CHAPTER 57
“That’s a big yes for Rebecca Wilmont and a resounding no for Randi Colburn.”
Marly looked at the list in front of her, which contained the name of every instructor who had taught at the Arts House during the summer session. She was engaged in the annual end-of-summer ritual she’d come to call the Weeding. Classes would run through Labor Day, but on a reduced scale, so she was free to start wading through the piles of paperwork that came with finishing up another successful season. Many of the instructors were already finished as well. Some had chosen to remain in their rent-free accommodations for a few weeks of rest. Others had already left or were leaving shortly.
In the meantime, Marly was going through the list, putting stars beside some names and crossing others off. The scratch-outs would be added to the secret list she kept (but always denied keeping) of artists to be avoided at all costs. She shared this roster with a select few of her counterparts, those responsible for inviting visiting lecturers to artsy enclaves such as the Iowa Writers Workshop, Jacob’s Pillow, and the Omega Institute. It was a favor they did for one another, designed to help preserve one another’s sanity in a world known for its distinct lack of mental stability.
This year’s crop of guests was almost equally divided between yeses and nos. Currently, Marly was holding her pen above the name of Brody Nicholson. She adored the man’s books, but she’d seldom seen such unenthusiastic reviews for an instructor. Six people had dropped out of his classes, two demanding refunds in exchange for not suing the Arts House for contributing to emotional cruelty. Reluctantly, she put a red line through him, increasing the nos’ score by one and putting them in the lead.
“Knock, knock.”
Marly looked up from her desk. Garth was standing in the doorway.
“You busy?” he asked.
“Just ruining a few careers,” answered Marly. “Nothing urgent.”
Garth gave her a confused look.
“I’m reading student evaluations,” she explained.
“Anyone say anything interesting?”
Marly sifted through the pile of forms on her desk. “Let’s see,” she said, selecting one. “One of Perry Lawrence’s poetry students said that his teaching was, and I quote, ‘as engaging as watching the last presidential election results.’ ”
“Is that good or bad?” asked Garth.
“The sad thing is, I can’t tell,” replied Marly. “Oh, and here’s another of my favorites. ‘Taney Fuller is an amazing songwriter. Too bad he’s not much of a person.’ I think that one definitely qualifies as bad.”
Garth winced. “Harsh,” he said. “I hate to think what they wrote about me.”
“All raves,” Marly informed him. “They can’t wait to have you back next year.”
“And how do you feel about that idea?” he said.
“I’d love to have you back,” Marly said. “Unfortunately, I have to select new people next year, so if you do come back, it will have to be as my personal guest.”
Garth laughed. “Somehow I don’t think your husband would enjoy having me around the house all summer,” he said.
Marly smiled. “Probably not,” she answered. “So, why are you still standing in my doorway instead of coming in?”
“Ah,” said Garth. “Because I have something for you.” He retreated to the hall and returned with two large, flat packages wrapped in brown paper.
“What are those?” Marly asked, intrigued.
“Going-away presents,” Garth said, leaning the packages against her desk. “Open them.”
Marly stood and came around to the front of her desk. She ran her hand over the first of the packages.
“Just open it,” said Garth, sighing.
Marly pulled at the tape that sealed the package shut, then folded the paper back. Underneath was a large framed photograph, about three feet square. Marly looked at it and gave a little laugh.
“It’s one of the photos Nellie took of me,” she said, looking at the image of herself lifting a nutcracker into the air and beaming up at it. “I look—”
“Happy,” said Garth, cutting her off. “Beautiful and radiant and happy.”
Marly looked at the photograph again. She did look happy, she saw, like a little girl having one of her dreams come true.
“Open the other one,” Garth instructed.
Marly placed the photograph to one side and tackled the second package. Free of its paper and tape, it, too, revealed a photograph. It had been taken by Garth. It caught her in the process of working on the portrait of him. The painting loomed in front of her, only a rough sketch covering the canvas. Marly was staring at it with intense concentration. Her brush was poised in the air, and there were smears of ink on her hands.
“Look at your eyes,” Garth said quietly.
Marly nodded. She was looking at her eyes. She recognized the emotion in them. It was joy. Joy in creation. Joy in doing something she loved and had missed terribly.
“That’s how I’ll remember you,” Garth said.
“You sound like you’re leaving,” said Marly.
Garth nodded. “I am,” he told her. “I fly out later tonight. I got a call to go on the road with the White Stripes.”
“The who?”
“Some new band,” Garth said. “Supposedly they’re bringing rock and roll back to life.”
“What happened to taking it easy?” Marly asked him, sounding more than a little like an anxious mother. “What about the MS?”
“It will still be there,” said Garth, grinning. “Besides, it’s only for two weeks. Then I can go shopping for a rocking chair and a pipe.”
Marly nodded absentmindedly. A sadness had come over her, the feeling that something very important was leaving her before she was ready. “I haven’t finished it,” she said suddenly. “The portrait. I wanted to have it done before you left.”
Garth put his hands on her shoulders. “I’ll come back for it,” he said. “Or you can bring it to me in New York when it’s done.”
Marly felt tears forming in her eyes. “Okay,” she said, staring at his shoes.
“Hey,” said Garth softly. “Look at me.”
Marly looked up.
“It’s not like I’m breaking up with you,” said Garth with mock seriousness.
Marly laughed, causing tears to run down her face. She gave Garth a hug, wrapping her arms around him and holding tightly for a long time. When she released him she sighed and wiped her eyes.
“I needed this,” she said. “You. I needed you, and this summer, and this.” She indicated the photos. “All of it.”
“Even if we didn’t actually have an affair?” asked Garth. “Because you know, it’s still not too late. I have a couple of hours before my flight leaves.”
“Sorry,” said Marly. “I’m a married woman.”
“Don’t say I didn’t offer,” Garth said. He looked at his watch. “I should go,” he said.
Marly stepped forward and gave him another hug. “Be safe,” she said. “And call me when you’re done playing rock star.”
“I have fillings that are older than these kids,” said Garth, giving her a final squeeze before letting go. “I’ll be lucky if I can stay awake for the entire show.”
“I think you’ll manage,” remarked Marly.
Garth looked at her in silence for a moment, then raised his hand. “Bye, Mrs. Prentis,” he said.
“Bye, Mr. Ambrose,” answered Marly.
Garth turned and left her office. For a moment she almost ran after him for a final hug, a final word. But she made herself stay where she was. Garth would be back, she knew.
She looked at the photos he’d given her. There was a spot on the wall across from her desk, a blank expanse that had been waiting for just the right thing to hang there. She went to the supply cabinet and located a hammer and some picture hangers. There were, she thought as she returned to her office, a great many benefits to working for an arts organization.
Half an hour and several misplaced nails later, the two photographs were hanging side by side. Marly stepped back and looked at them. She’d always been slightly irritated by people who hung photographs or, worse, paintings of themselves in their own spaces. But she was pleased by the photos of herself. They captured parts of her she wanted to see more of, the parts that took risks, that weren’t afraid to look foolish, to fail.
It had taken almost having an affair with Garth to remind her that these parts of herself still existed. She’d needed that shock, that feeling of standing on the very edge of possibility, to bring her back to life. It hadn’t been about sex at all; it had simply been about waking herself up. Although the sex probably would have been amazing, she thought idly as she returned to her desk and resumed looking over the evaluations.
“Hey there.”
She looked up, half expecting to see that Garth had come back. Instead, she was surprised to see her husband and daughter framed in the doorway.
“You’re back,” she said. Drew had been in Europe for three weeks on business. He wasn’t due back for another two days, and his presence in her office was unexpected and, given that her mind was crowded with thoughts of Garth at the moment, slightly unsettling.
“How long can you stay in Paris?” said Drew. “It’s filled with French people.”
Marly laughed. She and Drew had spent their honeymoon in Paris, and he’d first used the line then to describe the city to friends and family upon their return. It had since become an in-joke, a way to describe any particularly unpleasant social gathering, place of business, or travel destination.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Marly replied.
“Don’t be,” Drew said. “It means Chloe and I can take you to dinner and a movie. Sound good?”
Marly looked at her husband and daughter. She hadn’t seen much of either during the past few months. Drew’s hair was longer, she noticed, and he’d put on a little weight. It looked good on him, she thought. Chloe, impatient as ever to be doing something other than waiting for her parents to get going, was chewing her gum loudly. They would have to have a little chat about that later.
Behind them hung the photos of herself. They floated above Chloe’s head and just over Drew’s shoulder, reminding her of a painting she’d seen once at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Visiting on a rainy afternoon, she’d turned a corner in the third-floor gallery and stopped short. Covering most of one entire wall was a painting depicting Joan of Arc. Behind her hovered three visions, angels come to seek her help and inspire her to bravery.
What had struck Marly most about the painting was how Joan was depicted reaching forward, despite the angels being behind her. It was as if their very presence was enough to fill her with inspiration. Because of them, Joan was able to reach for something unseen, something she knew awaited her if she was brave enough to trust, to risk failure by setting foot on the path even though she had no idea what lay in store for her.
Drew and Chloe were hardly Marly’s ideas of angels. They were often demanding, sometimes oblivious, and generally maddening. But maybe that was what she needed. Maybe they were the voices telling her to reach for the next thing, whatever it was, to stretch her hands out toward the unknown while keeping her feet firmly planted in something real—home, family, the day-to-day ups and downs that sometimes seemed overwhelming.
And Garth? There were, she reminded herself, three angels in the painting. He’d helped her to see that there was still a great deal of passion inside her, and also that she didn’t need to go too far to find an outlet for it.
She gathered up the evaluation forms and put them into a drawer, along with her hit list. “Yes,” she said, standing up and going to join her daughter and her husband. “Dinner and a movie sounds very good.”