“Yes, Marjorie,” I say. “Just like Bob Ross. OK—does everyone’s phone have Internet access?” They all nod at me. “Why don’t you scroll through some images and look for landscapes that inspire you? And then we’ll talk about how to get started.”
As they do that, I walk over to the stack of my own canvases that I brought and I start sorting through them to find landscape paintings that I could use as examples. There are only two that could be considered landscape-ish—a snow-covered street in Philadelphia and the huge panorama of the amusement park. It’s so big I almost didn’t bring it—I had to fold down the backseat so I could slide it into the trunk—but now I’m glad I did. I set them up on two empty easels in front of the classroom.
“Ooh,” Marjorie says, when I turn back to the class.
“Did you find something good?” I ask her.
She points at the amusement park. “That’s beautiful,” she says. “I want to paint that.” The other three look up from their phones.
“Well, I really only brought it as an example. It’s just something I’ve been working on. You guys should choose something that speaks to you.”
“It’s happy,” Rebecca says. The others murmur, nodding their heads. I thought it was dark and a little eerie—or maybe that was just how I felt when I was standing in it.
“I’d like to paint it, too,” the construction-booted man says.
“Well, um, it’s a rather large painting and a little detailed for what we’ll have time to cover. And I was hoping you’d each have your own original artwork at the end of this class.” They all stare back at me expectantly, obviously not swayed by my reasoning. “I suppose we could just take one section of it—perhaps the carousel bit—and work on that?”
The next two hours fly by as I bumble through trying to explain sketching and underpainting to form the basic structure of their work, and I learn that there’s a world of difference between understanding these skills myself and trying to teach them. But then, finally, time is up, and we’re cleaning up and everyone slowly drips out of the classroom.
Rebecca is the last to leave. We walk out to the warm humid air of the parking lot together.
“You’re very talented,” she says.
“Oh,” I say, caught off guard by the compliment. I’ve never been able to take one well when it comes to my work. But I’m even worse with the critiques. “Thank you.”
She stops when we get to my car and turns to me, concern suddenly crinkling her forehead. “How’s Harrison doing?”
I tilt my head at her, momentarily confused—and then I realize she must know about the miscarriage. Maybe she knows about all of them. “Oh, he’s . . . you know, we’re fine. Just one day at a time.”
“Yeah, that’s all you can do.” She offers a kind smile. “Well, see you next week.” I agree that I will see her next week and then slide into my car, and before I crank the engine, I have a weird feeling in my gut that I’ve missed something. Something vital. And then it’s gone.
* * *
It’s just before ten when I walk in the front door and my phone starts ringing. Oliver’s name fills the screen. My face flushes.
I had it all planned out, what I was going to say to him after the Rodin, after Isak’s absurd and preposterous announcement: He give you baby. That I couldn’t do it any longer. That I was married, for Christ’s sake. That I didn’t know why we were dreaming about each other, but it was just going to have to be one of life’s little mysteries.
But I didn’t hear from him for days, and when he finally texted, it was just a picture of Krynchenko’s book that came in the mail, and my conjured responses suddenly seemed a little overreactionary, and a lot presumptuous. It’s not like he was hitting on me. He’d never once crossed a line, and honestly didn’t seem the type to do so. I responded with a thumbs-up (friendly, casual) and haven’t heard from him in the week since. Until now.
Finished Krynchenko’s book.
And?
It’s interesting. Meet for coffee?
I stare at the words, momentarily confused. When? In Philly?
Now. Hope Springs. I’m here—just finished putting a crib together for Caroline.
Oh. I look up, around the living room, at the painting of the chicken, as if it will suddenly come to life and tell me what to do. But it’s silent, as silent as the house is since Harrison’s not home yet and probably won’t be for hours. My mouth goes slightly dry, but I only hesitate for one more second before responding: OK.
* * *
The Coffee Bean occupies prime real estate on Waterloo, the only road downtown fronting the Delaware River. The water is calm tonight, the streetlights reflecting off it. Oliver is sitting at an iron two-top on the patio and half stands when he sees me. I take in his striped tank top that reveals his tanned arms, the Reef sandals cutting a thick fabric V over each foot, his half-sticking-up hair, and I know his hands have just been in it. I try to ignore the now-familiar electric buzz in my stomach at seeing him.
“Hey.” He grins.
“Hi yourself,” I say.
“They’re closing in twenty minutes.” He nods to the table next to us that a waitress is wiping down, and I can see through the glass door that she’s already stacked chairs on the tabletops inside.
“Oh.”
“If you want to grab something, we could take it to go.”
So I do. I order a latte from the disgruntled teenager behind the counter, who clearly already cashed out the register. Back outside, Oliver and I start walking slowly along the river, clutching the cardboard rings hugging our paper cups.
“So. Are you keeping me in suspense on purpose?” I keep my voice light to break the tension that seems to have cropped up between us. Maybe it’s the darkness of the night, the quiet of the streets or just the naturally romantic setting of the river, but the air feels more intense somehow, less buoyant.
He chuckles and gestures with his cup toward a water-facing bench beneath a bright streetlight. I sit and he digs in his back pocket with his free hand, producing a curved paperback. “Here,” he says, sitting beside me.
I take it from him, rereading the title. Psychic Psychology: The Science Behind the Supernatural. He clasps his hands together. “Do you want me to start with the far-out stuff or the really far-out stuff?”
I grin. “Ease me in. Basic far-out.”
“’K,” he says. “Turn to page eighty, I think? Eighty-one, something like that.”