Thirty-five

Aiden has been doing heavy publicity for the show; he’s received requests for the video portfolio from as far away as Mumbai and Paris. As the show grows closer and more certain, in true imposter-syndrome fashion, I find myself worrying whether I’m good enough for this kind of stage, if the critics will wonder what Markel G could have been thinking. After being unappreciated for so many years, now I’m fretting that I’m reaching for something I’m not. As my friend Jan used to say in graduate school, “No insecurity too obscure.”

The only news on Patel is that he was arraigned, pled not guilty, and is being held at the Nashua Street Jail. Not even a whisper of a possible deal with the FBI. I’m feeling a bit safer, although my excitement about a possible Virgil Rendell/Belle Gardner connection has been put on hold. When I called Sandra, she was rushing to catch a plane to Athens for a ten-day cruise, but she did encourage me to contact her when she returned. Which I will definitely take her up on.

It’s a beautiful day, the last kiss of fall, so I decide to trek down to Newbury Street to shop for the dress Rik’s been hounding me to buy for the reinstallation. I wander in and out of the high-end (who wants to pay $10,000 for an “elegant evening jacket”?), the midrange (who wants to pay $1,000 for a dress the size of a blouse?), and into my old standby, the vintage, where everything is shoved on too many racks and there’s barely room to stand. I don’t try anything on.

Instead, I go to Markel G. Aiden’s alone in the gallery, so I give him a hug.

“You smell wonderful,” he says, nuzzling my neck. “Not a whiff of phenol formaldehyde.” Then he lifts his head and pulls a frown. “Why aren’t you working?” He points to his watch. “Time’s a wasting.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I’m on my way. On my way. Just wanted to let you know I’m pretty sure I’ll have them all done in a week.”

“Only pretty sure?”

“Okay, okay, I’m sure. Positive.”

He beams. “I knew you’d make it.”

“But you’re relieved anyway?” I tease.

“Templeton’s started in on the first batch. I haven’t seen anything yet, and he said he’ll need another full week to frame what he’s got and another to finish up the last ones.” Templeton is Aiden’s framer. We were originally going to go with all the paintings unframed, but Aiden changed his mind a few weeks ago. This cut my deadline down by a couple of weeks. And increased Aiden’s costs tremendously.

I hug myself. “We’re really almost there.”

“And then you’ll have plenty of time to do some of that publicity you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.”

“Hey, I’m doing those radio shows in a couple of days.”

“Reluctantly.” He looks at me critically. “You need some new clothes.”

I laugh. “Clothes for radio interviews?”

But he’s serious. “Don’t kid yourself, Claire. In this world, your appearance makes a huge difference. And it’s not all radio.” He rummages through a drawer and pulls out an envelope. “I was going to give this to you when you were completely finished, but you’re close enough. A present.”

I take the envelope, shake it, turn it over, then face it up again.

“For a job well done.”

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

When I do, I’ve no idea what I’m looking at. A receipt of some sort. For Canyon Ranch. Three days and two nights. And a ticket for a car service. I look at him, confused. “For me?”

“When you’re done, I want you to get out of here for a few days. Pamper yourself. Rest, relax. It’s only going to get hairier from here on—”

“What about all the promotion you’ve been pushing me to do?”

“It’s not even three days. You can do it all when you get back.”

“I can’t take this from you. This place costs like five hundred dollars a day.”

“Let me worry about that.”

“No, no. I’m not doing it. Can’t. Won’t.”

Aiden takes my hands in his. “Okay, you can pay me back after the show. When you’re dripping in money.”

“But what about the show? We’ve got to hang it. I want to be there for every step of the installation. And then—”

“We won’t be doing the installation until well after you get back. Templeton won’t have the framing done until then.”

“But, I—”

“If you don’t go, I’ll cancel the show.”

“You will not.”

He shrugs. “Probably not, but that gives you an inkling of how important I think this is for you.”

“Because I’m losing it?”

“Nothing a beautiful spa and a bunch of massages won’t cure.”

The truth is, I’ve always wanted to go to Canyon Ranch. Fantasized about it even. Nothing I ever thought possible, but up there on the pipe-dream list. Delusions of indulgence. I lean over and kiss him. “You’re a very sweet man, you know.”

“Not at all,” he says. “I have a lot invested in you. I’m looking out for my own ass.”

IN LESS THAN a week, I’m finished. Done. It’s three o’clock in the morning. I walk to my spot at the windows, rub my lower back, and scan the deserted street. The weather’s nasty. A wintery mix of rain, sleet, and hail, with a bit of snow thrown in to warn of what’s to come. Late November isn’t Boston’s best moment.

I’m relieved, proud, euphoric. I’m exhausted, headachy, and filled with an overwhelming sense of loss. All twenty paintings behind me. All twenty paintings marching forward on their own. I’ve created them, labored over them, made them who they are, but what happens next is up to them, not me. I wonder if this is how a mother feels when she sends her child off to college.

I flop down on the couch, stretch my legs out, and put a pillow under my head. I hook my hands around the back of my neck and visualize the opening. I close my eyes, and I’m there. Except it’s a larger version of Markel G, with taller ceilings, wider windows. There are at least fifty paintings hanging on the walls. They can’t be all mine. But next to each painting is a little card that reads, “Claire Roth.” I must have done more than I thought.

I’m surrounded by a kaleidoscope of color: in my paintings and in the room. Both women and men are dressed in jewel tones, luscious and rich, deeply burnished, almost edible. But I’m in the most delicious of them all. A one-shouldered silk gown of the most magical amethyst, sparkling and fluid, falling to my feet, whispering with every step I take.

As I flow through the room accepting congratulations, I become aware that each color has its own fragrance, not necessarily what you’d associate with the hue—mine smells like a forest in the morning, rather than lavender—but just as breathtaking in their own way as the colors are. Because, of course, now I realize the colors come from my oven, that that’s the only way they could have happened: fashioned and shaped, baked, and then left to cool. The paintings have transformed themselves into a third dimension and created a new sense all their own: a combination of sight, smell, and taste, larger and more powerful for being one.

I open my eyes, and early sunlight streaks the ceiling. I close them again and fall into a deep, untroubled sleep.

At nine o’clock, the telephone wakes me. “So?” Aiden asks.

I rub my cheeks, a bit disoriented, and struggle up from the couch. I’m still in my grubby paint clothes, and my mouth feels like dry pigment has been poured into it. “Hey.”

“Should I send Chantal over with the truck?”

My eyes rest on the finished paintings, and I take them all in in one greedy gulp. “Yup.”

“All done?”

“All done.”

“Never doubted it,” he says.

I go over and check the coffee pot. Empty. “So why’d you ask?”

He chuckles. “When are you leaving?”

I run the cold water and start scooping coffee beans. “I have to confirm with the car service, but sometime late afternoon.”

“Have time to stop by the gallery to say good-bye? Kristi’s off and Chantal’s running errands all day, so I can’t leave.”

I look around the messy studio. Although I’m far from neat, I’m particular about my art materials, and I can’t leave them like this for three days. Nor, given the mice, can I leave the kitchen in its current state. “I’ll call you later, but probably not,” I tell him. “This place is disgusting—and so am I.”

Cleaning takes longer than I anticipate. It’s been quite a while since I wielded a sponge, and the combination of strong coffee and my need for closure drive me into uncharacteristic tidiness. When I call Aiden at one to tell him I can’t make it, the gallery phone goes to answer mode, as does his cell. I text a message promising to be in touch as soon as I get back and thanking him again for Canyon Ranch.

I’ve never had a professional massage before but have no trouble imagining the feel of strong fingers pressing into my tight shoulder muscles, releasing the tension and breaking up those nasty chemicals Small is always telling me I’ve got to get rid of. Yoga classes, good food, and lots of sleep. Heaven.

When I finally finish and Chantal’s come for the paintings, I shower, change, and pack. The car’s picking me up at four, which should get me there about seven. In plenty of time for dinner, the woman at the ranch assured me. When I get a call from the service a bit before four telling me they’re running about fifteen minutes late, I switch on CNN and relax into the couch until the sound of the newscaster mentioning Markel G brings me upright. Could they be talking about my show on CNN? My heart pounds. Has Aiden’s promotion actually reached that far?

It takes me a few moments to understand what’s happening. They’re not talking about my show. They just mentioned the gallery because Aiden owns it. Because it’s where he was arrested. Because it’s where the film clip they’re showing takes place. Of Aiden being led onto Newbury Street. In handcuffs.