Читать книгу What Happens in Paris - Nancy Robards Thompson - Страница 12

The next day, I did what any self-respecting woman caught in the middle of an undeserved scandal would do—I called in sick to my marketing job at Heartfield Retirement Communities, then cut all the blooms off Blake’s orchids.

Good harvest. About twenty stems with at least three flowers each. I gathered them into a bundle, tied them with a ribbon and made an exotic bouquet.

Flowers for me.

Originally, I intended to sit in the middle of the greenhouse and pluck off all the petals: He loves me…He loves me not, because he’s gay and loves men…He loves men…He loves men not because he promised to love, honor and cherish me for all the days of my life….

That was just too maudlin.

The blooms were so beautiful, I arranged them in a crystal vase so I could enjoy them as I gorged on slightly stale beignet—that’s French for doughnut.

I never realized orchids were such exquisite little works of art. They were always Blake’s babies. I fingered a lush maroon petal that draped down past another cream petal shaped like a pouch the size of a chicken egg.

In the greenhouse, he’d labeled this one Showy Lady’s Slipper Orchid. The name conjured images of cross-dressing, but I blinked the thought away and ate another doughnut.

I lifted the curious little pouch-petal with my finger. I’d never looked at an orchid up close like this, certainly not a stem cut free from the potted plants Blake sequestered in the greenhouse for optimum growing conditions (rather than optimum enjoyment).

I plucked Lady’s Slipper from the vase, held it up and slowly twirled the stem in my fingers, getting a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree look at the flower.

Blake was going to be so pissed when he found his naked plants. He’d studied orchids like he was going for a master’s degree, and coddled them, coaxing the temperamental things to blossom. All to end up in a vase on the kitchen table.

Oops. My bad.

Since we were getting a divorce it only seemed fair we shared them fifty-fifty. Florida was a community-property state. After eighteen years of contributing my fair share to our egalitarian marriage, I wanted my half.

He’d get the plant. I’d get the flower.

Fifty-fifty.

I’d downed seven of the twelve doughnuts by ten-thirty and was so disgusted with myself I decided I had to get out of the house before I died an unnatural death.

Death by beignet. Or murder by irate, flower-worshipping, estranged husband.

The thought made me shudder, or perhaps the thought of venturing out into the world?

I pushed the doughnut box out of my reach. It wasn’t as if the paparazzi were camped on my doorstep. The sensible side of me knew the story of Blake’s arrest had faded from the minds of most people in central Florida.

Old news.

But in my world of neighbors, colleagues and husband-and-wife acquaintances the story lived on. Suddenly my world seemed like the whole world; as if everyone knew.

I couldn’t go to work.

I couldn’t even walk out onto my driveway.

Good thing the car was in the garage.

After a few moments’ contemplation, I decided to seek refuge with an old friend. A dear friend I’d neglected for a long, long time—my painting studio at the Orlando Center for the Arts.

I would go there and paint…orchids.

Because if I didn’t get out of the house, I was afraid I might lock the doors and never find the strength to venture outside again.

I waited until I was sure most of the neighbors were gone before I grabbed the vase and drove to the studio.

Far better than staying home and eating until I couldn’t fit through the door, or making myself crazy thinking about how I’d rearrange the furniture to make it appear as if nothing were missing once Blake took his fifty percent.

The only way to keep myself from dwelling on the ne’er-do-well was to focus on me. I’d neglected my interests—such as painting, and fresh flowers, and eating entire boxes of doughnuts—far too long.

I read in the Georgia O’Keeffe bio that she used to leave her husband, Alfred Stieglitz, for months on end to go paint in a place she called “Faraway.”

It was only New Mexico, actually. I’m sure “Faraway” sounded much more romantic than “Alfred, honey, you’re getting on my last nerve. I’m leaving now so I can refill my well. You’ll have to get your own dinner, and pick up your own dry cleaning.”

I know, I know, they probably didn’t have dry cleaning back in those days and if they did, I’m sure a woman who had the gumption to go “Faraway” probably wouldn’t have picked it up anyway.

My point being she took time to nurture herself, to foster her creative spirit. And Stieglitz was waiting for her when she decided to come home.

Paris would’ve been my “Faraway.” Once upon a dream, I wanted to study art there, but life’s obligations preempted those dreams. The big problem was that it was always so far away, and as a wife and mother, I had too much responsibility. Blake hated the French and had no desire to go to Paris. Not even for me.

After stops at Sam Flax for new art supplies (it had been so long since I’d purchased anything there, there was no chance anyone would recognize me) and Panera Bread for nourishment (frequent purchases there, but they didn’t know I was married to Blake), I pulled into a parking space at the Orlando Center for the Arts. I sat in the car for a few minutes with the engine running and the air-conditioning blowing cold air on my face.

OCA sat at the crest of a hill sloping down to a beautiful lake. The compound was actually a series of old buildings united by lush gardens and courtyards. Fantasy architecture, I’d heard it called once, with Mayan/Aztec motifs gracing the aged concrete walls and bejeweled stepping-stones and fountains scattered liberally throughout the grounds. Red clay tile roofs graced buildings with worn cream stucco walls dating back to the early 1900s.

A magical place that always made me feel artsy and organic. As if anything were possible.

I picked up the maroon lady’s slipper again and turned it around and around, trying to decide the angle I’d paint, but my heart felt so heavy I didn’t know if I’d be able to drag myself out of the car so I could get to my paints.

Okay, Anna, you’re starting over, who are you going to be now?

Good question.

I’d been daughter, sister, wife, mother. More successful at some roles than others.

What next?

In the rearview mirror I spied a smirking Mayan tribal mask etched into the garden wall behind my car.

“What are you looking at?” I murmured.

I could almost hear it answer, He’s gay. Is that what you want for yourself? Are you really willing to settle for a man who doesn’t love you?

My first thought was, Yes, I just want my life back. The scorned woman in me sounded a hearty, Absolutely not.

Feeling shaky, angry and vulnerable all at once, I stuck the orchid behind my ear, killed the engine and hauled myself and the vase of flowers out of the cool sanctuary of the car into the oppressive heat.

It was only March, for God’s sake. It was never this hot in March.

In Florida, the relentless, lingering dog days of August were bad enough, but it was brutal punishment when the heat came early.

The weatherman said better days were on the way.

Yeah, promises, promises.

Until then, all the more reason to hole up in my studio with my big fat bag of comfort from Panera Bread—broccoli cheese soup, Caesar salad and a raspberry Danish—God knows I wasn’t hungry, but I would be later. This way I wouldn’t have to go out and get dinner.

I could stay there…indefinitely.

Or until I got hungry again.

Since I was still so full I’d probably never eat again. I was banking on a long stay.

I nudged the car door shut with my rump and adjusted my grip on the Panera sack, careful not to smash the Danish. The paper bag crinkled in my hands, and I had a brief second of panic when I realized pastry had been the sexiest thing going on in my life for a long time.

As quickly as the panic flashed, it dissipated. It was okay to turn to comfort food—

Comfort food and oil paints. The combination made an unlikely elixir, but what the hell?

The baked asphalt radiated heat like the basalt rocks they used in hot-stone massages. A brown lizard dashed across the pavement, heading for the grass, and I nearly tripped over myself to keep from stepping on it—or letting it scurry over my foot.

Logically, I knew they were harmless, but I had a lizard phobia. When I was a kid, one ran up my pant leg once at a picnic, and I did an embarrassing striptease trying to get it off me. I was traumatized. Ever since, they’ve made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and I always end up nearly hurting myself trying to steer clear of them.

Classic case of once bitten, twice shy.

When I was in college, I studied phobias in a psychology class and learned they’re usually traced back to an event that caused the fear, and when you’re faced with similar circumstances, the fear and panic return.

My professor likened phobias to monsters we manufactured in our minds. Since there are no limits to our imagination, the only way we can dismantle the monsters is by facing them, by reaching out and touching them.

Beads of sweat broke free and pooled in my cleavage, teased by the hint of a breeze blowing in from the lake on the other side of the grounds.

There was no way in hell I was going to reach out and touch a lizard. In fact, the hot weather and the creepy-crawlies made me wonder why I lived here when there were so many other places I could go to avoid them—and Blake.

Ben was at college in Montana. I was free to go, if I wanted to. Just as the orchids cut free from the plant traveled to my studio where I could paint them.

The thought floored me. Did being free equal being unwanted? Cut free to wither and die just like the orchids?

I swiped at the moisture welling in my eyes— “Damn humidity”—and stepped into the grassy courtyard that hosted my studio. I tried to unlock the door, but the key stuck in the lock. I had to set down the bag and flowers so I could jiggle the knob.

It was mad at me for staying away for so long.

Fair-weather friend returning only after exhausting all other options.

After a little coaxing, the door opened with a squeak and I stepped into the shoebox of a room.

The shutters were drawn over the wall of windows and despite the darkness, the space was hot and dank. When I flipped on the light, it bounced off the white stucco walls.

A wooden easel stood bare in the corner below a cluster of cobwebs; a stack of forgotten blank canvases lined the wall; an empty coffee can for brush cleaner and a paint-splattered palette lay on the table, right where I’d left them the last time I was here—a good three months ago.

The first thing I needed to do was get some natural light into the room. I sidestepped a dead palmetto bug and screamed when I inadvertently dislodged a lizard carcass as I threw open the shutters. I couldn’t even kick it into the corner.

The windows looked out into an adjacent courtyard. A large live oak shaded a blue mosaic fountain surrounded by an overgrowth of purple foxgloves, red, white and pink impatiens, hibiscus and azaleas.

It took me back to the day Blake brought me here the first time, when he leased the studio for me. Art was where we connected. When all else failed in our relationship—when we went months without touching—I’d return to his support of the creative me.

It was hard not to slip into doubt. Since he was not who he pretended to be, did that mean everything else he upheld was a lie, too?

How he said I was talented; that he loved me and wanted a family.

I mean, what was love? It wasn’t quantifiable. You couldn’t measure it by any means other than faith and feeling.

When we met he was a good man with a promising future as an architect. He treated me well, if not passionately.

There’s more to life than passion. Passion was the flame that burned so furiously it burnt out and left you wanting.

I always believed a good marriage was born of the slow, steady rhythm of a man and woman, developed after passion flared and faltered.

Now I don’t know what to believe.

We got married and four months later Ben was born.

I loved Blake. I wouldn’t have married him if I thought he hadn’t loved me.

I stood at my studio window staring at the courtyard, waiting for the pretty view to permeate me and work its magic the way it did that first day, but all I felt was empty. And hot.

Good God, it was sweltering in here.

I reached over and turned on the air-conditioning unit that stuck out of the top of the last set of windows like a boxy appendage. It chugged to life, shaking and rattling as if it would burn itself out before it cooled down the place.

Hmmph. Passion.

It took three trips from my car to the studio to schlepp in all of the supplies I’d picked up at Sam Flax—new paints and brushes, a large bottle of gesso and twenty more stretched canvases of varying sizes—I’d forgotten about the extras in the studio.

Finally, I shut the door on the outside world, determined to rediscover the joy of my studio and the painting process.

I started painting again after our son, Ben, began junior high school. I set up an easel on the screened-in back porch, but I couldn’t leave my paintings out there since it was too damp. I used to talk about how great it would be to have a real space of my own; a spot where I could leave all my supplies and canvases—a real artist’s studio.

The spot at OCA was a reward for sticking it out in a marketing job I detested. Since Blake had broken away from Hartman and Eagle, the architectural firm he’d been with for fifteen years, to start his own business, we relied on my company-funded benefits.

The studio was a compromise. Blake got to be his own boss. I got four walls to call my own. But I didn’t have time for it, really. Working full-time, cooking and cleaning, raising a child and washing Blake’s dirty underwear didn’t leave much time or energy for creativity.

I’d bet over the five years I’d leased the studio, the cumulative amount of time I spent there barely averaged a once-a-month visit; that was more often than we had sex. Every once in a while Blake would get on my case about not using it and threaten to cancel the lease, which would force me to drag myself in there to create. So, coming here today, I decided that until I discovered my own style, I would paint flowers of all shapes and sizes, in the tradition of Georgia O’Keeffe; fragile Lady’s Slipper orchids; big fat roses; vibrant sunflowers.

I set a large canvas on the easel and positioned the maroon orchid on a paper towel.

This would be therapeutic. I could mix the paint to any shade I desired; place it anywhere on the canvas I wanted. I could wash it on in thin, translucent wisps or glob it on in thick, heavy layers.

I set out the new tubes of oil paint I’d purchased, and one by one squeezed a dab of each on my old crusty palette.

If I wanted to paint roses blue, I could. If I wanted to render sunflowers purple—no problem. I might even paint this pretty orchid black to match my mood.

It was my choice.

Paint complied. It would stay true to whatever image I created. It wouldn’t start out as one thing and transform itself into something totally foreign.

Unless I wanted it to.

I picked up the paintbrush, regarded the blank canvas and made a split-second decision not to paint the orchid. Nope. On my canvas, I would honor the traditional. I touched my brush to the glob of alizarin crimson.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

My husband is gay.

Shit.

Who knew?

The brush fell from my hand, pinged and clattered on the rough concrete floor. I pressed my shaking fingers to my temples.

Who knew?

Everyone in the world but me?

The small room started spinning, and I edged backward until my butt hit the wall. My knees gave way and I slid down until I half crouched, half sat.

I had no idea what came over me, but suddenly I knew exactly what to do to that canvas.

By the time Rita knocked on my studio door at seven o’clock that evening, I’d painted three canvases. Two florals and what you might call a Picasso-inspired portrait of Blake, though I’ve never been much of a Picasso fan. Rita likes him, but I’ve always thought of him as a creepy misogynist.

Appropriate inspiration for Blake’s portrait.

I painted him with two heads (one male, one female), Medusa-like orchid blooms for hair and a spear driven through his chest. I’d used washes of blues and blacks with a spattering of bloodred applied with a palette knife for emphasis.

“This one’s a little scary.” My sister held up the canvas of Blake. “If he turns up dead, you’d better destroy this or they’ll have all the evidence they need to hang you for the crime.”

I shrugged, not in a jovial mood.

“What’s Fred doing tonight?” I wiped excess paint off my brush with a paper towel, then walked to the sink to wash the residual from the bristles.

Rita and Fred had such a good marriage, after twenty-five years they were even starting to look like each other. Sometimes—especially after the hell I’d just been through—I wondered if my sister hadn’t snagged the last decent man alive.

“He’s at the all-night driving range, getting his golf fix. Where did those come from?” She pointed at the vase of orchid blossoms.

“From Blake’s greenhouse.”

Her blue eyes flew open wide. “Oh. My. God. If you leave right now, you might be able to outrun him. Let me rephrase what I said earlier. He’s going to be the one hung for murder because he’s going to kill you when he sees what you’ve done.”

I smoothed the bristles back into shape and put the brushes in a jar to dry. “I know. I feel kind of bad about it. I didn’t realize how pretty they were. Do you think he’ll notice if I superglue them back on?”

Rita burst out laughing. “He’s going to flip.”

She walked over and picked up a painting of a huge sunflower I’d leaned against the wall. “This is nice. Sort of Van Gogh–esque.” She set it down and stepped back to view it, tilting her head from one side to the other.

“I wasn’t really going for nice when I painted it.”

My sister ignored me. “May I take it with me to show a client who lives in Bay Hill? The colors are perfect for her family room.”

Rita was an interior designer and some of the houses she decorated cost more than I hoped to make in a lifetime.

“You know,” she said, “we really should make some slides of your work. I could probably sell them for you. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner. Are you coming here after work tomorrow?”

“I’m not working tomorrow.” I picked up one of the brushes I’d just cleaned, dipped it in paint and drew a thick sienna line about a third of the way down the canvas.

“You’re not?”

I shook my head. “I’m taking two weeks’ vacation. I called human resources this afternoon and squared away my leave. They didn’t even ask if I’d cleared it with my boss, Jackie.”

I stole a glance at my sister, who’d crossed her thin arms over her tiny middle. She nodded.

“It’s probably a good idea for you to take some time off. If you have the time, you should use it. What are you going to do? Do you want to go away somewhere?”

I shook my head and wiped my hands on a rag. “Nope. I’m going to paint.”

Rita’s eyes widened. “That’s great. That’s exactly what you should do.”

What she didn’t say was, It will be good for you to pour all your anguish into something creative.

“Plus, it will give us plenty of time to photograph your work. So, can I take the sunflower with me, Van Gogh?”

“Sure.”

I watched my sister walk over and carefully pick up the painting and study it again.

Was it this kind of anguish that caused Van Gogh to cut off his ear?

What would Blake do if I sent him my bloodied ear all wrapped up nice and neat in a pretty little package? I could put an orchid on top of the box.

Nah. He wasn’t worth it.

“Is the paint still wet?” Rita asked.

“Nope. That’s the beauty of acrylics.”

I tried not to get my hopes up, but I thought if I sold a few paintings, it would help offset the cost of the studio. I wouldn’t be able to afford it when Blake and I divorced. Because I was sure once he saw how I’d sheared the blooms from his beloved orchids, he’d go for the jugular, saying I had to pay the rent on my studio because he couldn’t afford it, knowing damn good and well I couldn’t, either.

“I’ll tell you what,” Rita said. “Why don’t you spend the rest of the week painting, and I’ll come over Saturday to shoot the fruits of your labor.”

“Saturday? Don’t you have plans with Fred?”

“Fred knows I’m on standby right now.”

I rolled my eyes. Sweet of her, but I didn’t want to become her charity case. “I’m fine, Rita. Really. In fact, I’m sure I can go to Target and purchase a roll of slide film and shoot them myself. Does Target sell slide film?”

“No, Target does not sell slide film. That shows what you know. Fred already has his heart set on golfing this weekend. So you’re stuck with me.”

Tuesday Blake came over for dinner. I hadn’t seen him since we’d called Ben on Sunday, and I was a little nervous about the orchids massacre. But we needed to talk—to discuss money, who’d get what. All the things soon-to-be-divorced people talked about.

Nothing like a divorce to jump start the conversation. In fact, we had so much to talk about, I figured I could tell him I’d watered the plants and then distract him with conversation to keep him out of the greenhouse. It would work for now, and I’d make a point to be out of the house when he came to pick up the plants.

I wanted to meet in a restaurant. A nice, neutral, public place where things wouldn’t get too intense (translate: far away from the orchids).

He insisted we meet at the house. Since he’d moved out, he wanted to look at everything and start making lists.

Lists?

Okay. Right. Lists.

That wasn’t nearly as unsettling as when he said he hoped this was the first step to us becoming friends since we’d be forever connected by our son.

It just smacked of an HBO movie: My Best Friend Is My Gay Ex-Husband.

The absurdity really hit me as we sat in the dining room at our usual opposite ends of the long mahogany table. The dinnertime arrangement seemed natural when Ben was at home filling the empty space in the middle. We’d grown so accustomed to our places, when Ben left for college six months earlier, it never occurred to us to change.

To move closer.

Blake was his usual nontalkative self, but it was bizarre sitting there as we had countless times over the years, eating my homemade potato-leek soup, the ominous strains of Wagner filling the silence.

He looked so indifferent sitting there as if he belonged at my table. Sitting there in a clumsy, conversation-free standoff, I thought, This is the man I married, the father of my child, but I might as well have been staring at a stranger. Had he suffered at least a modicum of embarrassment or regret over the scandal? Had he lost clients? Was the thrill worth public humiliation and losing his family?

I was so nonplussed by his nonchalance that I meant to take a bite of soup, but instead the words “How long have you known you’re gay?” rolled from my mouth like a piece of errant chewing gum.

“Annabelle.” His tone was reprimanding, a blend of shock and annoyance, but he looked at me for the first time that evening, his soupspoon poised in midair.

The look on his face made me crazy.

“What? Does the word gay offend you? Do you prefer homosexual or another more veiled term? Tell me, Blake, because I’d like to know something before the rest of metro Orlando finds out.”

His eyes flashed and he glared at me for the span of one deep sigh, before lowering his spoon. “I suppose I’ve known for quite some time.”

The unflinching touché of words knocked the breath out of me. Reality slammed down between us like a thick sheet of ice. All I could do was stare at him through the surreal haze until he averted his gaze and resumed eating.

Hello? How could he eat at a time like this?

“If you’ve known for quite some time, why didn’t you clue me in?”

He didn’t answer me, but continued spooning soup into his expressionless face. I pushed away my bowl, and the creamy contents splashed over the rim. “All along I wrote it off that you were simply a man who was in touch with his feminine side. But you know, now that I think about it, it might as well have been written in big, bold script across the bedroom wall. How could I have not known?”

He shrugged and hunched over his bowl a little more, tuning me out. I had questions, and he was going to answer them. So I raised my voice.

“Living with you all these years, what did that make me, Blake? An idiot? Your beard? A fag hag?” Somewhere through the icy miasma of my anger I saw him set down his spoon.

He cleared his throat. “I thought we could discuss this like rational adults, but apparently we can’t.” He dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “I’ll have my attorney contact yours. But in the meantime, I thought you should know so you can start making plans. We’re going to have to sell the house or you’ll have to buy me out.”

“Talk to my attorney.” Don’t have one yet. “I don’t want to move and I shouldn’t have to buy you out, either. My standard of living should not change because your lifestyle did.”

His chair didn’t make a sound as he pushed away from the table and stood. He hesitated for a moment. I saw his throat work in a swallow as his long, manicured fingers worried a button on his shirt. I fully expected him to say something. Instead, he turned and walked out.

A dull ache spread through me as I watched the tall, slim man I’d tried so desperately to make love me disappear into the other room.

A few minutes later or maybe it was a few hours later—who knows how long I sat there contemplating the ruins of our life—I heard the back door slam open.

“What the hell happened to my orchids?”