Henry spoke again, snagging my thoughts back to the present. “Six months later, my wife died, and I was a single parent.” He rubbed his eyes, then dragged one hand through his hair. “At first, I was so consumed with the pain I couldn’t function. But I had to keep going. I had two young girls depending on me.” He pointed at the stop sign. “Take a right.”
He inhaled, holding his breath for several seconds before expelling it. “I didn’t pick up a paintbrush for over a year. Slow down, it’s that house with the porch light on.”
My front tire scuffed the curb as I rolled to a stop. I left the engine running and set the transmission in park. I didn’t know what to say. If we were good friends, I would have cried for him, consoled him, told him how much I ached for his unfair loss. But I hardly knew the man. And he’d given me the keep-away signal since we met. He might as well have been wearing barbed wire.
“Say, do you want to come in?” he asked, catching me off guard.
“I’d better let you get some sleep,” I said, unable to see his shadowed face clearly. “It’s pretty late.”
He opened his door a few inches. “Please, I can’t send you off into the night on that depressing note. Come on.”
“Okay, just for a minute.” I followed him up cement steps, then wooden ones, to a porch. He opened the door, then flicked on the inside lights with one sweep of his hand.
Slipping into the kitchen, he said, “Want something to drink? I’m going to make some herbal tea, but there’s pop and apple cider too.”
“No, thanks, I’m fine.” For several minutes I surveyed the light-taupe walls and sleek, modern furniture in textured eggshell whites and beiges. On the walls hung a collection of paintings and drawings, none done by Henry’s hand. Native American and Asian sculptures stood on pedestals and custom-built shelves. It was nothing like my home or any other I’d seen before.
I situated myself on an armchair. “Is it always this neat?” I said. It sure didn’t look like the typical man’s home.
He sputtered into laughter as he entered the room carrying a tray with two earthenware mugs and a rustic handmade teapot. “One person doesn’t make much of a mess.” He set the tray on the coffee table. “I made a full pot of tea in case you change your mind.”
He relaxed onto the couch and stretched out one arm. He looked at ease, the master of his domain. “Sorry I got going on that morbid subject in the car,” he said. “My point is that I did go on with my life. My two girls needed a sane, functioning father. For a while I drowned in my own self-pity. But eventually, in spite of myself, I began to experience small glimpses of joy. Finally, I started painting again. This time, though, I had something important to say.”
He poured tea and handed me a mug. “Candy’s work is pleasant enough, but when I look at a piece of art I want to learn something new—either about its creator or about life.” He paused to sip his steamy drink. Then, looking into my eyes, he said, “You strike me as a person who has a story to share.”
“Me? I’ve barely said two words to you since we’ve met.”
“Sometimes those who speak the least have the most to say.”
Despite his transparency while describing his wife’s death, I had no intention of revealing my idiosyncrasies to him. I’d already said too much. I swigged a quick mouthful of tea, tasting a blend of orange and cinnamon.
“I’d better get home,” I said, standing.
He got to his feet and made it to the door ahead of me. His hand resting on the doorknob, he turned to speak. “If you’re free Saturday evening, come by my studio anytime after seven. I’m having a get-together. I mentioned it before class the other night, but I don’t remember if you were there.”
“I must not have been. But I can’t come, I have a date that night.” In truth, Tim and I had plans for Friday, not Saturday.
“You’re both welcome.”
I couldn’t see Tim shooting the breeze with a bunch of artist types. I was glad he wasn’t part of that frivolous world; that was one of the reasons I liked him.
“I’m not sure he’s interested in art,” I said. “He’s a banker.”
“Plenty of people will be there who aren’t artists. I invited several gallery owners and those sorts, but I also know businessmen.” The corners of his mouth quirked up as he opened the door. “A banker or two would round things out.”
Tim arrived exactly on time. My attempts to switch our date to Saturday hadn’t worked. “I’m going over to help my folks,” he’d said on the phone earlier. “You’re welcome to join us for dinner.” I wasn’t ready to meet his parents, although I felt flattered by the invitation. I couldn’t remember the last time a man had welcomed me into his inner sanctum.
As Tim spread open the entertainment section of the paper, then recited the
