“Nothing,” Rebecca said, and picked up her sketchbook and pencils and walked outside.
“Chicken!” Robin shouted after her, but Rebecca kept walking, out onto the porch, down the steps and across the lawn, where Frank, Bean, and Tater picked up her scent and came trotting out from their nap under the porch. They walked down to the river, where Rebecca propped herself up against the smooth bark of a weeping willow. From this vantage point, she had a vista of spring wildflowers, grazing cattle, and tall cottonwoods rustling over the river’s edge. The sight of it so soothing, bringing back myriad youthful memories when she and Robin and Rachel would come down here, talk about boys, paint their nails, and dream of happy ever after.
She opened the velvet box, took out a pencil, and picked up her sketchbook.
She stared at the thick paper, trying to dredge up the memory of how it felt to take a pencil in hand and let whatever it was inside her flow out onto the page. There was a time that it had taken no conscious thought at all, just pencil and paper. Now, it felt impossible. She didn’t have the slightest idea where to begin.
Tears clouded her vision, and she was struck with the desperate notion that she had given up all that she was to be Bud’s wife, including this part of her. She had believed his promises, had believed in their future. Now she had nothing left that she didn’t have to rebuild.
Rebecca looked at the tops of the cottonwood trees, bending and swaying in the afternoon breeze. Get it back, Matt had said. Just be.
Easy for him to say because he could just be who he was—arrogant and kind all at once, caring in a weird, fascist sort of way, she thought with a little smile. Smart. Competent. Sexy. Of course he could believe in himself. She wished she could believe in herself like that instead of stuffing her spirit down, leaving it to lurk in her thoughts and heart.
A flicker of light caught her eye, and Rebecca looked up to the tops of the cottonwood trees again. Miraculously, her hand began to move. She blinked, looked down at the pad she was holding and saw the first marks of a tree. She dropped the pencil, wiped her eyes, picked up her pencil again, and looked at the leaves impressed against a bright spring sky.
The rest of the weekend passed uneventfully—save a very heated argument between Robin and Dad about the Houston Astros, which drove Rebecca outside again. By the time Rebecca returned to her lake house, she was emotionally exhausted from her family and all the blasted introspection she had done.
She said good-bye to Grandma and Grandpa, then made hot dogs, Grayson’s favorite, for supper. Later, when Grayson settled down in front of taped episodes of SpongeBob SquarePants with the dogs, Rebecca went to her office with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s to check her phone messages.
The first was left bright and early Friday morning by Tom. “Hey, did you see the piece in the paper about us? Great job, Rebecca! Listen, could you come in next week? I’d like to talk to you about a bigger deal. I’m thinking of a big summer fund-raising bash that will leave the competition gasping. You know, one with some great live entertainment like Lyle Lovett.” He rattled on about that; Rebecca jotted down a note to call him.
There was another early call from Bud, who, among other things, made a remark about the picture in the Austin paper. “I hope you are finally moving on with your life, Bec,” he said, which made her cringe, and then, “And I hope you got a chance to mention Tom to your dad.” Typical.
The last message, left just after ten on Friday, was from Matt. She smiled when he said, “Mork, you home?” Just the sound of his voice made her feel warm. “Ah . . . well. This is Big Pants in case you hadn’t figured that out. So . . .” He paused there, drew a breath. “Look, I know we’re not going there, but I’ve got a couple of tickets to the lyric opera and I thought you might enjoy it. The thing is, I’m not the most lyric guy in the world—you probably already knew that—and I could use someone to translate for me . . .” His voice trailed off again. She heard a faint tapping in the background. “Okay, so if you’re interested, it’s Sunday at six. Give me a call if you want to go. Okay. Talk to you soon. Bye,” he said, and hung up.
Rebecca glanced at the clock. It was almost eight. She debated calling him, but decided not to, to stick with her instincts, and her instincts said this could never really go anywhere. Her curiosity about him was really nothing more than the usual curiosity that comes after divorce. She’d read enough self-help books to know that a rebound affair was really not healthy, and this couldn’t possibly be more than that. So no matter how much her heart was leaning in one direction, her mind was yanking her in another. Just don’t go there . . .