I roll my eyes and stand up. Stretching my arms overhead, her pretend voice continues. Do something! You have too much time on your hands, and you’re sitting around obsessing. Unpack! Go for a walk! Take up knitting!
God, fake Vivian is annoying. But I know she’s also right. I do need something to occupy my mind. I walk into the kitchen, throw away my granola wrapper, and then I’m drawn out the back door, retracing my steps from the day before into the studio.
For a few seconds, I stare at the floor where Harrison and I were lying, at the charcoal hand, and then—there it is, again—finally. I’m struck with the same urge to create. The urge that’s been eluding me since we moved to Hope Springs.
In practiced movements, I slip my simple gold wedding band off my finger and loop it on a chain around my neck. I pull fat tubes of acrylic out of boxes, a few brushes, and arrange them on the table next to the blank canvas. And then I sit down on the stool and an image comes to me as plainly as if I’m staring at a photograph. I begin to paint.
I stop once, to eat a bag of kettle-cooked potato chips and an apple, and then again to turn on the light when the sun fades from the windows and darkness creeps in. But I’m still painting later that night when Harrison creaks open the door to the studio and stands beneath the transom, patiently watching as my fingertips sweep across the canvas with purpose, creating four trails of yellow and orange. I rarely use brushes when painting, preferring the control of my fingers to create lines, depth, texture, shadows. Satisfied with the markings, I pick my hand up off the canvas and glance over my shoulder at my husband.
“You’re painting,” he says.
“I am.”
“It’s a chicken.”
“It is.” The one from my nightmare, not dead and wrapped in tinfoil, but alive in brilliant chartreuse and carroty orange and robin’s egg blue, squawking, its red beak gaping.
Harrison tilts his head, considering. “Things with feathers?”
I pause, my lip turning up on one side. “Maybe,” I say.
Harrison steps into the studio and comes up behind me until he’s close enough to clasp my shoulder. But he keeps his hands in his pockets.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Late,” he says. “Eleven.”
I knew I had lost track of time, but I’m still surprised to learn I’ve been painting for almost twelve hours. “Rough day?”
“Woman with perforated diverticulitis. Bad case. Tachycardic, acidotic. Had to get out before I could finish. I sent her up to the ICU for resuscitation.”
I nod, even though I’m only vaguely familiar with the terms from overhearing Harrison use them on the phone.
“Didn’t want to leave until I had checked on her a few times.”
I nod again. We both stare at the chicken as if waiting for it to come alive at any second.
“I think I’m going to look for a job,” I say, voicing the thought that’s been swirling in my mind since conjuring fake Vivian’s advice. For weeks really. But now, especially, I need something—more than my art—to keep my mind occupied.
“Furniture store?”
“Maybe.” I notice the tail feather needs more detail. I dip my finger in the ochre, then a touch of dark brown.
“Have you eaten?” Harrison asks, but the words don’t register, my focus fully back on my work. He used to take it personally when I would ignore him while working, or even when I wasn’t working but was suddenly struck with something I wanted to try on a work in progress or a new idea altogether and my eyes would glaze over in midsentence. I hate it when you do that, he said one time, his voice low. It was quiet, but the new timbre—or maybe it was the seriousness with which he spoke—jerked me back to him. I looked at him, eyes wide.
I was talking. To you.
I’m sorry, I said, appropriately chagrined. I just—
He put up his hand to stop me, and I sucked in my breath, wondering if this was it. The proverbial straw. My eccentric artist ways were no longer charming to him and he had had enough. I thought of all the things I could have done to prevent it—I could have tried harder. To listen that first one hundred times he half joked about it bothering him. To be present. To put him first. To not get swept away in my work. But I also knew it was impossible, so I just held my breath.
He stared at me and then left the room. And I exhaled, feeling very much like I had dodged a bullet.
Now, he turns to leave, his shoes clunking on the cement in retreat. I jab my finger at the canvas in short, quick strokes, and then as the door creaks open, I remember. “I made an appointment,” I say. “Thursday, July fifth.”
He doesn’t speak and I wonder if maybe he didn’t hear me. Or if he’s already left, even though I didn’t hear the door thunk closed. My hand hovers over the canvas, my ear straining.
And then, finally, he says, “OK,” and slips out into the dark night.
Chapter 7
Though there’s an antique store on nearly every corner in Hope Springs, there’s only one furniture store: the Blue-Eyed Macaw. It’s upscale, staged beautifully, and I can tell the owner handpicks every single item she sells. They’re also not hiring.
I’ve spent two full weeks scouring job-opening websites, hoping something might become available that I’d be interested in—or at least not hate. The problem is Hope Springs is hopelessly tiny, and there were only two jobs that I even remotely qualified for: a waitress position at an Italian restaurant and a custodian for the elementary school. But they both required night hours, which wouldn’t solve my need to have something to do during the day—and I also didn’t love the idea of seeing Harrison even less. Expanding my search area to all of Bucks County didn’t help, so I decided to take the old-fashioned approach. Show up to places in person and hope I could charm my way into a job, starting with the Blue-Eyed Macaw.
The manager, a tall woman with white-blond hair, a French-tipped manicure and a name tag that reads Henley, kindly lets me fill out an application anyway.
“You know, I think I heard Sorelli’s has an opening for a waitress. Manager’s name is Richard.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But I was really hoping for something in home décor or design. I used to be a consultant at Stanley Neal in Philly.”
“That’s a nice store,” she says. “High-end.”
I nod.
“Well, Nora, the owner, she does most of the consulting when our clients request design help.” She holds up the paper I filled out. “But I’ll give this to her.”
“Nora?” My eyes widen. “As in, the woman who owns the art gallery on Mechanic?”