Appointment with a Smile (4 page)

“Point taken,” I said, never more thrilled to have a waiter arrive with our orders. “These salads are a meal themselves.”

Chapter 5

The Marshall Hotel, a grand old lodging from the past, sat proudly in a historic, trendy area. Not the most luxurious hotel, it had undergone updates and remodeling multiple times. Certainly it was more elaborate than the squalid little motel rooms I’d once occupied in my early days of painting.

My deceased grandparents had been middleclass and very thrifty. They held claim to the idea that the richest person wasn’t the one who had the most but the one who needed the least. A motto Fiona found ridiculous. And she certainly hadn’t minded pointing out the error of that economic misinformation multiple times over the years.

At any rate, I’d decided to return to the Marshall to paint.

Glancing around the Queen Anne style small suite, I observed tranquility in progress. It consisted of a sitting room and bedroom. The bedroom housed a walnut sleigh bed with rosette inlay on the scrolled headboard and footboard. A bedspread of flaxen color and powder blue matched the walls and décor. A lowboy and wardrobe held my clothing and incidentals.

The ivory sitting room displayed richly decorative woodwork. Within were a sofa; wing chairs in floral reds, violets, and greens; a table; a liquor cabinet; and a drop-lid desk with a pull-out arm. All furniture had cabriole legs and matching woods. The suite’s atmosphere was an excellent environment for my painting. When light was available from the London skies, it poured in through tall windows. And the suite was comfortable, which was most important for my soul’s serenity.

I had scrutinized my sketches before selecting one. One time I traveled without my supplies when I wanted to clear my head of art and felt actual pain when I had nothing with which to work when I needed it. So I always made it a point to bring my case of acrylic paints, supplies, and two or three 24x36 inch canvases with me.

After I primed the canvas, I began touching it softly with the brush. Raw outlines twisted and bent with the subject. Boldly, I transferred the market scene from sketch to canvas. Soon there was enough paint to resemble Molly’s face. Only a premature sketch, but she was looking at me.

My mind whirled as I remembered Molly’s seeming indifference. And I relived the memories. We were at the Denver Botanical Garden. She touched the petal of a flame-orange begonia with the same gentle touch that she caressed me. She had such generosity and love in her spirit. When she left, I believed that generosity had snarled, and her touch faded.

When I saw her in the market, I realized she was the same person. And she still had the ability to transport me to a place of loving her. As I continued painting her image, tears pooled in my eyes. I stopped to dab them away with a paper towel I kept to wipe my brushes and clean minor drippings.

I most enjoyed capturing the human spirit in my art. Life told a story. In every story, there was tension. Each face held intensity, passion, and a rare exactitude of its own power.

When I looked into my own mirror-reflected face, although I seldom did self-portraits, I saw the power of abandonment. Desertion by my parents and the woman I loved had left an obvious imprint on my soul.

Perhaps this brought about the edginess within my work. Each canvas emitted a levitating unanswered question. I had never done this with purpose. I didn’t paint jagged edges or any semblance of disorder and disharmony. The tension was my way of viewing life and channeling creativity. Nothing more, I had come to believe.

As I worked, I recalled the many paintings I’d done of Molly in past years. Her face of today was a bit fuller, with tiny lines edging her eyes. The frames of aged eyes sagged a bit, but the sheen within hadn’t fled with the years. Her body was slightly wider, her hair at the temples streaked with a lush silver.

Wanting the colors to be just right, I clamped my eyes shut, remembering. Color was so integral to seasoning and texturing a work. I often inspected the world’s hues to study how to best mix the exact match. How would I replicate grass stains, the undersides of clouds, and glass’s reflection?

My first memories were of coloring moonlight. For my fourth birthday, I’d received a coloring book and crayons. I’d crawled from my bed and attempted to recreate the moon’s brilliance. It took many sheets of scrap paper and countless canvases to begin to understand color.

For the next three hours, I decorated the space of the canvas, composing more with each stroke of the brush. Globs of lifeless paint began to breathe, to blink, and to exist. I felt the tenderness of Molly’s face as if she’d sprung to life on my canvas, just as she had at that market. I saw her bewilderment at seeing me, but I also recognized love. Or perhaps I wanted to recognize love within her eyes.

On my iPod were my favorite songs from ABBA’s greatest hits, along with many of my other favorite CDs. I did not expect to hear ABBA as my brush lightly pressed the canvas. When “I Have a Dream” began playing, I placed my brush down. ABBA had released the song about the time Molly was leaving me.

With Molly gone, romance also seemed to have left my life. I’d doom any attempt at romance by warning each woman I dated that I was still in love with my first love. Some took it as a peculiar challenge. As Esther had aptly put it, others dropped me like a ton of turds. Smiling, I wondered how many times over the years she’d pulled out that line. Each time I tried to fall in love, it simply wouldn’t work.

I picked up a small brush and daubed a slight bit of black on the tip. I usually didn’t bother putting much of the color black on my palette. Known for vibrant colors, I used umber, sienna, or sometimes just a darker version of the color I’d shaded. Adding black to color dulled a picture’s life. And my life once again felt the darkness as I dulled it down to black.

Chapter 6

Fiona stared at my latest work. It rested on the cabinet in the gallery’s back room where they framed the canvases. “You painted this in one afternoon?” she asked with a frown.

“Yes, this afternoon. Alla prima. Done in one sitting. It seems a bit unfinished when comparing it to my usually precise work. But it is finished.”

“A new style for you. And it’s extremely precise. The eyes are lovely. Perfectly executed.” She stood back, squinting. “Yes, maybe the best rendering of eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“Perhaps that’s all I truly wanted to be seen.”

“After those sales last night, did you phone Roxie about sending additional paintings as I asked you to do?” She gave a tug on the hemline of her glitzy turquoise- and tangerine-colored overblouse. With a swirling feather pattern, it seemed to compete with her makeup. She wore black stiletto pants, with matching stiletto shoes.

“Yes. She shipped them this morning, the few that I recommended.”

Fiona arranged for shipping companies to crate and convey artwork to any destination as quickly as possible. I was never certain if she achieved exactly what she wanted through threats, cajoling, large quantities of money, or her charm. But she always triumphed.

“Do thank Roxie. And please assure her I’ll put it right with her for the bother. A few sent today will be a start. You want to put this one in?” Fiona asked with her most encouraging voice. “We may sell out in a week. And I can’t expect a painting a day from you, although it would be nice.”

“I’ll do my best as far as productivity goes.” I usually spent a great deal more time on one painting. The notion of rapidly completing a work was a stranger to me.

“It’s raining money, and it’s past time you got drenched, my dear. Have a chat with your muse. This London trip is taking you to new places. Paint and let it rain!”

“You could use a few raindrops as well,” I joked.

“Me in particular. So don’t worry about showing up at the gallery and putting in time. Besides, you’re a piss-poor rep of your work. You’re in the midst of a glorious first solo exhibit of this magnitude. And you’re creating. I love it. This is an art odyssey. Paint,” she repeated.

“What about Max?” I asked. “I don’t want him to feel as though I’m letting the gallery down.”

“As much as I adore him, he’s a fool. But I can convince him we’ll make more money in the end. That’s his objective. And once he sees this painting, he’ll agree. He runs the gallery. I run the artists.” She gave a husky laugh before puffing heartily on her cigarette.

“Art is its own secret,” I said. “Value is no one’s secret.”

“And art is no secret from you, is it, you sweet Saph?” she asked as Spencer approached. “Look at this, Spence.”

“Whoa!” He stepped back. “This is absolutely
absolute.”

“Thanks.” I greeted him with a slight wave. He looked particularly haggard. “Had a rough night?”

“No. Just studying some of your work on the Internet that we have at the gallery back home. I got a message that sales have picked up. Did some price restructuring. Looks like we have a rising star. Do me a favor.” He threw his arm around me. “Don’t go establishment.”

Fiona snickered. “Fuck the establishment.”

“That can be our battle cry,” he said.

Fiona looked at me. “You’ve always been my favorite artist, Danielle. Always. You never give me headaches. Some of those goddamn babies want their balls scratched. If there’s an accident, they expect me to be everyone between the first responder and the coroner. The fools.”

“And you’re not a promoter-slash-profiteer?” Spencer playfully kidded. For whatever reason, he was her only employee who could tease her and keep his job.

“You can get by with anything,” I told him. “So what do you have on her?”

They both gave a few conspiratorial giggles. Fiona said, “Danielle, it’s taken you awhile, but you’re in the winner’s circle now.”

“Maybe if I’d had a higher education, stayed in college, and got more art training, I might’ve been here sooner.”

Fiona waved her hand dismissively. “You’ve always had the basics down by heart. I don’t think art school would have done much. Other than teach you to be like everyone else. And you’re not like everyone else. Just look at this painting. Extraordinary. Is this painting part of the dream of a reunion with your Molly?”

I shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“Can we include it in the exhibit?” Fiona wouldn’t let up.

“You can put it in the show, just like it is. I want a hundred thousand for it, though. So it isn’t likely to sell.”

“Realistically, no. And what is the title?”

“I’m calling it
Farewell to Molly.
”

Chapter 7

After spending time at the gallery, I met Esther for a late dinner. We stopped in at the adorable Lindsay’s Tea House. Small and sweet and serving traditional fare, its vintage glamour and elegance seemed right for us.

I ordered an herb-encrusted cod dish that included a salad and side of roasted vegetables and naturally, Lindsay’s specially blended tea. Esther decided on roast beef, salad, and veggies, along with orange-spiced tea.

She looked as relaxed as I was, but she had her daily planner in hand. She’d probably planned a thousand tours, so I immediately began distracting her with my normal diversionary question.

“How are things in the heavens today?” I asked. She didn’t disappoint me.

“Hydrothermal vents are able to support bacteria on earth and may support it in outer space. It is extremophile bacteria and could be in other parts of the cosmos even as we speak.”

I nodded as if I understood. “I was wondering what had become of all extremophile bacteria.”

“I’ll tell you this, we don’t know all the chemical formulations. I wish you’d taken a course in chemistry,” she said with some exasperation. “Or at least passed a course in chemistry if you ever took one. There’s the theory of panspermia that relates how life may have come from a distant planet. Or even an asteroid, or interstellar space. Life might’ve been carried here on the backs of distant debris.”

“I’d rather believe I’m whittled from a monkey’s sperm. Distant debris is too much like catching a dumpster ride across the cosmos in a garbage bag.”

“See, I can’t really talk with you about the origin of life. My field. I can’t.”

“Sorry. Guess it’s like when Molly and I were together. I never felt bright enough to be a part of her life. As a philosophy student, all her friends were a true part of academia. At least they pretended to be preeminent intellectuals. I never got the nuances of philosophy. And I was little more than an isolated soul wearing paint-smudged shirts and possessing a well-nourished imagination.”

Esther frowned at me. “Calm down and dry off, for God sakes, Danielle. Stop with the inferiority crapola. You’ve kept up with your reading. You’re certainly not the gatekeeper of astrobiology, but I’ve tried to keep you up to speed in the sciences. Pain blocks the view of ourselves. Your parents ignored you. Molly dumped you. But you’re too damned sensitive. Think about how great your grandparents were.”

“They were wonderful.” I had lost my beloved grandfather while I was in college. And my sweet and kind grandmother died right before Molly left. I was in a constant state of mourning when she died and often wondered if that contributed to Molly’s leaving. But looking back now, it probably wasn’t the case.

“I also loved them,” Esther said quietly. “They were better than most parents. That’s for sure.”

“My acrimony with my parents has softened over the years. They were too young to raise a family. The old saying about if you’re going to have a baby, you can’t be the baby, in their case was absolutely true. That might be why my mother turned to illegal additives and some legal ones that pour into a shot glass.”

“Additives and not illegal drugs,” Esther repeated with a sharp cackle. “At least you still have a sense of humor. When your mother died she couldn’t have been over forty.”

“Forty-two. Died alone in a creepy, rat-infested hotel in Kansas. And my father died in Texas. His new family hadn’t even contacted my brother and me. I heard it long after the fact from an aunt.” I blinked a few times to prevent the tears from falling. “But we survived. We’ve lit the candle inside our joy and made a party. Like now.”