“Don’t kill me, okay?”
“Why would I do that? You’re not going to tell me you’ve slept with Blake, too, are you?”
She scrunched up her nose. “Ew. No.”
“Oh, I forgot, you’re not his type. You don’t have a penis.”
My sister didn’t laugh.
I held up the transparency of the foxgloves to the light and looked at it again, and when I looked over at her she shot me a weird sort-of smirk.
“You know it would be really good for you to get away from here. Go somewhere fresh where the word penis doesn’t automatically evoke nightmares.”
“What are you talking about?”
I nudged the last slide into place, skimmed the sleeve to the center of the table and turned my attention to Rita.
“You know I shot two sets of slides, right?”
“No, I didn’t know that. Is it a problem?”
“Only if you hate me for sending them to Paris…with the artist-in-residency application.”
I crossed my arms in front of me. “You did what?”
“I sent your work—”
“I heard you the first time. I just— Rita, I can’t go to Paris. I told you that. That’s why I didn’t send them myself.”
She pulled out a stool and perched on the edge of it. “I know you did. Your mind is kind of on automatic pilot.”
I threw up my hands. “Well, I’m kind of preoccupied trying to figure out how I’ll take care of myself after I’m divorced. As of right now, that plan does not include moving to Paris for three months.”
She looked disappointed and lowered her voice the way our mother used to when she tried to win us over to her way of thinking. “Why can’t you see that would be the very best way for you to take care of yourself? A change of scenery, a change of career.”
I hated this logical side of my sister. I walked over to my easel and picked up my brush. “Okay. Okay. Fine. I’m not going to fight with you over this. Thank you for thinking enough of my work…for thinking enough of me—”
The words burned the back of my throat, and made my eyes water. I swallowed hard.
“Thank you for doing that for me. But you know, you have to stop—”
I shook my head and stabbed my brush in the gob of cadmium yellow on my palette so hard the bristles flared.
“What were you going to say?”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rita stand.
“That I have to stop interfering with your cocoon-building? Well, I’m not going to, Anna.”
I swiped a slash of yellow across the canvas. “This is not worth fighting over. Tell me where I can find a telephone number and I’ll call and withdraw.”
“Withdraw?” She laughed and stood behind me, but I didn’t turn around. “If you feel the need to withdraw, then you think you might win a spot.”
I shrugged, and dipped my brush into the black paint. “I don’t. I don’t know what I think. Just stop.”
“Why would you not go for this?”
A funnel of fear rose and whirled around my stomach, but I ignored it, focusing instead on how I should’ve been mad at my sister for putting me in this position; for going against my wishes and entering my work in that contest. And I would’ve been mad at her if I hadn’t been so numb. But despite the numbness, deep inside in the very center of my soul, down in the tiny little speck of heart that hadn’t frozen solid, I knew she was right. Only, there was a wide cavern between what I should do and what I was capable of doing just then.
“Well, Ri, I’ll add painting in Paris to my to-do list right behind finding a decent divorce attorney and securing another place to live because Blake is barking about putting the house on the market.”
She clucked her tongue and sighed. Loudly. As if she’d just learned I’d pierced my nipples and planned to shave my hair into a Mohawk.
“Look, it’s easy to judge when your ass isn’t on the line,” I said over my shoulder.
“Yeah, I guess so. And I guess it’s easy to use Blake as an excuse for not living your life. As big a bastard as he is, he’s not the one keeping you from Paris. You’re doing this to yourself.”
I whirled to face her. “That is so unfair.”
“I know it is. The entire scenario that’s brought you to this juncture sucks. But Anna, what would really be unfair is if you used this crap as an excuse to curl up into a little ball and fade away.”
I turned back to my canvas before the first tears broke free and meandered down my cheek. I wiped them away with my sleeve.
“You blame Blake for taking away your life. Don’t give him your soul.”
I heard Rita’s sandals clicking on the concrete floor, walking away from me. I wanted to shout at her, If I’d wanted to go to Paris I would have sent in the damn application myself. Well, okay, I wanted to go to Paris. Someday. Just not right now.
Arrgh. Too much. Too much. Too much was coming at me too fast.
“I have a challenge for you.” My sister’s voice was softer. I glanced over to see her hitching her purse up on her shoulder.
“Don’t withdraw. Just let the application ride. Toss it up to fate and see what happens. Okay?”
CHAPTER 4
After six weeks of having the bed to myself, I decided I liked sleeping alone. I woke up at six-thirty that particular morning smack-dab in the middle of the king-size bed. No one poked me in the back and told me to keep to my own side of the bed. No one elbowed me for inadvertently kicking him when I stretched out.
It was kind of nice, this newfound personal space. If I wanted to I could take my half out of the middle. It was a good thing, sleeping alone. I lay there and waited for reality to jolt my sleep-befuddled mind and expose the big dark hole that had taken up residence where my heart used to live.
I waited, but the familiar pain didn’t stir.
A good sign.
Never mind that waking up was the easy part. Going to bed alone was still a challenge. After eighteen years of sleeping with the same person, I’d found comfort and reassurance in being able to reach out and touch Blake whenever I wanted—even though we rarely touched.
There was something in just knowing he was there, something comforting in the occasional brush of his foot against mine, no matter how unintentional; something in the rhythmic ebb and flow of his breathing; even something in his snoring, although until I discovered earplugs it used to drive me nuts.
I guess my newfound personal space—room to stretch—was one fringe benefit of living alone.
I spread my arms and legs to the four corners of the bed, just because I could, and moved them back and forth like a child making a snow angel. I reveled in the softness of the sheets under my body, and then lay spread-eagle for a moment, and listened to the quiet until the shrill ring of the telephone interrupted my calm.
“Annabelle, I didn’t wake you, did I?”
Blake. My heart skipped a beat. “No, I’m up.”
“Good. I wanted to catch you before you went to work.”
His brisk tone hinted that I might not like what he had to say. But I waited, holding firmly to the old adage she who speaks first loses.
“Annabelle,