Before She Knew Him(43)
He stuck around for most of the morning, eating pretzels until she told him to stop.
“What are you putting out with these?” he asked. “To drink?”
“I have apple cider.”
“Ooh, you should warm it up, put some spices in it. It would make it smell nice in here.”
Hen thought that was a good idea. She had a hot plate in her studio and sent Lloyd to get a pot and buy some cider spices. She was glad to get rid of him. She knew he’d leave as soon as people started walking through her space, but she wanted a little time alone. She prepped about eight copper plates that she could run through her press that afternoon. She found it so much better to stay busy, hating the act of standing around watching strangers look at her art. Lloyd returned right before noon. He had their yellow Dutch oven, a packet of spices, and even a pint of Maker’s Mark.
“You think I should spike the cider?” Hen said, laughing.
“I thought it might be good to have it, just in case.”
He put the cider on low, and soon her studio was filled with the smell of apples and clove. Lloyd and she each had a mugful, spiked with bourbon, and she felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of well-being, that things would turn out all right. When the first visitors arrived—a middle-aged couple, the man glum and uninterested, and the woman with a streak of purple in her hair, wearing two handmade brooches on her coat—Lloyd took off.
It was a busy afternoon. The nice weather brought out a ton of people, and the cider was gone by three in the afternoon, nothing left but a dark slurry on the bottom of the pot. Hen had underpriced her prints and wound up selling about fifteen of them. She was used to doing open studio events, having done them for years in Somerville, but it was a slightly different crowd out in the suburbs. They asked more questions and spent more money. At five o’clock she was exhausted. She called Lloyd and he came to pick her up. He’d spent the afternoon making chili, he said, and watching a little college football. He smelled like he’d had many beers as well, and Hen was glad he was only driving a mile back to the house.
The weather changed on Sunday, the morning overcast with swollen clouds and the air humid. Hen took the car herself, not wanting to get caught in the rain if she walked. It was a long day. By noon, the sky had opened up, and there was a steady, drenching downpour. Hen, in her basement studio, couldn’t see it, but the few people who dropped by told her how miserable it was outside as they dripped on her floor.
Because of the rain, and because the Patriots were playing an afternoon game, there were significantly fewer visitors. Other artists dropped by, willing to leave their studios to venture out, and Hen did a quick walk around the basement level, popping in to see Derek, one of the few artists whose name she remembered.
“Hi, Hen,” he said as she entered.
“How’s your Open Studios been?” she asked.
“Today’s quiet. Yesterday was nuts.”
She looked at his photographs, fairly interesting, all black and white, mostly of buildings—town centers, shopping malls, a cluster of suburban homes—but often photographed at a tilt so that the sky dominated. She wondered if the perspective in the shots had anything to do with his own shortness and almost considered asking him, but stopped herself. It was the type of question she herself hated. What does this art have to do with you? She knew hers was an unpopular opinion in a culture obsessed with individuality, but sometimes the artist and the art were separate entities.
Instead, she asked, “Sold many?”
“One, yesterday.”
Impulsively, Hen told him she wanted to buy her favorite photograph of the bunch, a beautiful, silvery shot of a pile of pumpkins at what looked to be some fall festival. A child crouched near the pumpkins, running a stick along the bare ground. The sky above was interlaced with clouds.
“You don’t have to do that,” Derek said.
“I know I don’t have to. I love this shot. It’ll give me inspiration for the next book I’m illustrating.”
She ran to her studio, got her credit card, and came back and purchased the pre-framed print. As soon as she had it in her hands, she actually loved it. She thought she could hang it above the low bookshelf in the living room.
At four thirty she began to clean up, pretty sure that there would be no more visitors. She poured herself some bourbon in a water glass and played the sound track from The Painted Veil on her CD player. As she was washing her hands in the big industrial sink, she sensed someone enter her studio. She turned, hands wet. Matthew Dolamore was five feet away from her, his hands pushed down into his jeans pockets. His jacket was pocked with rain.
Hen’s body went cold, and her eyes flitted toward the door. Matthew took a step backward.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said.
“Then why are you here?” Hen was amazed at how calm her words sounded.
He half shrugged, then said, “I want to talk. And I wanted to see your art.” His eyes now moved around the space, his hands still tucked into his jeans, and Hen realized he was nervous. She took a step forward.
“I’d prefer that you leave,” she said. “As you’re aware, you have filed a protective order against me, and I don’t want to violate it.”
“You were spying on me.”
“For good reason,” Hen said.
“Look . . .” Matthew said, but stopped speaking.