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Hmmph. Passion.
It took three trips from my car to the studio to schlepp in all of the supplies I’d picked up at Sam Flax—new paints and brushes, a large bottle of gesso and twenty more stretched canvases of varying sizes—I’d forgotten about the extras in the studio.
Finally, I shut the door on the outside world, determined to rediscover the joy of my studio and the painting process.
I started painting again after our son, Ben, began junior high school. I set up an easel on the screened-in back porch, but I couldn’t leave my paintings out there since it was too damp. I used to talk about how great it would be to have a real space of my own; a spot where I could leave all my supplies and canvases—a real artist’s studio.
The spot at OCA was a reward for sticking it out in a marketing job I detested. Since Blake had broken away from Hartman and Eagle, the architectural firm he’d been with for fifteen years, to start his own business, we relied on my company-funded benefits.
The studio was a compromise. Blake got to be his own boss. I got four walls to call my own. But I didn’t have time for it, really. Working full-time, cooking and cleaning, raising a child and washing Blake’s dirty underwear didn’t leave much time or energy for creativity.
I’d bet over the five years I’d leased the studio, the cumulative amount of time I spent there barely averaged a once-a-month visit; that was more often than we had sex. Every once in a while Blake would get on my case about not using it and threaten to cancel the lease, which would force me to drag myself in there to create. So, coming here today, I decided that until I discovered my own style, I would paint flowers of all shapes and sizes, in the tradition of Georgia O’Keeffe; fragile Lady’s Slipper orchids; big fat roses; vibrant sunflowers.
I set a large canvas on the easel and positioned the maroon orchid on a paper towel.
This would be therapeutic. I could mix the paint to any shade I desired; place it anywhere on the canvas I wanted. I could wash it on in thin, translucent wisps or glob it on in thick, heavy layers.
I set out the new tubes of oil paint I’d purchased, and one by one squeezed a dab of each on my old crusty palette.
If I wanted to paint roses blue, I could. If I wanted to render sunflowers purple—no problem. I might even paint this pretty orchid black to match my mood.
It was my choice.
Paint complied. It would stay true to whatever image I created. It wouldn’t start out as one thing and transform itself into something totally foreign.
Unless I wanted it to.
I picked up the paintbrush, regarded the blank canvas and made a split-second decision not to paint the orchid. Nope. On my canvas, I would honor the traditional. I touched my brush to the glob of alizarin crimson.
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
My husband is gay.
Shit.
Who knew?
The brush fell from my hand, pinged and clattered on the rough concrete floor. I pressed my shaking fingers to my temples.
Who knew?
Everyone in the world but me?
The small room started spinning, and I edged backward until my butt hit the wall. My knees gave way and I slid down until I half crouched, half sat.
I had no idea what came over me, but suddenly I knew exactly what to do to that canvas.
By the time Rita knocked on my studio door at seven o’clock that evening, I’d painted three canvases. Two florals and what you might call a Picasso-inspired portrait of Blake, though I’ve never been much of a Picasso fan. Rita likes him, but I’ve always thought of him as a creepy misogynist.
Appropriate inspiration for Blake’s portrait.
I painted him with two heads (one male, one female), Medusa-like orchid blooms for hair and a spear driven through his chest. I’d used washes of blues and blacks with a spattering of bloodred applied with a palette knife for emphasis.
“This one’s a little scary.” My sister held up the canvas of Blake. “If he turns up dead, you’d better destroy this or they’ll have all the evidence they need to hang you for the crime.”
I shrugged, not in a jovial mood.
“What’s Fred doing tonight?” I wiped excess paint off my brush with a paper towel, then walked to the sink to wash the residual from the bristles.
Rita and Fred had such a good marriage, after twenty-five years they were even starting to look like each other. Sometimes—especially after the hell I’d just been through—I wondered if my sister hadn’t snagged the last decent man alive.
“He’s at the all-night driving range, getting his golf fix. Where did those come from?” She pointed at the vase of orchid blossoms.
“From Blake’s greenhouse.”
Her blue eyes flew open wide. “Oh. My. God. If you leave right now, you might be able to outrun him. Let me rephrase what I said earlier. He’s going to be the one hung for murder because he’s going to kill you when he sees what you’ve done.”
I smoothed the bristles back into shape and put the brushes in a jar to dry. “I know. I feel kind of bad about it. I didn’t realize how pretty they were. Do you think he’ll notice if I superglue them back on?”
Rita burst out laughing. “He’s going to flip.”
She walked over and picked up a painting of a huge sunflower I’d leaned against the wall. “This is nice. Sort of Van Gogh–esque.” She set it down and stepped back to view it, tilting her head from one side to the other.
“I wasn’t really going for nice when I painted it.”
My sister ignored me. “May I take it with me to show a client who lives in Bay Hill? The colors are perfect for her family room.”
Rita was an interior designer and some of the houses she decorated cost more than I hoped to make in a lifetime.
“You know,” she said, “we really should make some slides of your work. I could probably sell them for you. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner. Are you coming here after work tomorrow?”
“I’m not working tomorrow.” I picked up one of the brushes I’d just cleaned, dipped it in paint and drew a thick sienna line about a third of the way down the canvas.
“You’re not?”
I shook my head. “I’m taking two weeks’ vacation. I called human resources this afternoon and squared away my leave. They didn’t even ask if I’d cleared it with my boss, Jackie.”
I stole a glance at my sister, who’d crossed her thin arms over her tiny middle. She nodded.
“It’s probably a good idea for you to take some time off. If you have the time, you should use it. What are you going to do? Do you want to go away somewhere?”
I shook my head and wiped my hands on a rag. “Nope. I’m going to paint.”
Rita’s eyes widened. “That’s great. That’s exactly what you should do.”
What she didn’t say was, It will be good for you to pour all your anguish into something creative.
“Plus, it will give us plenty of time to photograph your work. So, can I take the sunflower with me, Van Gogh?”
“Sure.”
I watched my sister walk over and carefully pick up the painting and study it again.
Was it this kind of anguish that caused Van Gogh to cut off his ear?
What would Blake do if I sent him my bloodied ear all wrapped up nice and neat in a pretty little package? I could put an orchid on top of the box.
Nah. He wasn’t worth it.
“Is the paint still wet?” Rita asked.
“Nope. That’s the beauty of acrylics.”
I tried not to get my hopes up, but I thought if I sold a few paintings, it would help offset the cost of the studio. I wouldn’t be able to afford it when Blake and I divorced. Because I was sure once he saw how I’d sheared the blooms from his beloved orchids, he’d go for the jugular, saying I had to pay the rent on my studio because he couldn’t afford it, knowing damn good and well I couldn’t, either.
“I’ll tell you what,” Rita said. “Why don’t you spend the rest of the week painting, and I’ll come over Saturday to shoot the fruits of your labor.”
“Saturday? Don’t you have plans with Fred?”
“Fred knows I’m on standby right now.”
I rolled my eyes. Sweet of her, but I didn’t want to become her charity case. “I’m fine, Rita. Really. In fact, I’m sure I can go to Target and purchase a roll of slide film and shoot them myself. Does Target sell slide film?”
“No, Target does not sell slide film. That shows what you know. Fred already has his heart set on golfing this weekend. So you’re stuck with me.”
Tuesday Blake came over for dinner. I hadn’t seen him since we’d called Ben on Sunday, and I was a little nervous about the orchids massacre. But we needed to talk—to discuss money, who’d get what. All the things soon-to-be-divorced people talked about.
Nothing like a divorce to jump start the conversation. In fact, we had so much to talk about, I figured I could tell him I’d watered the plants and then distract him with conversation to keep him out of the greenhouse. It would work for now, and I’d make a point to be out of the house when he came to pick up the plants.
I wanted to meet in a restaurant. A nice, neutral, public place where things wouldn’t get too intense (translate: far away from the orchids).
He insisted we meet at the house. Since he’d moved out, he wanted to look at everything and start making lists.
Lists?
Okay. Right. Lists.
That wasn’t nearly as unsettling as when he said he hoped this was the first step to us becoming friends since we’d be forever connected by our son.
It just smacked of an HBO movie: My Best Friend Is My Gay Ex-Husband.
The absurdity really hit me as we sat in the dining room at our usual opposite ends of the long mahogany table. The dinnertime arrangement seemed natural when Ben was at home filling the empty space in the middle. We’d grown so accustomed to our places, when Ben left for college six months earlier, it never occurred to us to change.
To move closer.
Blake was his usual nontalkative self, but it was bizarre sitting there as we had countless times over the years, eating my homemade potato-leek soup, the ominous strains of Wagner filling the silence.
He looked so indifferent sitting there as if he belonged at my table. Sitting there in a clumsy, conversation-free standoff, I thought, This is the man I married, the father of my child, but I might as well have been staring at a stranger. Had he suffered at least a modicum of embarrassment or regret over the scandal? Had he lost clients? Was the thrill worth public humiliation and losing his family?
I was so nonplussed by his nonchalance that I meant to take a bite of soup, but instead the words “How long have you known you’re gay?” rolled from my mouth like a piece of errant chewing gum.
“Annabelle.” His tone was reprimanding, a blend of shock and annoyance, but he looked at me for the first time that evening, his soupspoon poised in midair.
The look on his face made me crazy.
“What? Does the word gay offend you? Do you prefer homosexual or another more veiled term? Tell me, Blake, because I’d like to know something before the rest of metro Orlando finds out.”
His eyes flashed and he glared at me for the span of one deep sigh, before lowering his spoon. “I suppose I’ve known for quite some time.”
The unflinching touchе of words knocked the breath out of me. Reality slammed down between us like a thick sheet of ice. All I could do was stare at him through the surreal haze until he averted his gaze and resumed eating.
Hello? How could he eat at a time like this?
“If you’ve known for quite some time, why didn’t you clue me in?”
He didn’t answer me, but continued spooning soup into his expressionless face. I pushed away my bowl, and the creamy contents splashed over the rim. “All along I wrote it off that you were simply a man who was in touch with his feminine side. But you know, now that I think about it, it might as well have been written in big, bold script across the bedroom wall. How could I have not known?”
He shrugged and hunched over his bowl a little more, tuning me out. I had questions, and he was going to answer them. So I raised my voice.
“Living with you all these years, what did that make me, Blake? An idiot? Your beard? A fag hag?” Somewhere through the icy miasma of my anger I saw him set down his spoon.
He cleared his throat. “I thought we could discuss this like rational adults, but apparently we can’t.” He dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “I’ll have my attorney contact yours. But in the meantime, I thought you should know so you can start making plans. We’re going to have to sell the house or you’ll have to buy me out.”
“Talk to my attorney.” Don’t have one yet. “I don’t want to move and I shouldn’t have to buy you out, either. My standard of living should not change because your lifestyle did.”
His chair didn’t make a sound as he pushed away from the table and stood. He hesitated for a moment. I saw his throat work in a swallow as his long, manicured fingers worried a button on his shirt. I fully expected him to say something. Instead, he turned and walked out.
A dull ache spread through me as I watched the tall, slim man I’d tried so desperately to make love me disappear into the other room.
A few minutes later or maybe it was a few hours later—who knows how long I sat there contemplating the ruins of our life—I heard the back door slam open.
“What the hell happened to my orchids?”
CHAPTER 3
Saturday, as I painted the finishing touches on a still life of foxgloves, Rita appeared in the doorway of my studio clutching her camera.
It was still hot outside—so much for the weatherman’s promise. The heady scent of gardenia wafted in, and I thought I heard the lake breeze whispering that relief from the stifling heat was just around the corner.
Be patient.
I was wrong. It wasn’t the breeze or anything remotely so romantic. It was merely the air-conditioning cycling on, its cold blast merging with the muggy outside air.
Rita stepped inside and closed the door before the humidity flooded in and took over. “Ready to shoot?”
She set her Cannon on the counter and stood there with a funny look on her face.
