Jennelle was talking to a new artist on her cell as she waved me in. It wasn’t an apartment anymore—it had become an office. She had hundreds of slides on the wall, of different artists’ work. A wall that used to be bare was now covered with file cabinets.
“Two paintings aren’t enough,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t get a show for you based on two canvases.” She went through a series of head bobs and then rolled her eyes to me. “I know you changed your style. So you have to build up a portfolio.”
It sounded like she was talking the talk, but what did I know? Mine was a one-on-one business, and she had to sell her client to a gallery or an ad agency before they got a chance to prove themselves. Finally, she hung up.
“Hey, mogul.”
“I’m turning off my cell,” she said. “When you work from home, your workday never ends. The worst scenario is using your bedroom as your office so the first and last thing you see each morning and night is the computer. What’s going on?”
“Guess who I just ran into?”
“I give up.”
“Thomas, Thomas Martin. Remember the James Bond type who I thought was Jordan?”
“No way!”
“Way, and he told me he’s separated.”
“Probably a story.”
“I don’t think so. He sounded upset about it. Turned out his wife was cheating on him.”
She looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “Would you leave your spouse if you found out he was sleeping with someone else?”
“I don’t think it would endear me to him. What about you?”
“I’d like to think I could handle it,” Jennelle said. “Assuming he swore that he wasn’t seeing her any more or didn’t want to. But I don’t know.”
“I imagine a lot of relationships that should have gone on ended abruptly because one of the partners turned away and a lot of good years together were just forgotten.”
“That sounds rather idealistic,” she said.
“Maybe, and I’d probably feel as though I’d been stabbed and could never trust the guy again,” I said, curling up on her couch. “I think Luke sleeps with Kyla, but I guess that’s different. We’re not a couple. We’re not anything.” I shrugged. “I was a two-day stand—one notch above a one-night.”
“But he is coming back.”
“Maybe.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“He doesn’t know what a phone is.”
“Call Thomas,” Jennelle said. “He looks like James Bond, he’s separated, and you’re hesitating?”
“You know the crazy thing about very conventionally gorgeous men?”
“I give up.”
“They’re destined to disappoint you,” I said.
“And why is that, Dr. Phil?”
“You start out so enamored of them it can only go downhill. Sooner or later you find out they’re just normal human beings.”
“You know what I think?” Jennelle asked.
I shook my head.
“I think that’s bullshit. I think you’re scared of him for some reason. Either that or you’re just plain not interested in meeting anyone because you’re pining away over Luke, who’s a continent away and may never come back.” She glared at me. “Then again, maybe that’s safe.”
I thought of all the expat American artists who made their homes in Europe. She was probably right.
We didn’t discuss it any more, we ate. After the pizza we turned on Turner Classic Movies. “Please not Last Year at Marienbad, or another one of Greg’s favorites.”
Jennelle laughed. “You really have dated a lot of beauties.”
“Your friend Jim notwithstanding.” We looked through the guide to see what they were showing. “You’re so lucky to have found Daniel. He’s creative, not too abnormal, he has his own business, his art, a life, and he loves you.”
She looked off into the distance.
“What?”
“I wasn’t going to tell you,” she said, “but he told me that before we started dating, he saw Kyla.” She paused. “It didn’t last very long, a couple of nights, I think, but it was bothering him when we started talking about Luke, and he wanted to get it off his chest.”
“Who hasn’t she slept with?”
“The answer to your next question is: he didn’t say.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jennelle said.
• • •
Monday morning at ten. I was still in bed reading the newspaper. No one knew I’d taken the morning off. I was rarely home then and clients always called on my cell. I considered letting the machine pick up. But when the ringing stopped, I had a sudden change of heart.
“Is this Sage? Sage Parker?” I didn’t recognize her voice. I guessed it wasn’t work-related. It was a tentative voice, a strained one.
“Yes?”
“My daughter told me a lot about you…” Her trancelike voice trailed off.
“I’m sorry, but…who’s your daughter?”
“Laura,” she said. “Laura Morgan, you read her stories—”
“Oh, yes.”
“We knew it was coming,” she said, her voice a monotone, “we just didn’t think…so soon.”
“Oh!” It came out as a cry. “I’m so sorry.” I felt a stab of pain inside me.
“The reason I’m calling,” she said, drawing a breath, “is that she talked so much about you. She was so excited about your visits. And she told us about the dress and how on her birthday, you promised to bring her—” She stopped. “I don’t even know if I should ask you…oh my God…” I waited while there was a stifled cry.
“Please, what?”
“A dress,” she said, finally. “I’d like to buy her something very special, to wear for…”
You never fool anyone when you try to pretend that you’re not choking back tears. Even if they’re on the opposite end of the phone, they know. They can hear it in the silence. But I was embarrassed by the sudden avalanche of sadness that wanted to break out of me. “Can you excuse me just a minute?”
“Of course.”
I went into the bathroom and buried my face in the towel. I let out one sob after another and then told myself it was enough. I couldn’t do that, not to her mother. It was hard enough for her to pick up the phone and call me. I went back to the bedroom and picked up the phone.
“I’ll find the dress for you,” I said. “I’d be honored to.”