strange Boston, and another that had also never existed-and three more hanging in Boston’s Rose Gallery, part of a permanent display from local artists. The thing that disturbed him was that he didn’t know why they disturbed him. If it was only him that they affected that way, perhaps he could have attributed it to some feeling from those dreams that lingered in his painted representations-a subconscious fear that was given life in his strokes, blocking, and shading. But Holly didn’t like these skylines, either.
To Jenny, they were simply strange. “This one’s a bit different,” she said.
“Well… they all are.” He glanced sidelong at his wife, watched her regarding his night’s work over the rim of her coffee mug. She seemed to be hiding behind the steam, as if that would protect her from something.
“No,” she said, and then fell silent again. She was examining this painting more closely than usual, her slight frown remaining in place even as she put the mug down and picked up a pancake. She took a bite and chewed, never taking her eyes from the painting.
It’s not finished, he wanted to say. It’s just blocked out, really. There’s shading to do and the sky’s wrong. It’s dark enough, but not heavy enough; there’s no depth. But he held back, because he always found himself striving to defend his work. He had a strange relationship with his art: he was utterly confident in his abilities and talent, yet never content with a finished piece.
“I know what it is,” she said through a mouthful of pancake. “It’s more detailed. Closer.”
“Closer.” For a moment he wasn’t sure what she meant. It was still an unknown skyline-although it was Boston, he’d insist to anyone who doubted him, always Boston-this painting was more real, more there than any he had ever done. “Yeah…,” he said, then the studio door opened.
“Can I have ice cream for breakfast?” Holly asked.
“Morning, sweetie!” Jenny said, standing and sweeping their daughter into a hug.
Holly squeezed her mother tightly and smiled over her shoulder at Jim. Jim smiled back, then made a face, sticking out his tongue and waving his hands beside his head. Holly did the same back at him.
“Hey, what’re you up to?” Jenny asked, leaning back to look at her daughter. Holly giggled, and the sound warmed Jim inside. He and Holly often indulged in secretive stuff-silly faces, name calling, silent singing-and she called it their special time. Jenny knew what was going on, of course, but that didn’t matter.
“Nothing, Mom,” Holly said, giggling some more. Then she saw the remnants of breakfast and her eyes went wide. “Yay, pancakes!”
Jim snatched up the last pancake, folded it around a piece of bacon, and stuffed it into his mouth.
“Not fair!” Holly wailed.
“Jim,” Jenny said, smiling and shaking her head.
“Ony hut ons for oo,” he mumbled, and a blizzard of crumbs settled on his chest. Holly squealed with delight, and as Jim chewed the huge mouthful and raised his eyebrows at Jenny’s mock sternness, he reveled in the moment.
Jim had just hit forty. And realizing how far through life he was, he’d started to concentrate more than ever on the here and now. He’d always been an ambitious person, rushing around to make sure tomorrow brought what he most desired… and the todays were often lost with him barely noticing. In his darker moments, he would berate himself for the way he sometimes treated Jenny. She never complained, and he loved her for that, but she had always been the contented one of the partnership, able to cruise through life and appreciate the moment rather than constantly looking ahead. Jim always seemed to be somewhere else.
And then one day, one moment, walking in the woods in Breakheart Reservation up in Saugus with Jenny and seeing Holly leaping from a fallen tree into a muddy puddle, he’d had an epiphany: he was luckier than most. Beautiful wife, gorgeous child, good friends, a nice home, and a job he loved. He’d done his best to hold on to that truth ever since.
Living for the moment had become his new, unspoken motto, and he’d done his best. If Jenny had noticed a change, she hadn’t mentioned it, but for the past few months he had felt a calmness to their relationship that he hadn’t noticed before. They had never had any doubt about their love, but sometimes there was a distance around Jim that love strained to cross.
“What are you trying to say, Daddy?” Holly said through her giggles.
Jim swallowed and picked up the empty plate. “I said, only hot ones for you. Come on, honey, help me make some more pancake mix. And I see blueberries in our future.”
“Cool,” Holly said, but she had become distracted. “Where’s that?” she asked, looking at the new painting.
“Just somewhere from my dreams.”
“What’s wrong with it? It’s one of those wrong places again.”
“What do you mean, honey?”
“I don’t like it.”
“Daddy hasn’t finished it…,” Jenny began, but the girl seemed to cling tighter around her mother’s neck.
“Well, at least we don’t really have to go there.”
“No, we don’t,” Jim said. “The only place we’re headed is the kitchen. Pancakes. Blueberries.” Holly’s smile returned the instant she looked away from the painting.
“Yay!” she squealed, and it was as if the smile had never slipped.
What’s wrong with it? she’d asked.
It’s closer, he thought.
Jenny gave him a quizzical look, though she couldn’t hide her pleasure. “Hey, I don’t mind if you need to stay up here for a while,” she said.
He stood, leaned in close, and kissed Holly, still clinging around Jenny’s neck. “Nah,” he said, and he gave his wife’s behind a squeeze. “I’m done here.”
“Well then, maybe Holly can watch some TV after breakfast,” she said, turning and giving him a glance over her shoulder that made his knees weak.
Jim whistled as he gathered up the coffee mugs and plate. At the studio door he looked back at the canvas. Viewed from this angle, with morning sunlight slanting across it from the sloping skylight, the painting retained its potency. Closer, Jenny had said.
“Maybe tonight I’ll dream of somewhere else,” he said aloud. The echo of his voice was the only reply.
Holly helped him mix more pancake batter, spilling half of it across the counter and the stove, and by the time they’d cooked and eaten several blueberry pancakes each it was almost nine o’clock. It was a Saturday, and Jim’s agent, Jonathan Morris, was due around ten for coffee and a chat. Jonathan had been his agent for longer than Jim and Jenny had known each other, and he was one of their best friends. When it came to the business, he was beyond compare, and much of what Jim had achieved was due to Jonathan’s expertise when it came to corporate negotiation and contracts. But for the last year, Jonathan’s private life had been a mess, and the Saturday visits had become a regular occurrence. They were never really about business.
They cleaned up in the kitchen, then Holly cuddled on the sofa with Marv the Moose, her favorite stuffed toy, and Jenny led Jim upstairs to their master bath. They showered together, making love against the cool tiled wall. Afterward, they soaped each other down. Jim watched the soap swirl from their bodies and spiral down the drain, and he could not avoid seeing patterns and textures in the spinning bubbles. His artist’s eye rarely rested.
“Wow,” Jenny said. “You were horny.”
“Can you blame me?” he asked, rubbing soap across her breasts. Before he met Jenny he’d been an ass man, but the first time she took her bra off for him, he was converted.
“What, these old things?” she said, looking down.
“Jonathan’s going to be here soon,” Jim said.
“I feel so sorry for him, but I’m starting to think some people just aren’t meant to spend their life with one person.”
“I thought he and Philip had it made. Such a sweet guy.”
Jenny shampooed her hair and Jim massaged it in, working with his fingertips. She sighed in contentment, then opened one eye. “Did you know Philip has a huge dick?”
“Eh? No. How would I? Who told you?”
“Jonathan, of course! Not something he’d tell you, I guess.”
“Guess not.” Jim laughed as he adjusted the shower-head, then started rinsing Jenny’s hair, watching the bubbled shampoo spill across her neck and shoulders. In his art, he liked to catch movement-the flow of water, the
