Neither of us spoke for several minutes. Finally, the quiet became oppressive, and I said, “I’ve enjoyed your class.” But I hadn’t, of course. I’d always felt too self-conscious to have fun.
“I’m glad.”
“Except, I think I’ve forgotten how to draw,” I added, hoping he would contradict me.
“I doubt that.” He sipped his coffee.
Why was I nervous? There was no reason to feel ill at ease, just because he was some big-shot painter. I returned my gaze to the window to watch a seaplane landing.
“Does this view distract you from your work?” I asked, determined to get a conversation going.
“Yes, I could spend hours sitting here. In the morning I stand with my back to it. In the afternoon I often pull down the shade to cool the temperature and tones. Luckily, I also have that nice north window, which is a godsend. It gives the best light.” Looking at me again, he said, “Now tell me about your work.”
Was he asking about my real job? I didn’t have any artwork to talk about. “As Phil may have told you, I graduated from college with an art degree,” I started, “but that’s as far as I got. I guess I needed a nasty old professor giving me assignments and cracking the whip.” I slapped one palm over my mouth. “That didn’t come out right. I mean, I’m lazy—or something.”
“Your drawings in class are quite good.”
These were the words I’d been craving—if I’d heard right. “Thank you,” I said, wanting to ask if he really meant it.
His eyes grew intense as he studied my face. “Phil said you used to paint. What’s stopping you now?”
I shrugged as though I hadn’t given it much thought. “The usual. My job eats up most of my time.” My words stumbled over each other, and I could feel my face warming. “I don’t have a place to paint either. I mean, not a studio like this.” I knew I sounded like an idiot. But why should I have to defend myself?
Glancing out the window, I saw a sailboat tacking into the south wind. Then, like a flash of lightning in a calm sky, a crazy notion gripped me. I was sitting close enough to him to touch his hand. I speculated about what would happen if I reached out and took it. Yes, it was a ridiculous idea, something I would never actually do, but I could almost feel the warmth of his skin. I turned my head to find him watching me as though I’d just said something captivating. He couldn’t possibly know what I was thinking, I assured myself, but I felt trapped in what seemed like an endless moment.
The front door creaked, and I tore myself out of Henry’s visual grasp as Emily and Roger from class entered the studio.
“Hello, hello,” Emily called, curving the words into a melody. Roger followed, clad in a suit and a striped tie.
Henry and I got to our feet. “Welcome,” he said. “Watch where you step.”
“What a lovely work space,” Emily said.
“It doesn’t look anything like my office,” Roger said, good-naturedly. I recalled his mentioning he sold advertising and worked downtown.
Henry laughed. “I imagine that’s true.”
“This one is marvelous,” Emily said, pointing to a canvas sitting on the floor, propped against the wall.
“It sure is,” Roger said. “Is it finished?”
“That’s still up for debate.” Henry placed the canvas on an easel. The painting portrayed an auburn-haired woman playing a flute. Her eyes half-closed, she seemed in reverie, as if mesmerized by the tune. On closer inspection, I saw she was standing before a lead-paned window, each square of glass mirroring an ivied garden.
“All my endeavors are in some state of transition,” Henry said. “With each one I have to force myself to stop, then start another.”
As we observed his other works, I chided myself for imagining sharing an intimate moment with him. No need to worry; I was back in the driver’s seat again.
I half-listened as he talked about a large painting sitting in the corner—a depiction of two women on a park bench, one reading and the other knitting. He explained why he’d painted the same scene three times—at morning, midday and afternoon—to study the varying shadows and hues.
Over the next five minutes, more students arrived. “Hello,” or “How are you?” Henry said to each one. Guiding them through his studio, he seemed no longer aware of my existence.
Twenty minutes later, when Roger announced he needed to leave for a one o’clock meeting, several others also said their farewells. Finally, only Emily and I remained.
As Henry closed the front door, Emily approached me. “How are you today, dear? You seem quiet.”
I felt like I was riding a unicycle and barely maintaining my balance. I was tempted to reach out to her for support, but said, “I was thinking about work. Did I mention I’m in real estate?” I handed her my business card, then wished I hadn’t. I’d sworn I wouldn’t become one of those agents who took advantage of friends, particularly sweet older women.
“I’ll bet you do a wonderful job.” She tucked the card into her purse. “Maybe you should give one to Henry, too.”
“No, I don’t think so.” Doing business with him would be excruciating for both of us.
Minutes later I was nearing the University Bridge. I heard its bells tolling, then saw its warning lights flashing, and the arms lowering to stop traffic while a boat motored through the cut. As I waited, I felt irritated and drained. I shouldn’t have come. Spending time with Henry Marsh was not what I’d needed today. Why was I speechless around him, like a teenybopper meeting a celebrity? He was just a man, like any other.
Sitting at my desk reviewing the documents I needed to give to the Averys, I glanced at Rob’s photo. Even at a young age my son had taken after his
