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She stared blindly down at it. She hadn’t realized it was empty. “Thanks.”
“I’ll get it, Tom,” said Simon. “You stay and talk.”
Simon slipped away before any protests were made, and Kate followed his retreat, her mind scrambling to try and appear as though she was enjoying the occasion. Had it been a success? She’d been so intent on trying to engage with the people who came up to her or Cassidy had introduced and forcing away her anxiety at Giancarlo’s looming presence, which had translated into directing and overriding most of her comments during any interactions, she hadn’t had time to notice anything else. And any discussion about the show had been vague statements she’d made about the works and their themes. She hadn’t really heard any of the responses, she’d been so aware of Giancarlo’s constant attempts to claim her in a physical manner, either with an arm around her waist, a kiss on her cheek, a hand on her shoulder, she couldn’t concentrate.
In the weeks leading up to the exhibition, she’d fought the worry over varying actions Giancarlo might take at the exhibition. And now that it was here, she’d tried to reassure herself that this was something relatively benign and easily handled. It would be over soon.
Her gaze suddenly caught a figure at the entrance wearing a fedora hat pulled low and a dark suit jacket with a cream sweater underneath. He turned her way for just a moment, and she saw the flash of dark-rimmed glasses catching one of the spotlights. She didn’t need to see his face, or the brief moment his eyes lit on her to know who it was. She felt fixed to the spot, unable to move, Giancarlo’s arm once again around her waist. She knew the moment he saw her and then Giancarlo beside her. He turned away and disappeared into the crowd.
Kate stared at the place where he’d been, a place swallowed up a moment later by two other people, talking animatedly to each other. The pain she’d worked so hard to lock away unleashed itself with full force. She started to move toward them, her hand resting on her heart, instinct pulling her forward. Simon moved in front of her, a filled glass in his hand.
“There,” he said. “That didn’t take long.”
She looked around the room again, hoping she might see him, even though in her heart, she knew he’d gone. She felt bereft, a wave of sorrow washing over her so powerful she felt the need to sit down. He’d come to her exhibition. Had he intended to see her, greet her at least? Maybe talk with her? She realized she wished for it. That deep inside, she’d hoped he might be here and that maybe they could talk. Now it was probably too late. He’d left assuming things that weren’t true. A future for her that she had rejected.
* * *
Sitting in her makeshift studio in the attic, Kate flicked through the images on her computer aimlessly. Her next project evaded her. She couldn’t settle on any of the ideas and wonderful possibilities that she’d had last autumn. They didn’t seem the right choice, or even worth exploring. Perhaps the overwhelming success of her exhibition had subconsciously daunted her. Not even the knowledge that it would release her from Giancarlo once and for all inspired her. At least she’d made that clear after the exhibition. He’d taken his profit and with it, any desire to see their relationship continue, except on a limited professional basis.
Now, she felt numb rather than thrilled. Her only emotion had been sadness that “House of Clouds” had sold, even at the exorbitant price she’d set in the hopes it wouldn’t find a buyer. Whatever the reason for her current state, she felt directionless, uninclined toward any idea.
She continued to skim through the photographs, hardly taking them in. Eventually she found some amount of comfort, a quietness settling within her. Without realizing, she stopped on an image. It was the picture she’d taken of Ethan by the dock all those months ago. She studied it carefully, her artist’s eye appraising it, but something else, something far too emotional, prompting her to search it for a clue, a method to find her way. A few minutes later, she found herself applying filters, trying out different approaches, as an idea formed, and almost unconsciously she pressed forward with it.
When she was satisfied, she arranged the paper in her oversized printer and waited to see the results. It was just a test run in order to see the color resolution. The image began to appear, revealing itself slowly, like an emanation. When it was complete, she took it from the computer and moved to her table, where she assembled her pens and bottles of ink carefully, refusing to dwell on what she was doing or even why. She considered the ink choice, knowing it would have to be perfect for the words and the image. For now, she would experiment with the sepia and maybe the navy.
Even as she dipped the ink, she knew it would be sepia. She began to form the letters, the words coming easily. There was no need to look them up or write them out as a prompt. They’d been in her for so long, they’d become a part of her. “Suzanne.” She knew the rules for copyright, but this piece would be just for her.
So deep was she immersed in the calligraphy that it took a few minutes for the sound of a loud knocking to penetrate her mind and to recognize its meaning. Slowly, reluctantly, she put the pen in the empty weighted inkwell and made her way down from the attic to the front door. A tiny flicker of hope, of possibilities, formed inside her. She opened the door and the hope changed to surprise.
“Mark,” she said, staring at him.
He shifted uncomfortably in his fitted down jacket, knitted hat, and heavy walking boots. He rubbed a hand over his wind-burned face.
“Hi, Kate. Sorry if this is a bad time.”
She backed away from the door. “No, no, come in.”
“There’s no need, really. I’m just off to the lake, to the rock.” He paused a moment. “It’s the anniversary of Missy’s death.” He cleared his throat. “It’s something I do, well, have done for the past few years. Go there.” He looked away, down the street. “I, uh, just wondered if you wanted to come this year. I mean, don’t worry if you’d rather not. I just thought I would ask.”
She looked at him, too stunned by his words, by his presence, even to form a thought in her head, let alone answer his question.
He looked over at her, the silence lengthening. “No, no. Never mind. I can tell this was a bad idea.” He turned. “I’ll see you, Kate.”
She watched him make his way across the wooden porch. “No, wait,” she said, the words tumbling out of her. “Sorry. It took me by surprise, that’s all. I’ll come. Just let me get ready a moment.” She opened the door wide again and gestured for him to come in.
* * *
Their breath made large plumes as they made their way up the incline toward the rock. It was a bitterly cold day, the wind coming off the lake, and even the exercise couldn’t dispel the penetrating chill that seeped under Kate’s jacket and through her hat. Her feet were feeling a little numb, but she was still nimble enough to negotiate the last scramble to the rock. Even Max seemed to find the cold too much, his breath coming in frosty pants as he lumbered behind her. Mark turned and, holding out a hand, pulled her up the last few steps to the flat surface on top. She found herself beside him, looking out over the lake. Max came up beside them, refusing to sit on the cold rock.
Looking out, Kate could see that it had been cold for long enough that a thin film of ice covered the lake, winter birds landing on its surface. A flock of Canadian geese flew overhead, the distant honking providing the only sound in the stillness of the winter day.
Beside her, Mark fixed his gaze on the lake. “It was milder that year. No ice on the lake.”
Kate nodded. “I remember.”
He looked over at Kate and gave her a sad smile. “I know you do.”
She touched his arm and then, on impulse, gave him a hug. His arms slid around her, and he returned the hug tightly. When they released a few moments later, Mark put his hand in his right pocket and withdrew a flask. He removed the cap, took a swig, and offered it to her.
