What Happens in Paris. Nancy Robards Thompson

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СКАЧАТЬ a fetal position and listened to the sounds of the house that used to be our home—the tick of the grandfather clock, the phantom creaks and pops as the house settled; the refrigerator and air-conditioning that cycled on and off; and the full magnitude of how alone I was pressed down on me and unleashed the tears.

      They came in torrents, in great heaving sobs that choked and nearly drowned me.

      All the while, one single thought burned in my mind: How long would Blake have lived a double life had he not been involuntarily outted?

      CHAPTER 2

      The next day, I did what any self-respecting woman caught in the middle of an undeserved scandal would do—I called in sick to my marketing job at Heartfield Retirement Communities, then cut all the blooms off Blake’s orchids.

      Good harvest. About twenty stems with at least three flowers each. I gathered them into a bundle, tied them with a ribbon and made an exotic bouquet.

      Flowers for me.

      Originally, I intended to sit in the middle of the greenhouse and pluck off all the petals: He loves me…He loves me not, because he’s gay and loves men…He loves men…He loves men not because he promised to love, honor and cherish me for all the days of my life….

      That was just too maudlin.

      The blooms were so beautiful, I arranged them in a crystal vase so I could enjoy them as I gorged on slightly stale beignet—that’s French for doughnut.

      I never realized orchids were such exquisite little works of art. They were always Blake’s babies. I fingered a lush maroon petal that draped down past another cream petal shaped like a pouch the size of a chicken egg.

      In the greenhouse, he’d labeled this one Showy Lady’s Slipper Orchid. The name conjured images of cross-dressing, but I blinked the thought away and ate another doughnut.

      I lifted the curious little pouch-petal with my finger. I’d never looked at an orchid up close like this, certainly not a stem cut free from the potted plants Blake sequestered in the greenhouse for optimum growing conditions (rather than optimum enjoyment).

      I plucked Lady’s Slipper from the vase, held it up and slowly twirled the stem in my fingers, getting a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree look at the flower.

      Blake was going to be so pissed when he found his naked plants. He’d studied orchids like he was going for a master’s degree, and coddled them, coaxing the temperamental things to blossom. All to end up in a vase on the kitchen table.

      Oops. My bad.

      Since we were getting a divorce it only seemed fair we shared them fifty-fifty. Florida was a community-property state. After eighteen years of contributing my fair share to our egalitarian marriage, I wanted my half.

      He’d get the plant. I’d get the flower.

      Fifty-fifty.

      I’d downed seven of the twelve doughnuts by ten-thirty and was so disgusted with myself I decided I had to get out of the house before I died an unnatural death.

      Death by beignet. Or murder by irate, flower-worshipping, estranged husband.

      The thought made me shudder, or perhaps the thought of venturing out into the world?

      I pushed the doughnut box out of my reach. It wasn’t as if the paparazzi were camped on my doorstep. The sensible side of me knew the story of Blake’s arrest had faded from the minds of most people in central Florida.

      Old news.

      But in my world of neighbors, colleagues and husband-and-wife acquaintances the story lived on. Suddenly my world seemed like the whole world; as if everyone knew.

      I couldn’t go to work.

      I couldn’t even walk out onto my driveway.

      Good thing the car was in the garage.

      After a few moments’ contemplation, I decided to seek refuge with an old friend. A dear friend I’d neglected for a long, long time—my painting studio at the Orlando Center for the Arts.

      I would go there and paint…orchids.

      Because if I didn’t get out of the house, I was afraid I might lock the doors and never find the strength to venture outside again.

      I waited until I was sure most of the neighbors were gone before I grabbed the vase and drove to the studio.

      Far better than staying home and eating until I couldn’t fit through the door, or making myself crazy thinking about how I’d rearrange the furniture to make it appear as if nothing were missing once Blake took his fifty percent.

      The only way to keep myself from dwelling on the ne’er-do-well was to focus on me. I’d neglected my interests—such as painting, and fresh flowers, and eating entire boxes of doughnuts—far too long.

      I read in the Georgia O’Keeffe bio that she used to leave her husband, Alfred Stieglitz, for months on end to go paint in a place she called “Faraway.”

      It was only New Mexico, actually. I’m sure “Faraway” sounded much more romantic than “Alfred, honey, you’re getting on my last nerve. I’m leaving now so I can refill my well. You’ll have to get your own dinner, and pick up your own dry cleaning.”

      I know, I know, they probably didn’t have dry cleaning back in those days and if they did, I’m sure a woman who had the gumption to go “Faraway” probably wouldn’t have picked it up anyway.

      My point being she took time to nurture herself, to foster her creative spirit. And Stieglitz was waiting for her when she decided to come home.

      Paris would’ve been my “Faraway.” Once upon a dream, I wanted to study art there, but life’s obligations preempted those dreams. The big problem was that it was always so far away, and as a wife and mother, I had too much responsibility. Blake hated the French and had no desire to go to Paris. Not even for me.

      After stops at Sam Flax for new art supplies (it had been so long since I’d purchased anything there, there was no chance anyone would recognize me) and Panera Bread for nourishment (frequent purchases there, but they didn’t know I was married to Blake), I pulled into a parking space at the Orlando Center for the Arts. I sat in the car for a few minutes with the engine running and the air-conditioning blowing cold air on my face.

      OCA sat at the crest of a hill sloping down to a beautiful lake. The compound was actually a series of old buildings united by lush gardens and courtyards. Fantasy architecture, I’d heard it called once, with Mayan/Aztec motifs gracing the aged concrete walls and bejeweled stepping-stones and fountains scattered liberally throughout the grounds. Red clay tile roofs graced buildings with worn cream stucco walls dating back to the early 1900s.

      A magical place that always made me feel artsy and organic. As if anything were possible.

      I picked up the maroon lady’s slipper again and turned it around and around, trying to decide the angle I’d paint, but my heart felt so heavy I didn’t know if I’d be able to drag myself out of the car so I could get to my paints.

      Okay, СКАЧАТЬ