“That’s great,” was my automatic response, but the words sounded artificial.
“Did you see Hank’s work?” He pointed across the room.
I eyed the paintings I’d admired earlier. “Those were done by Henry Marsh?”
“Yeah, I told you he was gifted.”
Three more people gathered around Phil’s work—all raving about his talent.
“Come on, I’ll show you my other piece,” Phil said. He guided me toward another room.
“I hear you have a new girlfriend,” I said, trying to sound blasé.
“Darla? She’ll be here later.” He scanned the room briefly. “By the way, it was fun seeing you drawing up a storm the other night. I never know where I’m going to run into you.”
I tried to ignore his comment but felt my cheeks warming.
The man carrying champagne stopped to offer us a glass.
Phil’s hand swung out, as if to ward him off. “None for me, thanks.” Then he said to me, “Did I tell you I haven’t taken a drink for over two years? Boy, it feels good to say that.”
“Really?” Staring into his elated face, I wondered if he was being straight with me. Phil dry for two whole years? Unlikely, but I supposed anything was possible. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“Not half as glad as I am.”
We approached Phil’s other work: two lovers caught in the tension before an embrace.
“Wow” was all I could say. The almost life-sized bronze woman wore long, corded hair and a peasant dress. It had to be a coincidence, but the woman looked somewhat like me when I was in college. My hair had been longer, and I’d drawn it back to one side in the same fashion. And I’d owned a dress similar to that one.
I examined the athletic young man, who had been executed with spontaneity yet precise attention to detail.
“Isn’t Dad’s stuff awesome?” Rob reappeared, holding hands with Andrea.
“Yes, honey, it is.”
Rob tugged impatiently on my arm. “Hey, Mom, Andrea and I want to go.”
“Okay, just a minute.”
As he and Andrea said good-bye to Phil, I took time to inspect the paintings on the back wall, none of which could compare to Henry’s. I turned to see Rob and Andrea wandering toward the exit, and Phil speaking to several members of what my father would describe as upper crust, who were questioning him about his project for the city and a dedication ceremony at the park. Being happy for Phil’s success felt surreal. I tried to picture him sober, working at a great job, and becoming a successful artist. Why couldn’t he have done all that when we were married?
I gave him a wave.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.
The thought of Rob’s leaving the next day sent a shudder through my upper body. Maybe I should have agreed to drive with Phil and Rob after all, I reflected. I might change my mind and do that.
As I wove my way through the crowd, I spotted Henry Marsh talking to an intense little man who was scribbling on a pad of paper. Henry’s eyes widened as he noticed me.
I slowed to a halt and said, “Hello.”
His mouth lifted on one side. “Good evening.” Then his lips flattened into two parallel lines, and he looked right past me, as if I were a fly too small to be noticed. He spoke to the man, who jotted something down, then asked Henry a question about canvas preparation.
I didn’t appreciate being ignored. My hands moved to my hips, and I stood for a moment glaring at Henry. He didn’t look back, but rather rotated, forcing the other man to move in order to continue their conversation.
What a snob, I thought as I marched toward the door. I couldn’t remember anyone acting so rudely. Was Henry ignoring me, or had I become invisible? I’d looked in the mirror before leaving for dinner and thought I looked quite respectable, even pretty.
But as I plunged ahead, I found it impossible to ignore the man’s paintings, his startling use of colors and design.
On the drive home, with my son behind the steering wheel and me sitting in the backseat behind Andrea, Rob’s voice rang with pride as he described Phil’s creations. I was grateful he had a father he could admire, but somehow I felt Phil’s victory detracted from me. I knew I was being petty and attempted to sound enthusiastic.
“Your father’s an amazing guy.” Which was true. He’d amazed me many times.
“What did you think of Henry Marsh’s stuff?” Rob said.
“They were exceptionally good.” Even if I’d painted every day since college, I wouldn’t have been able to create anything half as wonderful. What Henry possessed went beyond technique, study, and practice. The paintings exuded an energy that practically pulled me across the room.
“Did you see how much they cost?” he asked. “Dad says his paintings sell as quickly as he finishes them.”
I hadn’t noticed the prices, but had seen the red dots on several title cards signifying the pieces were sold. I caught Rob’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “What do you know about him?” I asked.
“He and Dad have been friends for years.” His voice turned serious. “His wife died of cancer a few years ago.”
“How very sad.” For a moment I felt sorry for Henry. Still, that didn’t give him the right to treat me like a nobody.
As I lay in bed the next morning, I speculated when Phil would arrive. No need for me to hurry, I thought. It could be hours. Phil loved lounging in until noon, but maybe not anymore, with his new job at Microsoft, of all places. How was it possible for a man to improve so radically? Or was it all a masquerade? What Dad would call a put-up job? I pushed back the covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Imagining Phil in a twelve-step AA meeting was a stretch. Yet, Laurie was right when she said
