“Marguerite, you made it.” Henry appeared next to me. He’d caught me trying to vamoose without saying hello first. “How long have you been here?”
“Not long.” It would be impolite for me to leave now. “This is quite a party. It’s a little warm in here though.”
“I was just coming to open the door.” He pushed the door open, and a glorious burst of cool air gushed in. He helped remove my jacket and hung it in the closet. “Did you get something to eat?”
“Not yet.”
He guided me back to the hors d’oeuvres. I stood at his side while he said “Good evening” and “How are you?” to several acquaintances.
The young blonde appeared, and without hesitation he kissed her lightly freckled cheek.
“See ya, Daddy,” she said, then kissed him back.
“Marguerite, this is my daughter Terry.” Terry’s complexion was fairer than her father’s, but I detected a strong similarity around the expressive eyes and the bridge of her regal nose. I shook her hand and said, “Nice to meet you.”
Rhonda strode over, her hips swinging. “And you know Rhonda, from class,” he said, putting his other arm around her shoulder.
Rhonda looked even more attractive than she did on class nights. Her emerald green dress, cut low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage, mirrored her vivacious eyes. And she looked awfully alluring when directing her gaze in Henry’s direction.
“Rhonda’s Terry’s best friend,” he said. “She’s practically another daughter.” He mussed her strawberry blonde hair, and she stepped out of his reach and patted it back in place.
Moments later, after the two young women had departed, Henry said, “Marguerite, I’d like you to meet some good friends.”
I shook hands with a stylish couple, the Tangs, who’d recently purchased one of Henry’s pieces. They seemed to assume I was either an artist or a collector. Rather than describe me as his student, Henry simply gave my name and nothing more.
The Tangs started talking about celebrities and events in the art world I’d never heard of. When Henry joined in, he played the devil’s advocate, asking if society should feed the arts while people were starving. This question sparked a round of lively debate. With my girlfriends, I never had to verbally tread water to keep from sinking like an uneducated rock. But it was fun to at least appear to be a part of this conversation. I nodded knowingly, as if fully aware of everything being discussed.
When the Tangs said they must get their babysitter home, they told me they hoped we would meet again. “I’d enjoy that,” I said, although I knew it was unlikely.
The room thinned out, and the upbeat jazz changed to a leisurely saxophone solo, which sounded soothing and peaceful.
“Want to dance?” Phil said, and I noticed him swaying next to me.
I folded my arms across my chest like a coat of armor. “No, thank you, I don’t.”
“Come on, you used to love to dance. And you were always the prettiest girl on the floor.” He moved closer, and I backed away, into Henry, who I didn’t realize was standing on the other side of me.
“What’s going on over here?” he asked.
“I was just reminiscing with Margo,” Phil said. “She’s still as pretty as she was twenty years ago. Hank, you should do a painting of her.” He stared into my eyes with far too much familiarity. “Hank does portraits, when he finds a face he can’t resist.”
“I’m sure he has plenty of models to choose from,” I said, shooting Phil the evil eye and wishing that for once it would drop him to his knees.
“I’ve already considered painting her,” Henry said, sounding somewhat sincere.
Before I could respond, we were interrupted by a woman’s deep vibrato. “Henry, my dear man, we haven’t talked all evening.” A tall, large-framed woman with shiny dark hair slicked back into a bun steered Henry toward a corner.
“That’s Mrs. Mitchell R. Lamont,” Phil told me. “Seattle’s favorite patroness of the arts. She puts her husband’s timber money to good use. I’d love to get to know her better myself.”
I knew Phil wasn’t the type to grovel at anyone’s feet. “Once she sees your sculptures, she’ll be calling you.”
“Thanks. Say, I’m heading out. You staying?”
I glanced at Henry. Mrs. Lamont, her red lips fluttering only inches from his face, looked like a vampire ready to draw blood.
“No, I was about to go myself,” I said. At that moment Henry glanced our way, and I waved at him. He made a move in our direction, but Mrs. Lamont latched onto his arm and kept talking.
Phil insisted on escorting me to my car. “I’ll be fine,” I said, heading briskly down the stairs to the sidewalk.
He caught up with me. “Come on, let me be a gentleman for once.”
The sky was black, the street deserted. The smell of damp pavement blended with diesel exhaust and trace smoke from someone’s chimney. Neither of us said another word. I listened to the scuffling sound of our shoes, heard a distant siren, a dog barking. When we reached my car, I unlocked the door, then turned to say good-bye.
Phil stood right behind me. “Good to see you, Margo,” he said, bringing his face closer and gazing into my eyes. “I’m glad we can be friends.”
Then, without warning, he hugged me.
After the party I went straight to bed, but I couldn’t find rest. In my mind’s eye, I could see Phil’s face. No doubt about it, he’d grown better looking with age. Had his newfound success or his recent sobriety made him more attractive? Or was it the fact that a knockout like Darla found him delectable? I hated to think I’d let her influence me.
My focus shifted to Henry. In the stillness I remembered his saying he’d considered painting my portrait. Was he serious or just having fun with Phil, who loved a joke? Disappointment, followed by anger, jumbled through my head, causing a pinging
