“Enough about me,” I said, pivoting in my seat to read Laurie’s reaction to my question. “How’s your golf swing?”
Her face remained unchanged. “That’s all over. I might even switch golf lesson days. That man means nothing to me.” She took a hard left, forcing my shoulder against the car door.
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said, not completely buying her explanation. Laurie often acted giddy, but she seemed different tonight. Her voice sounded tinny, and her speech scattered.
“You can quit worrying, okay? You’re worse than my mother. I moved two thousand miles to get away from her meddling.” She glanced at me as she slowed for a red light. “That guy still might come in handy. He’s an investment counselor who could give me free advice. It’s time I started my own stock portfolio.” The light turned green, and she zoomed forward, almost grazing the pedestrian who was leaving the crosswalk. “Our broker acts like I don’t even exist. If I answer the phone when he calls, he automatically asks for Dave without even saying hello to me first.”
I watched her lips move as she muttered under her breath at the driver in front of us, a tiny woman whose head barely cleared the steering wheel. A moment later, Laurie passed the woman by crossing a double-yellow centerline.
I clung to the armrest. “There are lots of investment brokers out there. You should find someone else.”
She sailed through the tail end of an amber light. “Thank you, Mother.” When had she become such an aggressive driver?
Arriving at class, I spied Henry standing at the far side of the room talking to several students. In spite of my determination to remain indifferent toward him until I made sense of things, I found being in the same room with him maddening, yet delicious. I looked away and tried to concentrate on opening my sketchpad and checking my pencil tip.
Minutes later I watched him arrange fruit in a flattish wicker basket, then demonstrate a drawing technique, but I heard little of what he said. He really did have a beautiful face, its expressive lines carved out of experience, heartbreak, and intelligence. I wondered if he’d noticed me yet. When he glanced around the room, his gaze drifted by me without stopping.
I heard the movement of paper and realized everyone else was starting a drawing assignment.
“What did he want us to do?” I asked Laurie.
She tilted her head toward the arrangement. “We’re supposed to use gradational shading to make the basket look solid.”
I positioned my pencil on the page, but worked with only half my concentration on my drawing. The other half kept Henry in sight so I wouldn’t be startled if he approached.
He never wandered over.
He left the room at the beginning of the break. Waiting for his return, I lingered by the coffee thermos and spoke to every person who poured a cup. When Henry did show up, he avoided looking at me.
By the end of class, it finally hit me. My esteemed professor was snubbing me again. This was worse than high school.
As the class broke up, and students started packing their materials, I dallied. While rearranging my pencils, I chatted with Emily until I saw Henry standing alone gathering up the basket.
Refusing to be treated like a nonentity, I boldly walked over wearing a phony expression of confidence. “Good evening,” I said, forcing buoyancy into my voice.
His eyes looked worried, almost frightened. “I’d like to speak to you, but not here. May I call you at home?”
“Sure.” A lemon rolled out of the basket and landed near my foot. I bent down to grab it, then dropped it back in. “Give me a ring.”
When I returned to my desk, Laurie wiggled her eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “What were you two talking about?” she said.
I was so flustered I could barely get the words out. “I asked him which kind of eraser he recommends.”
If only I could find something to erase all memory of him from my mind.
I’m too old for this, I told myself in the seclusion of my kitchen. Kicking off my shoes and tossing my purse on a chair, I wanted to scream. I refused to let Henry dictate my mood. I must be in the grasp of PMS or premenopausal craziness. Or maybe I was suffering from depression again. I hoped not. I couldn’t face seeing a shrink—rehashing my divorce and how I messed up as a parent.
Telling myself I would be perfectly fine, I started up the stairs. But by the time I reached the bedroom, I felt myself slipping into a dark pit. Desperate to divert my thoughts, I spent extra time brushing and flossing my teeth. I considered getting them bleached. That might knock a few years off my looks. If I looked better, I would feel better.
I arranged my pillows, got into bed, opened my book, and pretended there was nowhere else I would rather be. I began the next chapter, entitled “Building Your Dream House.” The writer described the foundation blocks on which exciting new lives were erected: childhood dreams, the things one had always wanted to try but hadn’t because of fear of failure. The author started from the basement up and suggested tools one needed to proceed, such as finding mentors and enrolling in appropriate education.
At around age thirteen, I thought, men became my foundation blocks. First, I was Daddy’s good girl—the oldest child. Then I tried to be what Phil wanted. After the divorce, as a single woman, I was temporarily relieved of the burden of trying to please a man. But loneliness took hold of me and I started searching for another mate. In the dating scene, I’d molded myself to be whatever I deemed each new guy wanted, until I felt suffocated.
I slapped the book shut. It was
