirty. Which doesn’t leave me much time to keep ruminating, because Byron’s sister Emily and her husband will be here at seven.
I leave the painting in the trunk. I can’t stand to even look at it right now. Inside, I take two Tylenol for my aching head and pour myself a glass of the wine I only normally use for cooking. It’s acrid, with an obvious undercurrent of ethanol. I wouldn’t be caught dead drinking it in front of Byron, who may not be one of those obsessed people with the enormous wine cellar but who prides himself on being able to tell the difference between a merlot and a pinot noir by smell alone.
I wince but drain half the glass nonetheless while I go through the fridge, tossing everything that went bad in the last week. At the end, I’m staring at half-empty shelves, this close to panic. I’m too buzzed to get behind the wheel and drive to the grocery store, and the only thing within walking distance is a bodega. Finally, I decide to throw together a pasta dish. Thankfully, there are some shrimp in the freezer, and the Parmesan cheese hardly ever goes bad…does it?
I’m in the heat of it, draining the pasta before adding it to the shrimp sizzling in butter on the stove, and I don’t hear the front door. I only notice Byron is back when he’s standing in the kitchen doorway.
In the first moment, I forget I was mad at him. He puts two bottles of a very nice red wine on the counter. “Smells good,” he comments. “Pasta again?”
The comment stings, just a tiny bit, and I try not to think that it was meant to. I haven’t felt motivated to make elaborate recipes in the last couple of weeks. He already commented on the recycling bin being filled with empty sauce jars once. I huff silently as I dump the contents of the colander into the frying pan.
He comes up behind me and puts his arms around my waist, which immobilizes me with my arms awkwardly halfway down. The pan’s contents hiss and sizzle. Time to stir.
“Please let go,” I say.
“What, I can’t kiss my own wife?”
My mouth tastes sour from the bad wine. It really is bad, and the buzz is worse, making me sleepy and exacerbating my headache at the same time. If I kiss him, he’ll smell the wine on my breath.
“Food is burning,” I point out, and he slinks away. I turn off the element, bend to get the lid to keep the pasta warm, and when I stand up again, my head starts to spin like mad. You’re not supposed to mix wine and Tylenol—it’s bad for your liver. Or maybe it’s Advil?
“Can you help me set the table?” I call out, but my husband is already in another room. I hear him clinking, fumbling with that stupid mixology kit I bought him last year for his birthday. Like a child with a chemistry set. Making another overmixed drink with a million kinds of sugary liqueur that hits you like a sledgehammer.
Fine, then. I open the top cupboard, the one containing the nice set of dishes, the one that still matches because not enough have broken yet. Four plates stacked in my arms, I walk over to the dining room—a room we’ve used exactly twice since Byron and I have been married. Once upon a time it must have conv
eyed suburban respectability, hosted family gatherings on major holidays or parties with both spouses’ friends and colleagues attending. Now its main purpose seems to be gathering dust. I have no family that I’m close with and no colleagues, and Byron stopped inviting anyone over a long time ago. Except for his sister, of course.
The plates land on the table with a clang.
“Here?” Byron’s steps approach, and he appears in the doorway. “I was thinking we could just eat in the kitchen. Not like it’s a special occasion. I mean, it’s just pasta.”
I blink, exhale, and pick up the plates again.
Next thing I know, Byron is by my side, holding up my arm, which is the only thing that prevents the dishes from sliding onto the floor to shatter. “Claire, are you all right? You seem off.”
Am I all right? Considering that you didn’t tell me you were a suspect in your late wife’s death. Considering that—
I mumble something under my breath.
“Sorry?” Byron looks confused.
“It’s not just pasta,” I repeat. “It’s linguine alla gamberi. With white wine, garlic, and herb butter. And we’re not eating it in the kitchen.”
After a pause that makes my ears ring, he starts to laugh.
“Of course.” He leans over and surprises me with a clumsy kiss on the lips. I don’t have to worry about him tasting the wine—he’s already reeking of brandy and some kind of orangey liqueur. “That’s why I love you. Such attention to detail. Everything is special with you. Want a cocktail?”
I have no choice but to acquiesce.
Emily and Andrew are the kind of people who always arrive ten minutes early, and they do today, without fail. A box from a bakery, tied with a ribbon, changes hands—I already know what’s inside because it’s always the same thing: éclairs. Byron and Emily’s childhood favorite, a story I’ve heard countless times. Kisses on both cheeks are exchanged; excuses for smeared lipstick are proffered.
I never managed to understand how the family that produced someone as passionate and complex as Byron is also responsible for someone as dull as Emily. Named after either Brontë or Dickinson—I could never keep it straight—Emily is utterly devoid of the dark fire that consumed her namesakes from within. From what I know about her, every single thing she’s ever done in her life was because she was supposed to. And it’s not because she had clichéd, heartless parents who forced their artistic child into a socially acceptable mold until she broke. I heard the stories of Byron and his sister growing up in their eccentric family of book lovers, with a mother who liked her sherry and pot as much as she liked her modernist poetry and a musician father who skipped out on them with an undergrad when Byron and Emily were kids.