The Writing Retreat(17)

“It’s fine. I could use a break.” Poppy pressed a palm to her cheek. “It’s so surreal, talking about Roza, knowing I’ll meet her.”

“Hang out with her,” Taylor amended. “For a whole month!”

“How’d you get off of school?” I asked.

“What?” She glanced at me.

“Yeah.” Had I misunderstood? “Aren’t you a teacher?”

“Oh, yes.” She grinned. I noticed her canines, which were slightly vampiric, descending noticeably below her other teeth. “I took the semester off. It was hard because I love those fuckers, but there was just no way around it. I’ll go back for the summer session.”

“None of us have kids, right?” Keira asked. “And no one’s married. Interesting.”

“Shit.” Taylor closed her eyes. “I literally forget that there are people out there in their twenties who have kids. It just seems way too young for me. All the parents at my school are in their forties. Some are even in their fifties.”

“Austin, Atlanta, LA, Brooklyn,” Keira noted. “All big, progressive cities. Which makes sense, I guess, considering that we’re all attracted to Roza’s work.”

Should I tell them I was thirty? I felt a throb of unease to be holding something back from the others. But it wasn’t a huge deal, was it?

The second glass of wine was making me slightly woozy, and I leaned back, giving in, allowing myself to relax and be carried along in the casual chatter. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d smiled and laughed so much.

It just felt so nice to belong.





Chapter 7




“Do you want to see our rooms?” Taylor wiggled her eyebrows.

Over the past hour, the wine and excitement had quickly cemented our little group.

“What?” Poppy slammed her hands on the arms of her chair. “You saw them?”

“Yes, we did,” Taylor sang. “Yana had us haul up our suitcases.”

Poppy was already standing. “Can we go see?”

“Easy, tiger.” Taylor chuckled. “Let’s see if we can remember the way. K, you remember how to get to them?”

“Vaguely.” At some point Keira had undone her bun and she was twisting a loose braid around her finger.

“It’ll be an adventure.” I felt practically giddy. It was the golden hour and amber rays poured into the room, transforming the thousands of books to dusty gold blocks. Compared to the dingy, fluorescent hallways of work and the cracked white walls of my apartment, this place felt real and solid: the plush rug beneath me, the heavy wineglass weighing down my hand, the fire and waning sun warming my face.

“Let’s pour one for the road.” Taylor tipped wine from a newly opened bottle into Poppy’s and my glasses—Keira declined—then jumped to her feet. “Follow me, children!” In the hall, she whipped around to face us and held her glass high. “Our tour today begins here,” she began in a trilling English accent, “in the Hall of Unusual Acquisitions. One of Roza Vallo’s earliest works was a touching portrait her father got her on her fifth birthday. Heartwarming, don’t you think?” She pointed to the picture of the dead cow in the field.

“Gorgeous!” Poppy cried.

“Okay, everyone, we have much to see. Come along!” Taylor turned on a heel and marched down the hall toward the front entrance, continuing to theatrically opine while waving her free hand. Keira shook her head, chuckling.

“And here we come to the grand hall!” Taylor ushered us in, arranging imaginary glasses. “This hall was constructed in 1601—”

“Um, I think it was 1856,” Poppy called.

Taylor glared so long and intensely that Poppy and I collapsed into giggles against each other.

“Ahem. As I was saying, this house was built by Horace Hamilton in 1856. Here’s a portrait of him and his young wife, Daphne.”

I’d glimpsed the large painting on the way in. Now I recognized it from articles I’d read. Daphne had a long nose and wide jaw that made her pretty in a solid, farm-girl-type way. But her expression was unsure, questioning. She stood next to a seated Horace, a large man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a bulbous forehead.

“And here’s just Daphne.” Taylor pointed to the next painting. Daphne sat behind a table, white lace covering her face like a wedding veil. It was hard to believe it was the same person. This Daphne had dark makeup around her eyes and her lips were crimson. She wore a high-necked black dress that flashed with beads or sequins. Her eyes were closed and she was writing on a pad of paper on the table. She looked contained but also intensely alive, as if an electric current were running through her.

“These are amazing,” Poppy breathed.

“Are they originals?” Keira squinted.

“No,” Taylor said. “They’re pretty new. Roza had them painted from photos.” She gestured with her chin. “But those over there are the real deal.”

We crossed to the other side of the hall where the two mammoth abstract paintings hung. The canvases were dark and blue-tinged, as if from the depths of a cave. Organic shapes and shadows filled the frame. Close up you could see the detailed work: emerald, ruby, and burnt umber objects like feathers and amoebas.