I feel vaguely sick. Libby still isn’t back yet, and I’m too deep in my thoughts for small talk with strangers. Avoiding every attempt at eye contact, I wander through the crowd to the far end of the living room.
A series of three massive paintings hangs in a triptych. The walls are covered in paintings, actually, every color palette and size, giving the house a cozy, eclectic feeling mismatched to its old-fashioned exterior.
The paintings are definitely nudes, though abstracted: all pinks and tans and browns, purple curves and shadows. They remind me of the Matisse Cut-Outs, but whereas those always strike me as romantic, even erotic—all artful arches and curved, pretzeling legs—these feel casual, the kind of vulnerable nudity of walking around naked in your apartment, looking for your hairbrush.
The scent of weed hits me right before her voice, but I still flinch when Sally says, “Are you an artist?”
“Definitely not. But I’m an appreciator.”
She lifts the wine bottle in her hand like it’s a question. I nod and she tops off my glass.
“Who made them?” I ask.
Sally’s lips tighten into an apple-cheeked smile. “I did. In another life.”
“They’re phenomenal.” From a technical standpoint, I know very little about art, but these paintings are beautiful, calming in their earthy colors and organic shapes. They’re decidedly not the kind of art that makes a person say, My four-year-old niece could paint this.
“I can’t believe you made these.” I shake my head. “It’s so strange to see something like this and realize it just came from a normal person. Not that you’re normal!”
“Oh, honey,” she laughs. “There are far worse things to be. Normal is a badge I wear proudly.”
“You could’ve been famous,” I say. “I mean, that’s how good these are.”
She appraises the paintings. “Speaking of those ‘worse things to be than normal.’?”
“Fame comes with money,” I point out. “Money’s helpful.”
“Fame also comes with people telling you whatever they think you want to hear.”
“Hello there,” Libby coos, slipping into place beside us. She gives me an indiscreet waggle of the eyebrows, and I’m grateful Sally misses it, so I don’t have to explain the meaning behind it is She wants me to screw your nephew! Instead of your son! Which was also briefly on the table!
“Sally painted these,” I say.
Libby looks to her for confirmation. “No freaking way!”
Sally laughs. “So shocked!”
“These are, like, professional, Sally,” Libby says. “Have you ever tried to sell any?”
“I used to.” She looks displeased at the thought.
“Wuh-oh,” Libby says. “There’s clearly a story here. Come on, Sal. Let it out.”
“Not a very interesting one,” she says.
“Lucky for you, we just saw a play that severely lowered our standards,” I say.
Sally lets out a devilish snort and pats my arm. “Don’t let Reverend Monica hear you say that. Old Man Whittaker is her godson.”
“I hope he’ll pose for the statue in the town square,” I say.
“That statue could look like my mail carrier, Derek, for all I care,” Sally says. “Long as the plaque says Whittaker. We need the business that sort of thing could bring in.”
“Back to the story,” Libby says. “You used to sell your paintings?”
She sighs. “Well, when I was a girl, I wanted to be a painter. So when I was eighteen, I went to Florence to paint for a few weeks, which turned into months—Clint and I broke up, of course—and after a year, I came back to the States to try to break into the art scene in New York.”
“Get out!” Libby lightly thwacks Sally’s arm. “Where’d you live?”
“Alphabet City,” she says. “Long, long time ago. Stayed for the next eleven years, working my ass off. Sold some paintings, applied for shows constantly. Worked for three or four different artists and spent every night trying to network in galleries. Worked myself to the bone. Then, finally, when I’d been at it for eight years, I was part of this group show. And this guy walks in, picks out one of my paintings, and buys it. Turns out he’s a renowned curator. My career takes off overnight.”
“That’s the dream!” Libby squeals.
“I thought so,” Sally replies. “But I realized the truth pretty fast.”
“That Clint was your true love?” Libby guesses.
“That it was all a game. My paintings hadn’t changed, but suddenly all these places that had turned me down wanted me. People who’d never looked my way were all over me. Hardly mattered what I made. My work became a status symbol, nothing more, nothing less.”
“Or,” I say, “you were extremely talented, and it took one person with good taste to say so before the masses caught on.”
“Maybe,” Sally allows. “But by then I was tired. And homesick. And usually pretty hungry and broke, and the curator came on to me when I was just lonely enough to fall into bed with him. Not long after my father passed, we broke up, and I came home to be with my mother. While I was here, she asked Clint to come clean our gutters.”
“The jokes just write themselves,” I say.
“So then you realized he was your true love?” Libby says.
Sally smiles. “That time, yes. He was engaged by then. Didn’t stop my mother’s machinations. Her mantra was It’s not official until they’re down the aisle. Thank God she was right. As soon as I saw Clint again, I knew I’d made a huge mistake. Three weeks later, he was engaged to me.”
“That’s so romantic,” Libby says.
“But didn’t you miss it?” I say.
“Miss what?” Sally says, clearly not tracking.
“The city,” I say. “The galleries in New York. All of it.”
“Honestly, after all those years of toiling, it was a huge relief to come here and just . . .” She lets out a deep breath, her arms floating up at her sides. “Settle.”
“No kidding,” Libby says. “We moved to the city so our mom could try to make it as an actress—the most chronically exhausted person in the world.”
“That’s not fair.” She was spread thin, sure, but she was also full of life, ecstatic to be chasing her dreams.
Libby shoots me a look. “Remember that time she was a nickel short at the bodega? Right after that Producers audition? The clerk told her to put a lime back, and she broke down.”
My heart squeezes. I had no idea Libby remembered that. She’d just turned six, and Mom wanted to bake Lib’s favorite corn-lime cookies. When Mom started melting down at the register, I grabbed the extra lime in one hand and Libby’s little fingers in my other and dragged her back to the produce, taking our time zigzagging back to Mom while she gathered herself.
If you could have any treat, from any book, I asked her, what would you choose?
She picked Turkish delight, like Edmund ate in Narnia. I picked frobscottle from The BFG, because it could make you fly. That night, the three of us watched Willy Wonka and cleaned out the remains of our Halloween candy.
It’s a happy memory, the kind that almost sparkles. More proof that every problem could be solved with the right itinerary.
Everything turned out okay, I remember thinking. As long as we’re together, it always does.
We were happy.
But that’s not what Libby’s telling Sally. She’s saying, “Mom was broke, tired, and lonely. She put her career ahead of absolutely everything and was miserable because of it.” She turns to Sally, conspiratorial. “Nora’s the same way—worked to the bone. No time for a real life. She once refused a second date with a guy because he asked her to put her phone on Do Not Disturb during dinner. Work always comes first for her. That’s why I dragged her here. This trip is basically an intervention.”
She says it all like a joke, but there’s something hard and thorny underneath, and her words land in my gut like a punch. The room has started to pulse and waver. My throat feels full, my clothes itchy against my skin, like something is swelling inside me. She’s still talking, but her words are garbled.
Tired, lonely, no real life, work always comes first.
For weeks, I’ve worried how people will see me once Frigid hits shelves, but Libby—Libby’s the only person who’s ever really known me. And this is how she sees me.