Appointment with a Smile (3 page)

“I’ve never met your mother. I spoke with her on the telephone only once. As you might imagine, the conversation was very brief.”

“I gathered the two of you never met. I look very much like Pamela. Or so I’m told.”

“And did she mention the circumstances…”

“Oh, yes. Your name came up quite a few times when she and my true mother, Molly, fought. At least when I was a child. Later they fought in, or maybe with, silence.”

“They must have cared. They’ve been together for thirty years.”

“Pamela died ten years ago. They were together a little over twenty years. I thought, romantically speaking, it had been a nineteen-year sleepwalk. It seemed meaningless. Even as a child, and later a young adult, I felt their lack of love. It wasn’t how my husband and I feel toward one another.”

“I’m sorry. Love rarely comes with a warning label. We sometimes make mistakes when selecting. I have.”

Samantha sighed and nodded with compassion as if she knew I was still in pain. “Everyone has their own marathon, I suppose. We stand, we run, we fall.”

“A very astute observation.”

“Both Mother and Pamela were philosophy professors and exposed me to constant wisdom. As far as marriage was concerned, I was prepared for imperfection. It amazes me that I married a man with so few imperfections.”

“Pamela…” I had to stop as I practically spat out her name. “Pamela was once an enemy. I harbored a hatred against her.”

“In truth… she wasn’t easy to live with,” Samantha said. “But my life hasn’t been entirely sad, thanks to Jeffery, my husband, and my mother Molly.” She exuded a mellow harmony, and her face reflected an arbitrator’s introspection.

“Molly told you about our meeting yesterday? She didn’t have time for a chat.”

“She was extremely shaken. It took her until late last night to tell me about seeing you. And yes, Mom was to meet up with Jeffery and me. Jeffery and I looked on the Internet gallery to view your work. He’s also impressed. Being somewhat of an art connoisseur, he believes that a painting should become the mind’s home. And the longer one stays in that home, the better the work of art. He observed your cyber gallery.”

I smiled. “I like his belief a great deal. When I do a portrait, it’s as if I want to introduce the person to the viewer. When I’m painting, if I’m unable to catch glimpses of my subject’s emotion, it’s similar to painting only a halftone.”

“I see that in your work. I’m very impressed.”

“Yet you came to my opening, and Molly didn’t.” I was curious but also wounded. Molly hadn’t called the hotel, nor had she taken the time to find me at the gallery. Even for old time’s sake. Her daughter had taken the trouble.

Finding out Pamela Meade died ten years ago confirmed that Molly was no longer thinking of me. She hadn’t attempted to contact me. She hadn’t merely run to Pamela all those years ago. She’d run away from me.

“Forgive me, but this is a shock.” I blinked back the tears that were welling in my eyes. “I feel a bit overwhelmed. Maybe I’ve put in too many hours uncrating and hanging my exhibit. I like hands-on when it comes to placement. Guess that makes me a temperamental artist.”

“Your work is absolutely wonderful. I’m so glad I got to see it and to meet you.”

I drank the last of my coffee and stood. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you as well. It’s been a hectic couple of days, and it’s getting late. I should go.”

She rose and embraced me. “Danielle, would you like my telephone number? I’m sure Mom would enjoy hearing from you.”

Returning her hug, I replied, “I’m not certain. As much as I wish to see her, I don’t believe she’s interested, and I’ll accept that.”

Choosing not to take a cab, I walked the few blocks back to my hotel. Fresh air, I believed, cures a foggy brain. At this point, my brain seemed nearly soggy, as well.

I passed by the gallery on my way to the hotel and saw Fiona and her assistant, Spencer Murphy, inside talking with Max. I rapped on the glass.

Max opened the door and gestured me inside. “The star of our show,” he gushed. “Have you come for your share of the takings?”

We laughed. “I think I can wait until tomorrow.”

Fiona pulled a chair toward me as I entered the office. “Glad you stopped by. We sold two more paintings since you left.”

“I was concerned that we might not even sell one in total.”

Spencer sniggered. “I figured at least three. They are extraordinary.” His boyish looks made him seem younger than his mid-twenties. Yet he had somehow become Fiona’s go-to assistant. He worked diligently on the many details in running one of the most successful agencies in the art world. He traveled with Fiona, kept her notes, and in general, kept her somewhat sober. Although romantically she liked younger men, he was not her lover. I strongly suspected he was gay.

“Spencer,” I said, “we were both wrong. I may be a hit after all.”

Fiona gave me a hug. I could tell she was somewhat inebriated. “The fools are coming to their senses. Now the collectors are like old lions with a piece of meat.” She cackled as she took another huge gulp of wine. “Want a sip? You haven’t done much celebrating, and it’s time you did. Past time.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather just go back to my hotel to sleep.” I stood, made my way to the door, and turned to see them toasting a night of success. For me, this was more than another great night—it was monumental. It marked the first night Fiona had sold so many of my paintings.

I was grateful for the triumphant evening in many ways. I also felt enriched that I’d met someone who’d played such an important part in Molly’s life. Although not biologically connected to Molly, Samantha had assimilated Molly’s kind and tender ways. 

As to the future, I had but one guess. Molly wasn’t interested in meeting with me again, and I had to accept it finally. Or at least attempt to accept it.

Chapter 4

I waited for my best friend of forty-plus years, Esther Lilly, to arrive from Colorado. When I called her yesterday, she recognized that my seeing Molly again had upset me and said she’d join me in London today at noon. We were meeting for lunch. I suggested Clouds, a small, exclusive, as well as expensive, café with an outdoor area located near the hotel. I asked the hostess to seat us outside under one of the parasol-style umbrellas.

As I sipped wine, my thoughts drifted back to leaving my home a couple of days before. I missed both my residence and Clover, my sweet little seven-year-old schnauzer. With light-silver, nearly platinum-colored, hair, she had lovely eyes with heavy, long lashes. A local art student, Roxie Tate, was watching my home and Clover. Clover and I adored Roxie. She e-mailed me the happenings of each day and did so with a great deal of style and zest. Each morning, and most evenings, I checked for her messages on my compact notebook. She referred to Clover as “Lashes,” and hadn’t told me how she referred to me. Roxie would also be taking care of Esther’s dogs.

Esther and I became fast friends in college and remained best friends over the years. She had recently retired from her career as an astrobiology professor. She once told me that one teaspoon of a neutron star weighed one-hundred-million tons. Esther was the queen of minutia.

Just slightly over five feet, Esther was a force. Her curly, shoulder-length, blonde-grey hair surrounded an angular face. Piercing blue eyes gleamed as if she was constantly scrutinizing.

I’d just been seated and had ordered one of our favorite wines for each of us. I was sipping mine as she arrived and slowly approached. I gave her a wave to get her attention.

“And?” she said. She dropped her shoulder bag luggage next to her chair and pitched her oversized traveler’s handbag on the table. “Has Molly called your hotel yet?”

“No. But her daughter, Samantha, showed up at my opening.”

“Let me get this straight. Samantha attends, Molly is missing in action, and no call?”

“It’s a very strange situation, Esther. Surreal. My brain has been in a blender all morning. I can’t figure it out. Samantha not only attends but purchases
Myths and Memories.
Tells me it’s a gift for her mother. Then she alludes to the fact that the woman in the painting might very well be Molly. She knew damned well it was.”

Esther gave a low whistle. “
Myths
is one of your priciest works.”

“She put thirty grand on her charge card as if it were thirty bucks. Then when we had coffee together, she tells me her biological mother, Pamela, died ten years ago. Suddenly, it occurs to me that the woman I was in love with—”

“Are in love with,” Esther said. “And don’t bother denying it. I know you too well. When you saw Molly, it all came rushing back to you. She’s always been close to your heart.”

“Of course I was excited to see her, but it seems I’ve not remained close to
her
heart. What’s puzzling me is she says she’ll call and doesn’t. That was a clue to her not giving a flip about me. Add to that, if she were interested, she could have contacted me ten years ago after Pamela’s demise.”

“Danielle, all these years you’ve pined for her. You’ll be upset more if you don’t make an attempt to contact her. Resolve it.”

“I’ve carried on with my life.”

“No, you haven’t. You’ve done some sporadic dating. You’ve never fallen in love or even come near to falling in love. And your encounter with Molly has stirred the dreams that you’ve held inside. Call her.”

“Even if I wanted to, I don’t have her phone number.”

“You said Samantha charged the painting. Maybe there’s a record.”

“They don’t give information out on a charge card.”

“So unless she contacts you by calling the hotel or the gallery, you have no way of contacting her?”

“No. Her daughter offered me her number, and I declined.”

Esther threw her hands up in the air. “Danielle, you are hopeless.”

“If she’d wanted to contact me, she would have. I refuse to chase her.” I swirled my glass of pinot Chardonnay and took a reverential sip. “Fiona wanted me to stay around this week. You know, drop in the gallery a few times. But if I want, I can go back to Denver anytime.”

“I didn’t just fly over the pond so I can leave before this jetlag finishes kicking me in the rear. Let’s rent a car and drive up to Scotland for a couple days. Maybe Ireland.”

“Fiona said someone in Ireland purchased two of my paintings. She isn’t certain who it was. It’s very strange. Everything’s seemed strange since I arrived.”

“Can’t you hear the pain in your voice? It’s especially obvious when you’re attempting to change the subject by talking about Ireland and someone else purchasing your paintings. You’re miserable.”

“I don’t need to hear the pain. I feel it, see it, and taste it. All I want to do is barricade myself in a cave and paint. If only she would’ve called to catch up. We spent eight years waking in one another’s arms. A quick call. Anything. It’s as if she ran away again as quickly as she could.”

“Maybe she’ll relent. Maybe she’s been busy with Samantha. Maybe she feels badly about dumping you thirty years ago. Maybe she couldn’t face you because she’s too ashamed. But you can’t run off, in case she gets it together and calls.”

I stared at Esther in disbelief. “Why are you so enthusiastic about my seeing Molly? You don’t even like her.”

“I don’t like what she did to you. There’s a difference. But that was thirty years ago, and you haven’t moved on. Let’s have a great lunch, walk, see the gallery, and then go back to the hotel. You need to paint, and I need to nap.”

The waiter arrived and we ordered divinely intricate salads and fancy burgers. Along with another glass of wine—we agreed we needed it.

“It was a long trip,” Esther said. “I should have had him bring an entire bottle. Or, better yet, a damned case. I have a feeling you’re not in the same frame of realism as I am.”

“As a realistic painter, I’m trained to search details. My brain feels rotted out by searching.”

“Molly has always exacted that reaction in you.” She took a sip of wine. “Seeing her again might release you from the pain.”

“I’m uncertain how seeing Molly again would be a cure-all. Esther, thanks for coming over. I appreciate it.” I touched the top of her hand and squeezed. “Have you got a room yet?”

“Directly beneath yours. So if your tears seep through and flood the room, I can be at your side in two minutes.” She smiled knowingly.

I tipped my head back at her. “Remember when you introduced me to Molly?”

“Ten seconds later you began your eternal pilgrimage to her. I remember. I had just met her in an education class. Thought of you immediately. It worked eight years.”

“I thought it would work forever,” I said in a wistful tone.

“Any good astrobiologist will tell you that ‘forever’ is probably not in the cards.”

“And some probabilities are much less probable than others,” I added with complete agreement.

“Talk about sad probabilities. Take a look at your wardrobe. You just peddled a thirty grand painting, and you look as if you’re out of a dumpster.”

I glared. “I don’t peddle my paintings.” Then I stole a look down at my clothing, which was, what they call in the trade, pulled together. You definitely couldn’t find these clothes in a fashion magazine. “They’re clean and cover what needs to be covered.”

Observing closely, Esther shook her head and mumbled, “A few of those bucks need to be spent with a nice clothier while we’re here in London.”

A quick scan of her outfit told me she was right. Her hyacinth-blue crinkle jacket with three-quarter sleeves covered a striped blouse that matched the blue. She wore fashion denim jeans and elegant denim-replicated shoes.

My own attire was, as usual, somewhere between eclectic and thrift store. I wore pewter-colored slacks. Stodgy, but comfortable, black loafers. An oversized sterling gray blouse and a moss-green, shard-print crewneck T-shirt completed my hodgepodge ensemble.

How many times over the years had she given me fashion commentaries? I often wondered if she considered my closet her lifetime’s work.

Esther continued her rant by saying, “Fashion defines you. Be more innovative.” She paused to scrutinize my attire. “What message does your fashion statement evoke?”