What Happens in Paris

“I need that back.” I held out my hand and made a mental note to lock my desk from now on.

She closed the file and handed it to me, then started straightening the stacks of paper on her desk to avoid looking at me.

Coward.

Before I turned to leave, I stood there for a moment, towering over her, waiting to see how long it would take her to look at me. But she spun her chair around so that her back was to me and started typing on the computer perched on the credenza behind her desk.

She was a coward.

It dawned on me that the hardest parts of this crisis—telling Ben and going back to work—were over.

“You can leave now,” she said without turning around.

Yes. Yes, I could. Perhaps it was time.

I smelled the scent of gardenias before I saw the movement in my peripheral vision. My gaze snapped from my easel to the doorway and there stood Rita in the threshold of my studio. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Yanking off my MP3 earphones, I said, “For God’s sake, you scared me to death.”

She smiled and waved a stack of transparency sleeves at me. “Sorry about that. I knocked, but you didn’t answer. Your car’s out front so I figured you were here—wait till you see what I have.” She sang the words as she shut the door and dangled a plastic sheet between two fingers. “I think you’ll forgive me when you see these.”

“The slides of my work?”

She nodded. “They look fabulous.”

I set down my brush, tossed the MP3 player on the table and met her halfway. She pulled a small slide viewer from her bag and popped in the first image. “Here, take a look.”

The boxy magnifier lay cool and light in my palm. As I pressed the button and the light engaged, the oddest sensation enveloped me that my future sat in my hand.

It was crazy—merely wishful thinking that I could make a living doing what I love, especially now that life was so messed up with Blake and I was ensconced in the new marketing campaign at work. All the ideas I came up with after Jackie vetoed “Home is where the heart is…” seemed trite and hackneyed.

I breathed in the heady scent of oil paint—I was experimenting with a new medium. It comingled with the gardenia essence that had marked my sister’s entrance. I peered into the light box and saw the lavender foxgloves I’d painted last week. The delicate purple blossoms dangled from the stems like glorious pieces of amethyst standing out bold against the rich emerald background.

My breath hitched. I loved foxgloves and these looked good, if I did say so myself. There was a whole planter full of them across the courtyard from my studio. The slide reminded me of how soothing it was to lose myself in the painting process.

If nothing else, at least I had my art. Something to call my own, something constant in this world of madness.

Rita handed me another slide, and then another until we established a silent rhythm of viewing and changing. My discard pile grew. Her handoff pile waned. We sank into the comfortable silence that sisters weren’t compelled to fill.

When I’d viewed the last slide, Rita said, “They look good, huh?”

“Yeah, they do. Thanks for photographing them, Ri.”

She nodded, chewing her bottom lip as if she had something else to say.

“What?” I asked, putting the slides back into their sleeves.

“Don’t kill me, okay?”

“Why would I do that? You’re not going to tell me you’ve slept with Blake, too, are you?”

She scrunched up her nose. “Ew. No.”

“Oh, I forgot, you’re not his type. You don’t have a penis.”

My sister didn’t laugh.

I held up the transparency of the foxgloves to the light and looked at it again, and when I looked over at her she shot me a weird sort-of smirk.

“You know it would be really good for you to get away from here. Go somewhere fresh where the word penis doesn’t automatically evoke nightmares.”

“What are you talking about?”

I nudged the last slide into place, skimmed the sleeve to the center of the table and turned my attention to Rita.

“You know I shot two sets of slides, right?”

“No, I didn’t know that. Is it a problem?”

“Only if you hate me for sending them to Paris…with the artist-in-residency application.”

I crossed my arms in front of me. “You did what?”

“I sent your work—”

“I heard you the first time. I just— Rita, I can’t go to Paris. I told you that. That’s why I didn’t send them myself.”

She pulled out a stool and perched on the edge of it. “I know you did. Your mind is kind of on automatic pilot.”

I threw up my hands. “Well, I’m kind of preoccupied trying to figure out how I’ll take care of myself after I’m divorced. As of right now, that plan does not include moving to Paris for three months.”

She looked disappointed and lowered her voice the way our mother used to when she tried to win us over to her way of thinking. “Why can’t you see that would be the very best way for you to take care of yourself? A change of scenery, a change of career.”

I hated this logical side of my sister. I walked over to my easel and picked up my brush. “Okay. Okay. Fine. I’m not going to fight with you over this. Thank you for thinking enough of my work…for thinking enough of me—”

The words burned the back of my throat, and made my eyes water. I swallowed hard.

“Thank you for doing that for me. But you know, you have to stop—”

I shook my head and stabbed my brush in the gob of cadmium yellow on my palette so hard the bristles flared.

“What were you going to say?”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rita stand.

“That I have to stop interfering with your cocoon-building? Well, I’m not going to, Anna.”

I swiped a slash of yellow across the canvas. “This is not worth fighting over. Tell me where I can find a telephone number and I’ll call and withdraw.”

“Withdraw?” She laughed and stood behind me, but I didn’t turn around. “If you feel the need to withdraw, then you think you might win a spot.”

I shrugged, and dipped my brush into the black paint. “I don’t. I don’t know what I think. Just stop.”

“Why would you not go for this?”

A funnel of fear rose and whirled around my stomach, but I ignored it, focusing instead on how I should’ve been mad at my sister for putting me in this position; for going against my wishes and entering my work in that contest. And I would’ve been mad at her if I hadn’t been so numb. But despite the numbness, deep inside in the very center of my soul, down in the tiny little speck of heart that hadn’t frozen solid, I knew she was right. Only, there was a wide cavern between what I should do and what I was capable of doing just then.

“Well, Ri, I’ll add painting in Paris to my to-do list right behind finding a decent divorce attorney and securing another place to live because Blake is barking about putting the house on the market.”

She clucked her tongue and sighed. Loudly. As if she’d just learned I’d pierced my nipples and planned to shave my hair into a Mohawk.

“Look, it’s easy to judge when your ass isn’t on the line,” I said over my shoulder.

“Yeah, I guess so. And I guess it’s easy to use Blake as an excuse for not living your life. As big a bastard as he is, he’s not the one keeping you from Paris. You’re doing this to yourself.”

I whirled to face her. “That is so unfair.”

“I know it is. The entire scenario that’s brought you to this juncture sucks. But Anna, what would really be unfair is if you used this crap as an excuse to curl up into a little ball and fade away.”

I turned back to my canvas before the first tears broke free and meandered down my cheek. I wiped them away with my sleeve.

“You blame Blake for taking away your life. Don’t give him your soul.”

I heard Rita’s sandals clicking on the concrete floor, walking away from me. I wanted to shout at her, If I’d wanted to go to Paris I would have sent in the damn application myself. Well, okay, I wanted to go to Paris. Someday. Just not right now.

Arrgh. Too much. Too much. Too much was coming at me too fast.

“I have a challenge for you.” My sister’s voice was softer. I glanced over to see her hitching her purse up on her shoulder.

“Don’t withdraw. Just let the application ride. Toss it up to fate and see what happens. Okay?”

CHAPTER 4

After six weeks of having the bed to myself, I decided I liked sleeping alone. I woke up at six-thirty that particular morning smack-dab in the middle of the king-size bed. No one poked me in the back and told me to keep to my own side of the bed. No one elbowed me for inadvertently kicking him when I stretched out.

It was kind of nice, this newfound personal space. If I wanted to I could take my half out of the middle. It was a good thing, sleeping alone. I lay there and waited for reality to jolt my sleep-befuddled mind and expose the big dark hole that had taken up residence where my heart used to live.

I waited, but the familiar pain didn’t stir.

A good sign.

Never mind that waking up was the easy part. Going to bed alone was still a challenge. After eighteen years of sleeping with the same person, I’d found comfort and reassurance in being able to reach out and touch Blake whenever I wanted—even though we rarely touched.

There was something in just knowing he was there, something comforting in the occasional brush of his foot against mine, no matter how unintentional; something in the rhythmic ebb and flow of his breathing; even something in his snoring, although until I discovered earplugs it used to drive me nuts.

I guess my newfound personal space—room to stretch—was one fringe benefit of living alone.

I spread my arms and legs to the four corners of the bed, just because I could, and moved them back and forth like a child making a snow angel. I reveled in the softness of the sheets under my body, and then lay spread-eagle for a moment, and listened to the quiet until the shrill ring of the telephone interrupted my calm.

“Annabelle, I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Blake. My heart skipped a beat. “No, I’m up.”

“Good. I wanted to catch you before you went to work.”

His brisk tone hinted that I might not like what he had to say. But I waited, holding firmly to the old adage she who speaks first loses.

“Annabelle, are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, I’ve secured a Realtor, Jared Helmsley, to list the house for us.”

“Excuse me?”

I sat up and swung my feet over the side of the bed.

Not quite a fighting stance, but at least I wasn’t taking it lying down.

“I’d like to bring him by this afternoon to see the place so we can get it on the market as soon as possible.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, Blake. I told you at least ten times already, I’m not ready to list the house.” I’d just found an attorney to represent me and we hadn’t gotten that far yet. “I’m not doing anything until I talk to my lawyer. So just cool your jets.”

He heaved a sigh in my ear. A huffy, sissy sigh that irked me to the core. Oh, be a man.

He cleared his throat. “Annabelle, we’re going to have to do something soon because my partner and I are starting our own business and we need the capital. I want my half.”

Whoa! Wait a minute. Rewind. The implication propelled me to my feet.

“Your partner? Since when do you have a partner? You always worked better alone. That was the principal reason you broke off from the firm and started your own business.”

He cleared his throat again. God, it sounded like a chain saw sputtering and dying in my ear, and it was getting on my nerves. I got to my feet and started downstairs to keep myself from snipping at him about the ugly noise. On the way down, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the stairs. Holding the phone with one hand, I tried to tame my wild curls, which sprang out in every direction and made me look like the Raisin Bran sun.

“Not that kind of partner. Jared Helmsley is my…um…my partner.”

I braced myself on the kitchen counter. It took a few seconds before it sank in. “Oh my God, this Realtor is your boyfriend? Well, you certainly work fast. Tell me where you two met. No, wait—let me guess. Live Oak Park, right? Aww, I love hearing about blossoming romance.”

Not.

“Don’t be crass, Annabelle.”

Don’t be a pansy, Blake.

“I’m retiring from architecture, and Jared and I are starting an antiques business.”

Antiques. How typical. My husband was a gay cliché.

So much for the small pleasures of sheet angels and taking my half out of the middle of the bed. I needed a good strong cup of joe after waking up to this. I picked up my French-press coffeepot, measured water from the refrigerator and poured it into the kettle to boil.

“Don’t you think it’s a risky move to cash it all in and set up shop with a guy you just met?”

“I’ve known Jared a while.”

“Like six weeks a while? Or longer a while?”

“Longer.”

“How much longer, Blake?” I dumped some French-roast beans into the grinder. I pressed the start button and the machine hummed and chomped; the rich, aromatic promise of a good cup of coffee lulled me into hoping the day would get better.

He planned it this way, didn’t he? He had to have some sort of Annabelle Happiness Radar that sounded an alarm when my misery dropped to a bearable level. Because just when I started to feel okay he’d fling another doozy. I turned around and picked up the glass pot, getting it ready for the fresh coffee.

“Jared and I have been together for three years.”

I caught the answer just as the grinder stopped. The press pot slipped from my hands and shattered on the slate floor.

“What?”

He’d been in a relationship for three years?

“Did something break?” Blake’s voice sounded miles away. But as far as I was concerned, if he were in China it wouldn’t have been far enough.

Oh my God! Where was I when all this was going on? How could I have missed this? How could I have been so pathetically ignorant?

My free hand flew to my mouth, as much to stop the bile that was making its way up my esophagus as to contain my shock. My heart beat as if it were trying to break free from my chest.

As I moved around the glass shards, trying not to step on them with bare feet, I wished my heart would just break free and fall into the glass so that I could give it a decent burial. Like the coffeepot, it, too, was shattered beyond repair.

“Annabelle? Are you there?”

When he got arrested, not only was he cheating on me, he was cheating on the one with whom he was cheating on me. Obviously Jared was a little more forgiving than I was.

I wanted to scream at Blake for being so callous, for making a mockery out of our marriage, for making me feel so utterly, disgustingly unlovable. For making me feel as if this were somehow my fault.

“Yeah, I’m here. But you know what? I have to get ready for work. No Realtors, Blake. Just—just go away.”

I never got my coffee.

I didn’t have time to tame my hair into my old reliable chignon and stop at Starbucks and get to work in time for the big unveiling of our new marketing campaign to the Heartfield brass. It was the trial presentation before we took our “new image” to the board of directors. I couldn’t don my game face with wild hair.

So with or without coffee, life marched on.

For that matter, with or without Blake, with or without boyfriends and antiques businesses and whatever else Blake planned to spring on me around the next bend, I had to put it all aside and go to work.

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