My gaze snapped back to her. The question was not accusing or judgmental. She hadn’t been either of those things thus far with me and I’d given her plenty of reasons to.
“I guess,” I agreed, my honesty surprising me. But what was the point in pretending to be a good person around someone who had seen my true face as soon as I refused her muffins and kindness?
She sipped her wine. “You’re like a kid, pulling the wings off butterflies because you don’t know what to do with yourself.”
I sipped my own, frowning at the chunk of cheese that was almost entirely gone, thanks Margot and her gaze and trickery.
“That sounds more like a serial killer,” I joked. Half joked. It was callous to even say, considering the way Emily had died and the fact I was using a serial killer’s victims to inspire my story.
Of course, Margot didn’t know this. I was sure there were limits to what she’d put up with before she washed her hands of me.
She shrugged. “We’re all apt to act a little like sociopaths if our passions aren’t fueled. The blessing and the curse of the creative person. Those without passions, talent, creativity, are either incredibly lucky or supremely unfortunate. I haven’t quite decided which.”
“What’s your passion then?” I asked, again surprising myself with the question. With the curiosity about her life. Sure, a lot of people peppered questions at friends in accordance with social niceties. Barely any of them cared, or listened. Mostly people were just waiting for the time they could drone on about themselves.
I was suddenly overcome with my curiosity about Margot.
I had allotted her a word, upon first seeing her. But that was not out of curiosity. It happened with everyone without my permission.
Her word was Calm.
Which hadn’t made sense, considering the frizz in her hair and the sheer volume of accessories she had on at any one time, but something inside me knew it to be true.
Because in the time I’d known her—which wasn’t very long, to be fair—I’d never seen her worked up. Manic. Mad. Sad.
Either she had a great Xanax prescription or some kind mastery over her life I’d never be able to accomplish. Regardless, I wanted to know more.
“I paint,” she replied. “Though I’m guessing that’s not exactly shocking to you.”
I smiled. “Yeah, it would’ve been somewhere in my top three guesses. You remind me of my high school art teacher. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but that’s a compliment. She was the only one I didn’t hate.”
Margot smiled back at me. Hers, I knew was more practiced, natural, genuine. “Well, I was a high school art teacher, so I can’t really fault you there. They say those that can’t do, teach, which is right a lot of the time. But with art, it wasn’t. It’s similar to people who teach writing, I’ll guess. It’s one thing to be talented. There’s a lot of talented artists out there. It’s quite another to make the world notice. Make the world want to notice.” She shrugged. “I was happy not being noticed. Marrying young, teaching kids that were sometimes talented but mostly just assholes.” She gave me a look. “Some of the special ones were talented assholes.”
I surprised myself by smiling again. Not practiced or natural, but genuine just the same. Because she was right. I was a talented asshole.
“I derived joy from it. The help that I gave the students that needed it, even one out of a thousand, it was worthwhile. The pay sucked, but we didn’t need the money. I sold paintings on the side, got paid enough for them to get by, and then some. My husband was the opposite from me. Wore a suit to work. Took himself rather seriously. Made a lot of money. Didn’t know Monet from a finger painting.” She glanced out at the lake, melancholy mixed with a happiness that shouldn’t be harmonious with her obvious sorrow. But it was.
“It worked. Somehow. We loved each other madly and that was enough. Maybe it wouldn’t have been, once the years wore off our shine and our differences were just annoying instead of enlightening. I wonder a lot whether somehow, it was a blessing he was taken from me when our love was still sweet, simple. But that is just a selfish thought I indulge to stop myself going too crazy.”
I had known, on some level, she’d buried someone she loved. In my mind, there was a fifty-fifty chance of it being a man. Not that that mattered. But it was just something else interesting.
As it was, loving someone and losing them and being able to smile talking about the past was interesting enough for me. Tragic enough.
“How did he die?” I asked, not offering her empty placations. She wouldn’t expect them from me. And I’m sure she would’ve heard every variation of “sorry for your loss” over the years.
She glanced back at me, eyes glassy but content. She’d done all of her grieving. Of course she had. “Car accident,” she replied. “A totally unremarkable, common way to die. Not interesting enough for a horror writer.”
“Oh, death is interesting, always,” I replied. “And so are those who survive it.”
She caught something in my words. I knew that. My wound wasn’t cleaned, healed, like hers. So, it wasn’t exactly easy to hide from someone practiced in death.
She didn’t press, though.
“You didn’t remarry?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I’m sure I could’ve. I’ve had plenty of romances over the years. I didn’t turn myself into a nun. That would help no one. I’ve even fallen in love a couple of times. It was fun. Heartbreaking at times too. I’m sure I’m not done falling in love, because I’m always looking for it. But I’m done with marriage. I only intended on doing it once in my life. And once I will.”
“Kids?” I asked. She was doing the polite thing, not probing at my wounds, but I was more than happy to probe at hers. I was interested. And yes, I did like the thought of maybe having a friend like her. There was also the itch at the back of my neck. She was giving me meat to pile into my story. Fatten it up.
“Ah, yes. The question that all women get asked because it’s in the script. We’re meant to want to procreate. To nurture. Sure, I would’ve been good at it. If forced. But no, I had no urge for it. Too much permanence. I’m selfish, at my core. Which is why love never lasts for me. I’m not willing to give up as much of myself as true love requires.”
I blinked at her words. The honesty of them. How unexpected they were. “If you’re selfish, I hate to think what I am,” I muttered.
She raised her brow at me. “Honey, we’re all selfish, just in different ways.”
I nodded.
We were silent for two glasses of wine. I was playing with storylines in my mind, using Margot’s words, her spirit, to fuel me. My laptop would call to me soon. But not yet. More wine. More silence. More company.
But it wasn’t enough.
I needed something else.
“Margot, you wouldn’t happen to have Saint’s home address, would you?”
She grinned wide when I uttered the question. Knowing, again. “Ah, so you’re not done pulling the wings off butterflies?”
“Not yet.”
Chapter 11