“It’s a five-minute drive,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “You could follow me there, and then leave when you want.”
A moment later I was trailing him up the hill. He put on his blinker, and at the red light he came to a stop. From my car I could see the back of his head high above the headrest and his eyes glancing at me in his rearview mirror. When the light changed green, I hesitated, wondering if I should turn the other direction and go home. But Henry was the logical person to talk to. Who else was there?
I pushed my foot on the gas pedal and caught up with him. Stop worrying, I told myself. Henry didn’t date; he still loved his wife. He was a bit of an odd duck, but he seemed safe enough, the kind of man who would make a decent friend. Weren’t friends what I needed most?
Minutes later he turned into the parking lot of a restaurant on South Lake Union, and I pulled up next to him. Soon we were seated at a table and receiving our dinner. We passed time in polite conversation, then discussed Leonardo da Vinci, his mathematical abilities, his love of music—how he could sing and improvise on the lyre.
“And I heard he loved animals,” I said, recalling what I’d learned in an art history class. “He would buy birds from vendors, open the cage doors, and let them fly away.”
“An amazing man.” Henry said. “It’s hard to imagine a person with more talents. Aren’t we fortunate he loved painting the most?”
“Yes, indeed.” As I finished the last bites of my salmon, I still hadn’t mentioned my painting. Soon the waitress removed our plates and brought us coffee.
I finally blurted out, “I painted something today.”
“Really.” He looked like a parent hearing his child had aced a test. “That’s marvelous. Tell me about it.”
I avoided his gaze as I recounted my afternoon.
“It’s crazy, but I barely remember painting it,” I said, my eyes finally meeting his. “I got so involved, I felt transported, as if sucked into a time warp where nothing else mattered.”
“Yes, I’ve had days like that where it felt like someone was painting through me. I was the vehicle, not the driver, off on someone else’s joyride. The next thing I knew it was dark outside.”
“And afterward, I cried,” I said, then wished I’d omitted that detail. “Isn’t that weird?”
“No, not really. For me, painting opens a floodgate of emotion.”
The waitress delivered our check. Henry took it from her, then pulled out his billfold and left money on the table.
“Shouldn’t I pay?” My hand reached for my purse. “I invited myself.”
“No, I told you I’m old-fashioned. And anyway, your parents fed me like a king.”
We strolled out to the parking lot. “Maybe you and I should take a look at your painting,” he said, following me to my car. It crossed my mind he was kidding, but he stared back at me in earnest.
I found my keys in the bottom of my purse and wrapped my fingers around them. “Right now?”
“Unless you’d rather bring it to class on Monday?”
“No, I wouldn’t want to do that. But it probably needs more work.” I felt my cheeks redden and hoped it was too dark for him to notice. “You’re such an accomplished painter. I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”
“I doubt that. Come on, there’s no time like the present.”
My palms stuck to the steering wheel as I directed my car toward home. My fingers felt like icicles, but my torso sweltered under my jacket. I could see Henry’s headlights in my rearview mirror, and I hoped he would get stuck behind another car and lose sight of me. I flicked on the radio, surfed through the dial, then turned it off again. I listened to a new rattle somewhere under the rear of the car; the drive home had never taken so long.
Charlie, his tail whipping back and forth, leapt up on Henry’s legs as he came into the house.
“Henry, meet Charlie,” I said, wishing, for once, the dog would raise a racket. Things were moving too quickly. When I caught a glimpse of my painting, I knew it was a mistake to let him see it. Propped on the counter and leaning against the microwave, it looked insignificant. I should have defined the background better, I told myself. And one of the woman’s arms seemed out of proportion, and her skin tone wasn’t right. The more I looked at the composition, the more I hated it.
“There it is,” I said. As I watched Henry examine my work, I almost started to point out its flaws. I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t like it, but I knew his words would sting worse than stepping into hornet’s nest, which I’d done as a child.
Finally, he said, “This is very good.”
“Thank you.” But what did good mean? I’d often said “Good dog” to Charlie for nothing more than finishing his kibble. And I said “good morning” even when I was in a foul mood. “Really? You mean it?”
“Yes, it’s better than good.” he said with conviction. “In fact, it’s excellent.”
I felt like dancing a jig or letting out a whoop. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this kind of satisfaction.
At that moment the telephone blared. I decided to ignore it. There was no one else I wanted to talk to—not even Rob. But when Henry’s gaze shifted to the phone, I answered it.
“Are you sitting down?” Phil asked, his voice charged with electricity.
I knew Phil liked to make a big deal out of things. “No, I’m standing up, and I’m busy. Can’t this wait?”
“No, it’s too important.”
What could be so monumental? Then I realized he was probably calling to announce his engagement to Darla. I felt like hanging up, but doing that would only delay the inevitable. Better to
