Between the Tides by Susannah Marren Page A

owe no one anything.

 
    THIRTEEN
    â€œCoffee today?” I ask Lainie as we are about to leave the Women’s Y locker room. There is a mad exodus, as if everyone is on the same weekday schedule, although we aren’t. She gives me a look as if she’s torn about what to do and I realize that she is counting down to time at her drawing board. On the other hand, she ought to say yes or she’ll never have a friend in Elliot. I’m not convinced that she knows how salient it is to join me. She might be the “artiste,” compared to mere mortals, but each of us compensates for lost hours—let her stay up the night long if need be to paint.
    â€œLainie? Coffee?” I ask again.
    She nods. Bingo. “Let me check to see if Candy is on the train.” She squints at her screen. “Yes, she confirmed a minute ago. I am good to go.”
    â€œI’ll drive,” I offer.
    Lainie sits in the passenger seat as the baby hills of Elliot show the first signs of autumn, a burnished top inch of every blade of grass and shrub. I take the road in one slick move, spiraling for a millisecond. Then we are there, pulling up in front of the Corner Books, as close a parking spot as one might wrangle to the Tea Tree. I lead her through the glass doors and commandeer the front table facing the window and overlooking Main Street.
    She becomes anthropological, watching the women on the sidewalk, some swishing in the chicest day clothes, others sporting yoga gear. Their fast robotic motion—as if they are about to save the day, as if their mornings are complicated—can’t be newsworthy if you’ve lived in the city.
    â€œWhere is everyone going?” Lainie asks.
    â€œAppointments,” I say.
    â€œDoctor’s appointments?”
    â€œHair, nails, pedicures, Pilates … some women work,” I say. “You know, at home, freelance, part-time…”
    â€œThe very idea of not working on a canvas or on a sketch sounds so … easy,” she says.
    â€œSure, it has an enticing element to it. Think about it, Lainie, you could be sipping a macchiato and nibbling at a scone guilt-free.”
    â€œIs that how it is, Jess? Is there a lightness to the days when they belong to you and your family and place is enough ? When you don’t need anything more?”
    I am the wrong person to ask. I am one of them at a price. She too could cross over, run hither and yon, to the shoemaker, wine shop, tailor, the vegetable market. She too could be in search of organic apples, the best goose liver p â t é , the triple cr è me cheeses sold beside the low-fat Gouda. But it’s ridiculous to expect this of Lainie, who is at one with sea grass, how the river bends.
    â€œWell, some women like it more than others,” I say.
    â€œCharles would love it if I could be involved with the community.… He’d like me to let go of my … I don’t know … my commitment to my work. Ever since we moved here he seems frustrated when he sees me in my studio.”
    During Lainie’s lame confessional, I remain heavily invested in the others who are congregating. I welcome the women from the other tables who descend upon us, who pay homage to me.
    â€œJess, Jess!” they exclaim in these rehearsed tones. “Jess!”
    The tables are designated by age groups. Mid-thirties to early forties are seated by the window while those between forty-five and fifty-five are behind us. The older women have settled in the back of the Tea Tree. Everyone is coiffed and polished to perfection, hair is beautifully colored and foreheads are frozen in place. If anyone had a reason to furrow her brow, it would not be effective. A few women wear Herm è s scarves around their necks and others broadcast their d é collet é . Similar to the ladies who lunch in the city, I’m sure, except that there is no buffer, no diversity of street life once you step