“Are you two going out together this weekend?” Susan piped in.
I felt embarrassed for no reason. “He called a couple of days ago to ask me out tomorrow night.”
“Sounds serious,” Erika said. I could remember her using those words every time I went out on a second or third date. Then again, maybe this time she was right.
“I’m just getting to know him,” I said. “But he is nice. And he’s cute.”
“He’s more than cute,” Susan said, sounding peeved. Her dog tugged on the leash as a Russian wolfhound paced by, but Susan held her ground. “He’s a gorgeous hunk. And he’s never been married, so there’s no nasty ex-wife lurking in the shadows.” Of course I, myself, was an ex-wife, but I took no offense.
“Better grab this one, Marguerite,” Erika said. “Sounds like a real catch.”
“On the other hand, don’t rush into anything,” Laurie advised in a big-sisterly tone as she maneuvered her way between Erika and me. “I still picture you with someone extraordinary. A man of mystery.”
“I’ve had enough uncertainty to last me a lifetime.” I picked up the speed. “A boring old banker sounds pretty good right now.”
“One more piece of advice.” Susan’s hand landed on my forearm to slow me down. “Remember, no man is perfect.”
“You can say that again,” Laurie said, and we all laughed.
Determined to get out of the spotlight, I asked Susan how her son Brandon was doing with his classes. For the next forty minutes, we shared stories and bragged about our college students.
I knew it was ridiculous, but I almost choked with loneliness each time I spoke Rob’s name. How I missed him. Just any young man to the rest of the world, he would always be my boy, the one out of millions who filled me with delight.
I pulled my mail out of the slot next to the front door to find an invitation to Candy Hooper’s opening night for her newest show of paintings. On the bottom of the postcard, Candy had written, “Marguerite, please come,” in bold script. There was no way for me to squirm out of going.
One of Candy’s abstract paintings adorned the front of the card. I rotated it several times trying to figure out which end was the top, but couldn’t tell. She’d veered away from the traditional into a world of what looked to be unrecognizable garishly tinted shapes and blobs. But her large-scale paintings were attractive enough to end up in attorneys’ offices and hotel lobbies. Nice enough to land her one-artist shows at the top galleries.
For the most part, she and I had gotten along like sisters. There had been only a few tense moments during our long friendship. The worst was in our freshman year of college when I set my eyes on Phil, with whom Candy had a nonreciprocal crush. In the end she agreed Phil and I were a better match and insisted girlfriends were more important than men. “I’ve prayed about it,” Candy had said. “Now it’s time to let it go.” I often wished I had lost that battle and seen those two get hitched instead. But then I wouldn’t have had Rob. I couldn’t win.
As I brought the postcard and other pieces of mail into the kitchen, I remembered the time spent with her at our church high-school youth group, something we rarely spoke of anymore. Candy had quit asking me about my faith and about my painting years ago, but she still seemed interested in my work life and always asked about Rob. We got together every other month or so, usually at her invitation. She had a husband and three kids, but had barely skipped a beat in her career as an artist. Her home was often in disarray, with piles of unfolded laundry on the couch and dirty dishes in the sink that seemed to go unnoticed by the happy household. I usually insisted we meet somewhere else, away from the mess. Away from the painting.
When I promised at our last luncheon to attend Candy’s opening, she’d mentioned she was experimenting with a new technique and wanted my opinion. What for? I had no clue what was hot in the art world anymore or what the public might fancy.
As I affixed the postcard to the refrigerator with a magnet, I decided I would pop into the gallery and cruise around the room at light speed. Then, blaming my departure on an early morning meeting, I would come right home.
I’d forgotten how Pioneer Square percolated with activity on Thursday nights. I drove past the gallery and around the block twice looking for a parking space. I finally paid too much money to park at a crowded lot and walked several blocks. Inside the gallery intense lights bounced off high white walls and a frenzied jazz tape played in the background. I scanned the long room and saw only a few people gazing at the paintings.
Then I heard my name being called and saw Candy clapping across the room atop sandals with two-inch soles. She hugged me and kissed the air next to my cheek.
“You made it. I’m glad you’re early,” she said. Long-legged Candy looked as skinny as ever, and her midback-length hair lay parted down the middle exactly as it had twenty years ago. Only cobwebs of fine lines around her eyes divulged her age.
“Come tell me what you think of this new one before too many people come in. Then all I’ll want is unrealistic praise.”
She led me to the middle of the nearest wall and spun around so the tails of her tunic swung out. “It’s quite different from the landscapes I’ve been doing. See, I added more texture and scrubbed some of the color out.” She watched my eyes for a reaction.
“I like it,” I said, stepping back a few feet to see the large
