Reading on for a page and a half, I resisted every suggestion. Why worry about taking the wrong path in life if there was no turning back? By my age it was just too late.
I closed the book and put on the morning news. The weatherman declared it would be blustery and wet all day, a fact I could see for myself. Then a fitness expert complained about what bad shape Americans were in. Looking down at my growing thighs, I thought about mounting my stationary bike, which stood in the corner of my bedroom, but decided to go to the kitchen for a snack instead.
My large sketchpad lay on the table. Examining my drawing of the oak tree, I stood back to view it from afar. Was it any good? Maybe, but it looked as though someone else had done it. My landscapes and still lifes had always been predictable and staid, while this composition bustled with motion and humor.
Opening my smaller notebook, I flipped to a blank page. I sat down at the table and scanned the room for a suitable subject. My gaze traveled out the window, and I saw bulbous clouds floating by like sailboats in a regatta. I picked up my pencil and began to draw. Soon my cloud shapes grew dense, grand, and alive. Consumed in creation, I was unaware thirty minutes had slid by. Finally, I paused to inspect my work, and my chest swelled with exhilaration.
I could remember taking a watercolor class in summer school at age nineteen. That July my classmates and I wandered around the almost deserted campus painting gothic buildings, trees in profuse attire, distant mountains, students sleeping on the grass. Our small group played with our paints like children. My only ambition was to satisfy myself with my art. Everything I did seemed to turn out right, even painting trees red and the sky orange, or zeroing in on a young woman reading and transposing her into a princess wearing a bejeweled crown.
In the fall, however, when I showed my bulging portfolio to my favorite teacher, Professor Jenkins, he wasn’t pleased with my carefree approach. Instead, he steered me toward his own conservative style. Adoring my mentor, I tried to imitate him. By the time I graduated from college, though capable in my craft, I’d lost the spirit of that magical summer.
I escorted the Henricks to my desk at the office and offered them chairs. As I sat down across from them, my mind scrambled for the opening lines I’d rehearsed to myself moments before.
“I have good news for you,” I said, sounding too cheerful. “The home inspector said the house is in good shape.” I dreaded going on. Sometimes a repair could tip a whole sale into never-never land. “The only serious concern is the roof.”
“How much will that cost us?” Sherry said, her words coming out like pellets from a shotgun.
“It probably won’t need to be replaced for a couple of years. But we can get someone out there to give you an estimate, if you want.”
Wayne, his suit a size too small for his chunky frame, nodded his balding head. “Absolutely. We’re not made of money.”
Sherry swiveled in her chair to face him. “Maybe this isn’t the right house, after all. Maybe we need to keep looking.”
I drew in a full tank of oxygen. “By the way,” I said, as offhandedly as I could, “someone made a higher offer on the home just hours after yours was accepted.”
Sherry seemed to grow an inch. “Does that mean they get the house?”
“No, it’s still yours, as long as we don’t start making new demands. The offer behind yours is full price.”
“Really? They’re willing to pay more, even with the roof?” Wayne asked.
“Well, they can’t have our home,” Sherry said.
A few minutes later, I walked the Henricks to the door. As they exited, Lois sailed in like she was stepping onto a runway at a fashion show. She looked flawless, as if a stylist had just given her black hair a final poof. Her understated but obviously expensive clothes matched right down to the mauve Feragamo shoes.
“Come back to my office,” she said to me as if I were her secretary. As I followed, I listened to her three-inch heels clack-clack on the wooden floor. It was hard to tell Lois’s age from looking at her. Maybe late fifties. But she wasn’t the type anyone would dare ask.
Once in her private office, she sank into her desk chair and motioned me to sit across from her.
“I met with a new client who says she’s an acquaintance of yours,” she said. “Darla Bennett.”
My scalp tightened so much my eyebrows must have raised an inch or two. “I’ve met her, once.” I intended to keep my private life just that.
Lois tossed me a look of impatience. “In any case, perhaps you could keep an eye open for a condo for her. I’ve been so inundated with new clients this week I can’t keep up.” She paused. When I didn’t respond, she said, “Darla wants a view, a hot tub, and enough room for her boyfriend. She’s planning to get married in the near future.”
“Married?”
“Yes. Apparently to someone you know.”
Strange as it may seem, I felt like a car had just knocked me off my feet. “Did she give you his name?” It had to be Phil.
“No, I didn’t think to ask.”
Her phone rang. She swung the receiver to her ear, turned away from
