18mm Blues (15 page)

She took a critical look at the canvas on the easel that was supposed to have been her final work. She could do better, she thought, would. She stood in the midst of the mess of her studio and was revolted by it. An entirely new reaction. Perhaps that was what needed doing, she thought.

She threw out a lot of stuff, three trash bins full and some loads in cardboard cartons. Got rid of all the used plastic bowls and the opened quart and gallon cans scummed with paint from as far back as two years. Gathered up the layers of newspapers from the floor, using thinner and a scrubber on those that were stuck. She spent an entire day on brushes. Cleaned and treated those that were salvageable, felt guilty about those with bristles beyond saving. They had, she thought, served her well and were not deserving of such abuse. She bunched and bound them with string, wrapped them in a shroud of fresh brown paper and put them in a clean, substantial carton. Sealed the carton with masking tape and, before placing it out with the other trash, said a silent thanks and thought a ritual.

At the late end of the third day the studio was cleaned and reorganized to Julia's satisfaction. The place seemed happier with the new orderliness, especially the storage cabinet where the brushes were now all lined up on their own shelf above the shelf where tubes of medium were arranged according to color. Julia vowed to everything that she wouldn't ever again allow such a mess. Probably.

Still, that sense of there being something she absolutely should tend to was pressing her. What the hell was it? Could it be something inconsequential to which she'd given a thought and it hadn't receded to its proper place in her mind as it should have, something of no great matter such as having her hair trimmed or the car washed? Minds could be tricky like that when they wanted to be, she believed.

Four days went by. During that time, just in case, she subjected her Jeep Cherokee to a torturous-looking automatic wash and got herself a trim at Transitions. While she was downtown she browsed some stores, including Gumps, where she especially appreciated a display of exquisitely detailed Suzuribako, lacquer writing boxes, and various pieces of carved lavender jade. Perhaps it was viewing those things that put her in a shopping mode.

At Saks she intended just to try on but ended up buying a simply stunning black Issey Miyake for more than she'd ever before paid for a dress. Just had to have it for some reason, and of course new shoes as well, a pair of Bruno Magli's that perhaps didn't look the price but felt it when she had them on.

She thought she'd shopped herself out until she came onto the place that had just opened on O'Farrell. A shop offering all sorts of tasteful, unusual
petites choses
, little things. Objects d'art and just
objets
, like a private collection. There, she was drawn to a shagreen and ivory military hairbrush and comb set, a silver art nouveau shoe horn and an antique business card presentation case of alligator with 18k gold corner trim. She settled on the case, yes definitely the case.

“Shall I gift wrap it?” Julia was asked.

“Oh … yes,” Julia replied.

And while that was being done Julia questioned her sanity. A business card case for five hundred and seventy-five plus tax? My god, why? She didn't even have a business card.

Anyway, it was done. She went home, got nude and sat upon a high stool at the large table in the studio. Munching three different varieties of Pepperidge Farm cookies.

She ought to stretch and prepare some canvases, she thought. Not yet, she decided.

Then the owner of the gallery on Octavia Street phoned to say he'd sold two more of her works and it might be beneficial for all concerned if he had two others to hang in their place.

While on the phone with him, half hearing his words, she contemplated the dendritic cracks in the white plaster surface of the near wall. Her eyes ran from those to the raw pinewood bulletin board, her mind tagging along. Passed the pinned-up articles and scribbled notes to herself to the far left edge and a small white rectangle, upon which her entire attention abruptly focused. She hung up the phone with an interruptive good-bye. Liberated Grady's business card from the stab of a red-headed push pin and as she examined it realized it was the reason for all the recent nudging.

But what was she supposed to do, call this Grady Bowman person? He'd said he'd call her when her pearls were ready. Best to wait. Why? To hell with that. She dialed his number. After the fourth ring his answering machine activated. She hung up as soon as she heard his recorded voice.

That night she called again, twice. Got his machine, didn't leave a message. It occurred to her that perhaps he was there, screening his calls, so the next morning when she phoned and his machine answered she said her name, her number, the day and the time, somewhat expecting he'd pick up, but he didn't.

This went on for a week. She'd begun painting and, although she was able to lose herself in that, every so often she'd stop, go over to the phone and dial his number, which by then was as indelible in her memory as a mantra. Sometimes she'd listen to his entire twenty-second recorded message, visualizing him along with it. Twice she awoke at three in the morning with the urge to phone running repetitively across the mental apparatus behind her forehead, like on that building in Times Square. Wouldn't it be terribly audacious of her to phone at that hour? Supposing he answered, what would she say? Fuck it, her expression countered. So she heard the touch tones, the rings, him recorded, and had an awful time getting back to sleep.

By the next Saturday morning, Julia stepped back from herself and realized how irrational she was being. Almost as if her life depended on her reaching this person. She'd heard of fixations but never thought she'd include such behavior in her repertoire. Actually, she had only a vague, and probably incorrect, recollection of what this Grady Bowman looked like. He hadn't been anything special, anyway not a seismic six, she told herself, just somewhat more attractive than average. Anyway, thank heavens she'd come to her senses. If need be, she'd unplug the phone for a day or two.

She got her soiled laundry from the hamper and took it down to the service area adjacent to the kitchen. Then she started filling the automatic washer with hot, and was separating colors from whites and dainties from tough stuff when the phone rang.

It was he, saying he'd gotten the message that she'd called.

She came close to demanding where the hell he'd been.

He apologized for not having gotten back to her sooner, had been out of town. The genuine way he said it eliminated most of her steam. “Your pearls are ready,” he told her. “Shall I have them delivered to you, or what?”

“What would
or what
be?”

“I could hold them for you until …”

“Any other alternative?”

“I suppose that depends on how urgently you need them.”

“Let's say quite urgently.”

“In that case I could bring them to you myself, today. Where are you located?”

That wasn't how she wanted it. “I'll be coming into town. I could meet you somewhere.”

“When?”

“Today, at noon. I could meet you at say … the Sheraton Palace in the Garden Court. Would that be inconvenient?”

“Not at all. See you there,” he promised and clicked off.

Julia bathed, did her daytime makeup and her hair and spent most of the next two hours determining what she would wear. Not the new Issey Miyake, she figured, anyway, not yet. She finally settled on an effortless-looking two-piece rayon and cotton in what Royce had several times said was by far her most conspiratorial color. Pale, slightly warm green. The blouse was little more than a superior T-shirt, simply effective. The skirt, above the knee short, was cut on the bias and ample, so it had a hint of flounce. Her exceptional legs did it justice. A pair of t-strapped medium-heeled sandals, enormous faux stone ear clips the exact color of her eyes, her better gold wristwatch, a veto of gloves and then a veto of the veto on the basis that she wouldn't put them on, merely have them in hand as though she'd had them on …

She arrived at the Sheraton Palace and the Garden Court at twelve-fifteen, just tardy enough to have him there before her. She paused, stood on the landing above the immense place and its sea of widely spaced, white-linened tables, about two-thirds of which were occupied. She surveyed the thirty tables on the right, and the thirty on the left. Didn't see him, or, she thought, perhaps she didn't recognize him. She surveyed again before the maître d' came to her aid and led her over the deep red and gold patterned carpet to Mr. Bowman's table. Just the table, not him.

No great matter, she told herself as she was being seated, possibly there'd be other opportunities for this Grady to be smited by a full-length view of her walk. Besides, his impression of her wasn't important. She'd just get back her pearls, have a brief lunch, and adieu.

“Did madame wish something to drink?”

She thought vodka gimlet, said Perrier and fresh lime.

Eight slow minutes passed.

She spotted Grady coming down the center aisle, fifty feet away. Diverted her eyes to not have him know she'd been watching him. Acted surprised when he reached the table. He simultaneously sat and apologized.

“I was held up,” he explained.

“And evidently you valued your life more than your money,” she said, smiling.

After a beat he got it. “You're fast,” he said. He asked what she was drinking and after she told him ordered a Glenfiddich neat.

“Make that two,” she said.

He did. “You come here often?”

“Occasionally.”

His eyes ran up one of the nearest fat marble columns and across the expanse of glass panes sixty feet above. “Not exactly cozy,” he commented.

“That's why I suggested it.”

A blank nod from him.

She liked him without the bow tie, approved of his unbuttoned shirt collar. And his softly shouldered double-breasted gray blazer. She wondered if he was wearing suspenders or a belt. She'd bet suspenders. He was, she decided, a great deal more attractive than she recalled from the week before or perhaps she was now seeing him through different more appreciative eyes. That was how it seemed. “You were away?”

“In Nevada for a week.”

“Where in Nevada?”

“Tahoe and Reno.”

“I take it you like to gamble.”

“You might say that, I was up there filing for a divorce. My attorney, Tom McGuin, has a place in Tahoe on the Nevada side, a condo. He let me use it to establish residency.”

“Then you're divorced.”

“I go back up in six weeks for the decree.”

He spoke of it so indifferently it occurred to Julia that he might be one of those compulsive marry-ers with six or seven divorces to his debit. After a brief, assaying look she decided his weren't the eyes of a man of that sort, much too much sensibility in them. Anyway, his divorce and all was his personal territory and she shouldn't yet be nosing around in it. She veered the subject abruptly, got on to a film she had seen recently, one that in her opinion didn't deserve the raves it was getting.

Grady had seen the film and thought the same of it. On his last selling trip for HH he'd had nights to kill and gone alone to see that one and quite a few others.

They ordered lunch, made as little as possible of it, just a couple of crab salads. Ate and talked. Julia found it difficult to keep the conversation in neutral. Something in her seemed to be pushing her to get to know him swiftly. They skipped and skimmed along on such diverse topics as the global warming trend, overpriced arugula, the charlatanry of spiritual channeling.

“These days it seems practically everyone is in touch with some long-departed, talkative soul,” Julia said.

“Are you?”

“Hell no. It's absurd, don't you think?”

“Probably.”

“They used to put away people who heard voices. Now they let them set up shop. I for one suspect there isn't an
other side
, as they call it.”

“There might be something to it.”

“You really believe that?”

“Let's just say I don't have any reason not to.”

“Do you believe you've lived before?”

“Once in a while I feel as though I might have. Haven't you ever experienced that feeling?”

“Yes, but I don't think anything as important as that should be based on vague once-in-a-while hints.”

Grady was willing to bet that beneath her pragmatic surface was a wondering, imaginative Julia who perceived mystical meaning in most everything. He himself had never been literal minded or handicapped by deduction. Whenever he considered his outlook he gave a lot of the credit to the flowers of his youth, especially the irises. “You haven't always lived in San Francisco, have you?”

“No, I was raised in upstate New York.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Ever heard of Amenia?”

“Sure, I used to call it anemia.”

“Everyone does. You've been there?”

“Around there.” That caused Grady to go once over the memory of a long-ago night in the grass of an apple orchard on the outskirts of Sharon with a girl from there who so craved sensation that she was oblivious to the deep, wet grass and the rot of the windfalls it concealed, which her back crushed to sour and stain her dress.

Julia noticed the recall in Grady's eyes. “I just triggered something?”

“Yeah.”

“Nothing bad, I hope.”

“Quite the contrary,” he admitted with an appropriate smile.

His wife must have been blind and paralyzed from the waist down, Julia thought. “How long have you been married,” she asked, not intending to. It just came out of her, as though the words had their own will.

Grady didn't mind telling her. He hadn't spoken to anyone about it other than his attorney and a bartender in Tahoe. Spilling it to another woman might be therapeutic.