She strode out of my shop, not as determined as when she’d walked in but still with an edge, perhaps portrayed best by the click of those heels on my hardwood floors.
I watched from the front window as she made her way down the street, head held high, bag swinging from her arm.
She was a proud woman. One who had been through a lot, which meant I should give her grace. My mother had taught me compassion for anyone in pain. I couldn’t kill a spider to save my own life, for example. Not that Delphine was a spider. No, she was more like a heron, still, solitary, and precise. Beautiful in a way that was more striking than soft. Certainly territorial if one got too close to her nest. That had been proven today.
One time, my mother and I had been beachcombing and we saw one standing alone in the water. The bird had been so still that I’d asked my mother if something was wrong with it. She’d answered, “No, they have to be absolutely still to survive. The second they flinch, they lose the fish.”
Delphine Delacroix was like those proud herons, certain that, if she flinched or showed any sign of weakness, she would lose it all. It was a sad way to live, but there was nothing I could do for her. Like I’d said to her earlier, it was none of my business.
5
DELPHINE
I’d only just gotten to the gallery when the paintings arrived for my new show. There were six large canvases wrapped in brown paper and bubble wrap, each one heavier than it looked. I signed for them, tipped the delivery guys, and stood alone in the gallery with the smell of cardboard and packing tape, delighted to unwrap each one of Maren Solberg’s paintings.
She was a Norwegian-born painter living in Savannah who worked in enormous, moody ocean abstracts—layers of blue and gray and green that made you feel like you were standing at the edge of the ocean. They gave me that same feeling of smallness compared to the vast, deep blue sea.
They were going to sell beautifully. I knew that the moment I'd first seen her portfolio six months ago. I also knew, the moment I'd said yes to hosting the show, that hanging them would be difficult.
Although Jon had been interested in seascapes, his were a much different style than Maren’s, painstakingly real, detailed, and full of light. He’d sometimes spend a week on a single wave, just to get the right flow of movement. When we first met at art school, I'd stood in front of one of his paintings and felt the salt air on my skin. That's how good he was. When he stoppedpainting, I should have been more worried than I was. But frankly, I’d just not had the energy. Annie was four when his depression took a deeper turn for the worse, staying in bed all day, skipping meals, and watching golf. Which was odd, because he never played golf once in his life. Regardless, I was struggling to keep it all together. This was before I met my best friends on Annie’s first day of kindergarten. Those women saved my life more than once.
I positioned the first canvas against the wall and stepped back to judge the height. Too low. I adjusted the wire, measured again. Hanging art was geometry, gauging where the eye would land when someone walked through the door. Additionally, one piece must lead to the next and so on, almost like a story.
As I worked, my mind kept drifting back to my conversation with Dorian Flynn. I hadn’t meant to share so much about my life or how Jon’s death had changed everything. I’d gone in with a plan to really let him have it and had walked out feeling more at peace than I had in a long time. Plus, I’d sat on the floor with his cat, and told him I’d always wanted a cat.
Explain that,I thought.
I can’t,I said back to myself.
I hung the second canvas and stood back. The blue in this one was darker, almost black at the center, like the ocean at night.
The infuriating part was that Dorian hadn't done anything clever. He hadn't disarmed me with charm or pushed me into some emotional corner. He'd just stood there looking as handsome as ever, apologizing more than was necessary, and being so maddeningly decent that I'd run out of things to be angry about. And when I ran out of anger, I wasn’t sure where to go next. It was a vast black hole. When I reached out for some kind of footing, all I came back with was exactly nothing.
I climbed the stepladder to adjust the third painting's wire. From up here I could see the whole gallery—the cleanwhite walls, the polished wood floor, the morning light coming through the front windows. When the previous owner had retired, we’d worked out a deal for me to buy him out. I’d not been sure I could run it by myself, but I’d vowed to give it everything I had. For whatever reason, I had an eye for what would sell. My first show on my own sold out. After that, I knew I could do it. Giving artists a place to sell their beautiful work thrilled me then and it still did.
The gallery had only been mine for six months when I’d gotten pregnant. Even though she’d been an easy baby, there were still many nights I got only a few hours sleep, and I’d dragged myself into the gallery, usually with her strapped to my chest. I’d felt like a single mother back then, even though Jon was still with us.
I hung the fourth canvas. This one was lighter in color, a pale blue and silver, almost translucent, like the ocean in early morning before the wind picks up. It was the gentlest piece in the collection, having a calming effect on me and I suspected anyone who saw it.
A sudden, unwelcome thought—Dorian’s sensitive blue eyes were the same as the water in the painting.
I shook my head and whispered out loud, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
My mind tumbled back to what Dorian’s mother had said about being a single mother. The hardest part of raising him alone wasn't the work or the exhaustion, but that there was no one at the end of the day who loved her son as much as she did. No one to say,we have an awesome kid.
I’d not articulated it that way for myself but, the moment he said it, I’d thought, yes, exactly that. Over the years, my best friends had filled the gap. We made it a priority to show up for the others’ children. Games, school plays, science project nights, birthday parties. Any accomplishment, we’d celebrated together.Yet, somehow, it was not the same as having a partner. A father for Annie.
One who thought she hung the moon. One who would stay.
I’d not known Dorian’s mother well but the interactions I’d had with her were always positive. In fact, after Jon died and I was so lost, she suggestedEnchanted April.I’d come into the shop hoping to find something uplifting but had wandered around, not really seeing anything at all, lost in grief. She sensed it and had come over to make a suggestion. It was exactly what I’d needed. Published in 1922,Enchanted Aprilby Elizabeth von Arnim was about four English women who rented a medieval Italian castle for the month of April to escape their dreary London lives. It was a warm, gently comic story about renewal and the way a beautiful setting can soften people. It had deeply moved me and inspired me to plant a garden. I’d put the house I’d shared with Jon on the market and bought my cottage. Then I’d started planting. Flowers. Shrubs. Trees. Digging into dirt, babying my fledging plants, diligently watering and fertilizing. I’d even had dirt delivered by a truck and dumped in the yard. Growing and nurturing plants and flowers had gotten me through the darkest period of my life. For that, I would be eternally grateful to Maureen Flynn.
I tightened the wire on the fifth painting and remembered Poe climbing into my bag and giggled, sounding odd in the empty room. What had possessed the orange fur ball to climb in my bag and then on to my lap? Whatever his reason, he had fully charmed me. Maybe I would get a cat. Or two. I certainly didn’t want them to have that lonely kitten syndrome. I would never do that to a kitten.
I hung the last painting and climbed down from the ladder. Six enormous oceans now lined the walls of my gallery. Tomorrow was the official opening, with wine and lightappetizers. The artist would be there to answer questions and mingle, as would I.
I straightened the final frame by a quarter inch and went to my office to answer emails, my designer pumps making a satisfying click on the hardwood floors. The sound of competence. A woman who had it all together. Even if it was only a persona.
I metSeraphina for lunch at The Pelican. As she often did, she arrived five minutes late, apologizing that she’d lost track of time.
