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“No. I won’t.” I loved flowers, but he fussed over those stupid plants like an old maid. I didn’t care if they died.
“Fine. I’ll come by and get them this week. When would be a good time?”
“Should I get an AIDS test?”
He squinted at my non sequitur. “Would it make you feel better?”
Anger sliced through me. “You are such a jackass. I don’t want an AIDS test to make myself feel better. You had sex with a stranger—with a man. And my life could be in danger because of it.”
AIDS was only one in a jumble of questions logjammed in my mind, tangled up with the likes of how many sexual partners he’d had over the past eighteen years? Did he practice safe sex. Or did he think too little of me to do so? Even though we only had sex maybe once a year over the span of our marriage it only took one time—kind of like getting pregnant.
Only AIDS killed.
Turning onto my side on the couch in the dark living room, I drew my knees up in a fetal position and listened to the sounds of the house that used to be our home—the tick of the grandfather clock, the phantom creaks and pops as the house settled; the refrigerator and air-conditioning that cycled on and off; and the full magnitude of how alone I was pressed down on me and unleashed the tears.
They came in torrents, in great heaving sobs that choked and nearly drowned me.
All the while, one single thought burned in my mind: How long would Blake have lived a double life had he not been involuntarily outted?
CHAPTER 2
The next day, I did what any self-respecting woman caught in the middle of an undeserved scandal would do—I called in sick to my marketing job at Heartfield Retirement Communities, then cut all the blooms off Blake’s orchids.
Good harvest. About twenty stems with at least three flowers each. I gathered them into a bundle, tied them with a ribbon and made an exotic bouquet.
Flowers for me.
Originally, I intended to sit in the middle of the greenhouse and pluck off all the petals: He loves me…He loves me not, because he’s gay and loves men…He loves men…He loves men not because he promised to love, honor and cherish me for all the days of my life….
That was just too maudlin.
The blooms were so beautiful, I arranged them in a crystal vase so I could enjoy them as I gorged on slightly stale beignet—that’s French for doughnut.
I never realized orchids were such exquisite little works of art. They were always Blake’s babies. I fingered a lush maroon petal that draped down past another cream petal shaped like a pouch the size of a chicken egg.
In the greenhouse, he’d labeled this one Showy Lady’s Slipper Orchid. The name conjured images of cross-dressing, but I blinked the thought away and ate another doughnut.
I lifted the curious little pouch-petal with my finger. I’d never looked at an orchid up close like this, certainly not a stem cut free from the potted plants Blake sequestered in the greenhouse for optimum growing conditions (rather than optimum enjoyment).
I plucked Lady’s Slipper from the vase, held it up and slowly twirled the stem in my fingers, getting a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree look at the flower.
Blake was going to be so pissed when he found his naked plants. He’d studied orchids like he was going for a master’s degree, and coddled them, coaxing the temperamental things to blossom. All to end up in a vase on the kitchen table.
Oops. My bad.
Since we were getting a divorce it only seemed fair we shared them fifty-fifty. Florida was a community-property state. After eighteen years of contributing my fair share to our egalitarian marriage, I wanted my half.
He’d get the plant. I’d get the flower.
Fifty-fifty.
I’d downed seven of the twelve doughnuts by ten-thirty and was so disgusted with myself I decided I had to get out of the house before I died an unnatural death.
Death by beignet. Or murder by irate, flower-worshipping, estranged husband.
The thought made me shudder, or perhaps the thought of venturing out into the world?
I pushed the doughnut box out of my reach. It wasn’t as if the paparazzi were camped on my doorstep. The sensible side of me knew the story of Blake’s arrest had faded from the minds of most people in central Florida.
Old news.
But in my world of neighbors, colleagues and husband-and-wife acquaintances the story lived on. Suddenly my world seemed like the whole world; as if everyone knew.
I couldn’t go to work.
I couldn’t even walk out onto my driveway.
Good thing the car was in the garage.
After a few moments’ contemplation, I decided to seek refuge with an old friend. A dear friend I’d neglected for a long, long time—my painting studio at the Orlando Center for the Arts.
I would go there and paint…orchids.
Because if I didn’t get out of the house, I was afraid I might lock the doors and never find the strength to venture outside again.
I waited until I was sure most of the neighbors were gone before I grabbed the vase and drove to the studio.
Far better than staying home and eating until I couldn’t fit through the door, or making myself crazy thinking about how I’d rearrange the furniture to make it appear as if nothing were missing once Blake took his fifty percent.
The only way to keep myself from dwelling on the ne’er-do-well was to focus on me. I’d neglected my interests—such as painting, and fresh flowers, and eating entire boxes of doughnuts—far too long.
I read in the Georgia O’Keeffe bio that she used to leave her husband, Alfred Stieglitz, for months on end to go paint in a place she called “Faraway.”
It was only New Mexico, actually. I’m sure “Faraway” sounded much more romantic than “Alfred, honey, you’re getting on my last nerve. I’m leaving now so I can refill my well. You’ll have to get your own dinner, and pick up your own dry cleaning.”
I know, I know, they probably didn’t have dry cleaning back in those days and if they did, I’m sure a woman who had the gumption to go “Faraway” probably wouldn’t have picked it up anyway.
My point being she took time to nurture herself, to foster her creative spirit. And Stieglitz was waiting for her when she decided to come home.
Paris would’ve been my “Faraway.” Once upon a dream, I wanted to study art there, but life’s obligations preempted those dreams. The big problem was that it was always so far away, and as a wife and mother, I had too much responsibility. Blake hated the French and had no desire to go to Paris. Not even for me.
After stops at Sam Flax for new art supplies (it had been so long since I’d purchased anything there, there was no chance anyone would recognize me) and Panera Bread for nourishment (frequent purchases there, but they didn’t know I was married to Blake), I pulled into a parking space at the Orlando Center for the Arts. I sat in the car for a few minutes with the engine running and the air-conditioning blowing cold air on my face.
OCA sat at the crest of a hill sloping down to a beautiful lake. The compound was actually a series of old buildings united by lush gardens and courtyards. Fantasy architecture, I’d heard it called once, with Mayan/Aztec motifs gracing the aged concrete walls and bejeweled stepping-stones and fountains scattered liberally throughout the grounds. Red clay tile roofs graced buildings with worn cream stucco walls dating back to the early 1900s.
A magical place that always made me feel artsy and organic. As if anything were possible.
I picked up the maroon lady’s slipper again and turned it around and around, trying to decide the angle I’d paint, but my heart felt so heavy I didn’t know if I’d be able to drag myself out of the car so I could get to my paints.
Okay, Anna, you’re starting over, who are you going to be now?
Good question.
I’d been daughter, sister, wife, mother. More successful at some roles than others.
What next?
In the rearview mirror I spied a smirking Mayan tribal mask etched into the garden wall behind my car.
“What are you looking at?” I murmured.
I could almost hear it answer, He’s gay. Is that what you want for yourself? Are you really willing to settle for a man who doesn’t love you?
My first thought was, Yes, I just want my life back. The scorned woman in me sounded a hearty, Absolutely not.
Feeling shaky, angry and vulnerable all at once, I stuck the orchid behind my ear, killed the engine and hauled myself and the vase of flowers out of the cool sanctuary of the car into the oppressive heat.
It was only March, for God’s sake. It was never this hot in March.
In Florida, the relentless, lingering dog days of August were bad enough, but it was brutal punishment when the heat came early.
The weatherman said better days were on the way.
Yeah, promises, promises.
Until then, all the more reason to hole up in my studio with my big fat bag of comfort from Panera Bread—broccoli cheese soup, Caesar salad and a raspberry Danish—God knows I wasn’t hungry, but I would be later. This way I wouldn’t have to go out and get dinner.
I could stay there…indefinitely.
Or until I got hungry again.
Since I was still so full I’d probably never eat again. I was banking on a long stay.
I nudged the car door shut with my rump and adjusted my grip on the Panera sack, careful not to smash the Danish. The paper bag crinkled in my hands, and I had a brief second of panic when I realized pastry had been the sexiest thing going on in my life for a long time.
As quickly as the panic flashed, it dissipated. It was okay to turn to comfort food—
Comfort food and oil paints. The combination made an unlikely elixir, but what the hell?
The baked asphalt radiated heat like the basalt rocks they used in hot-stone massages. A brown lizard dashed across the pavement, heading for the grass, and I nearly tripped over myself to keep from stepping on it—or letting it scurry over my foot.
Logically, I knew they were harmless, but I had a lizard phobia. When I was a kid, one ran up my pant leg once at a picnic, and I did an embarrassing striptease trying to get it off me. I was traumatized. Ever since, they’ve made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and I always end up nearly hurting myself trying to steer clear of them.
Classic case of once bitten, twice shy.
When I was in college, I studied phobias in a psychology class and learned they’re usually traced back to an event that caused the fear, and when you’re faced with similar circumstances, the fear and panic return.
My professor likened phobias to monsters we manufactured in our minds. Since there are no limits to our imagination, the only way we can dismantle the monsters is by facing them, by reaching out and touching them.
Beads of sweat broke free and pooled in my cleavage, teased by the hint of a breeze blowing in from the lake on the other side of the grounds.
There was no way in hell I was going to reach out and touch a lizard. In fact, the hot weather and the creepy-crawlies made me wonder why I lived here when there were so many other places I could go to avoid them—and Blake.
Ben was at college in Montana. I was free to go, if I wanted to. Just as the orchids cut free from the plant traveled to my studio where I could paint them.
The thought floored me. Did being free equal being unwanted? Cut free to wither and die just like the orchids?
I swiped at the moisture welling in my eyes— “Damn humidity”—and stepped into the grassy courtyard that hosted my studio. I tried to unlock the door, but the key stuck in the lock. I had to set down the bag and flowers so I could jiggle the knob.
It was mad at me for staying away for so long.
Fair-weather friend returning only after exhausting all other options.
After a little coaxing, the door opened with a squeak and I stepped into the shoebox of a room.
The shutters were drawn over the wall of windows and despite the darkness, the space was hot and dank. When I flipped on the light, it bounced off the white stucco walls.
A wooden easel stood bare in the corner below a cluster of cobwebs; a stack of forgotten blank canvases lined the wall; an empty coffee can for brush cleaner and a paint-splattered palette lay on the table, right where I’d left them the last time I was here—a good three months ago.
The first thing I needed to do was get some natural light into the room. I sidestepped a dead palmetto bug and screamed when I inadvertently dislodged a lizard carcass as I threw open the shutters. I couldn’t even kick it into the corner.
The windows looked out into an adjacent courtyard. A large live oak shaded a blue mosaic fountain surrounded by an overgrowth of purple foxgloves, red, white and pink impatiens, hibiscus and azaleas.
It took me back to the day Blake brought me here the first time, when he leased the studio for me. Art was where we connected. When all else failed in our relationship—when we went months without touching—I’d return to his support of the creative me.
It was hard not to slip into doubt. Since he was not who he pretended to be, did that mean everything else he upheld was a lie, too?
How he said I was talented; that he loved me and wanted a family.
I mean, what was love? It wasn’t quantifiable. You couldn’t measure it by any means other than faith and feeling.
When we met he was a good man with a promising future as an architect. He treated me well, if not passionately.
There’s more to life than passion. Passion was the flame that burned so furiously it burnt out and left you wanting.
I always believed a good marriage was born of the slow, steady rhythm of a man and woman, developed after passion flared and faltered.
Now I don’t know what to believe.
We got married and four months later Ben was born.
I loved Blake. I wouldn’t have married him if I thought he hadn’t loved me.
I stood at my studio window staring at the courtyard, waiting for the pretty view to permeate me and work its magic the way it did that first day, but all I felt was empty. And hot.
Good God, it was sweltering in here.
I reached over and turned on the air-conditioning unit that stuck out of the top of the last set of windows like a boxy appendage. It chugged to life, shaking and rattling as if it would burn itself out before it cooled down the place.
