her watch. “Cassandra had said she may stop by after some shopping.” My mom looked at the two of us. “I feel okay about this set-up, but it occurs to me she might be a bit uneasy when it comes to you two.”
We heard the sound of the garage door closing and my mother’s husband, Spence, hustled through the back door into the kitchen, shedding a coat. He was dressed in his usual uniform of a blue jacket and pressed khaki pants.
Spence hated to miss any McNeil family gatherings. “Hello, hello,” he said, crossing the room to kiss my mother on the head. “What can I get you? What can I get you?” He looked around.
“We have drinks already, darling,” my mother said.
“Ah, some cheese and olives, then?” He took off his jacket and began rolling up his sleeves as he moved toward the refrigerator.
“Ask Spence about it,” Charlie said, leaning on the counter, looking toward Spence. “Do you think it’s strange that Mom is setting Dad up with Cassandra?”
Spence straightened from a bent position at the fridge. “Not at all! It’s a marvelous idea! Your father is entitled to love, just like anyone else.”
It sounded like a bold line from a play and Spence had nearly delivered it that way, too.
My mother looked at him, her expression adoring. “I agree,” she said.
My mother stood to help Spence as we heard a voice calling from the foyer, “Hello? Vicky? The door was open…”
“Cass! We’re in the kitchen!”
I loved to see my mother act so casual.
Cassandra Milton strode into the kitchen carrying a big shopping bag. She looked salon fresh and ten years younger than her actual age. “I got those bowls I told you about,” she was saying.
She stopped short when she saw Charlie and me in the kitchen, then regained her composure. “Charlie. Nice to see you awake and dressed for the day.” She chuckled. Charlie’s former laziness was a running joke to many of my mother and Spence’s friends. Charlie laughed, as well, taking everything in stride, as usual.
“And you, Izzy,” Cassandra turned to me. “I saw you the other day through the window at Madeline Saga’s gallery. I knocked on the glass to get your attention, but you didn’t seem to hear me.”
“You know Madeline?”
“Oh, gosh, I’ve known her for years. Stan and I first bought a painting from her when she was in her old gallery space.” Cassandra’s husband, Stanford, had died six years ago. “We’ve been friendly since then. I see her sometimes at gallery events or restaurants. I occasionally still drop in to see what new works she’s gotten. I just adore her joy about art. But I have to be careful when I’m there. Her excitement is contagious, and half the time I go away with something I hadn’t intended to own at all.” She laughed at her own impetuousness.
Cassandra turned to my mother and began regaling her with a tale about the bowls in her shopping bag. Charlie smiled at me and left the room.
I remained sitting where I was, struck with the thought that Madeline’s love for art and her gallery put her in contact with so very many people. The net we used catch our thief, I realized, might have to get wider.
27
I t had felt satisfying at first, typing in truthful words, letting frustrations out to the world—frustrations about Madeline. Hitting the sendkey with a satisfied thump of a forefinger, a surge of redemption.
After years of hating the disjointed and unappreciated feelings that Madeline caused, the reason for those feelings had emerged. And it was this—Madeline Saga’s devotion to her art, her understanding of artists, was at such a level that no one else seemed to be able to achieve it, or even in many cases, to be aware that such a state existed.
And so sending the comments and the emails—at first, it was gratifying. But when the understanding came in—that Madeline’s level couldn’t be achieved, that was when the true anger began.
And that was when the worry started, the
We heard the sound of the garage door closing and my mother’s husband, Spence, hustled through the back door into the kitchen, shedding a coat. He was dressed in his usual uniform of a blue jacket and pressed khaki pants.
Spence hated to miss any McNeil family gatherings. “Hello, hello,” he said, crossing the room to kiss my mother on the head. “What can I get you? What can I get you?” He looked around.
“We have drinks already, darling,” my mother said.
“Ah, some cheese and olives, then?” He took off his jacket and began rolling up his sleeves as he moved toward the refrigerator.
“Ask Spence about it,” Charlie said, leaning on the counter, looking toward Spence. “Do you think it’s strange that Mom is setting Dad up with Cassandra?”
Spence straightened from a bent position at the fridge. “Not at all! It’s a marvelous idea! Your father is entitled to love, just like anyone else.”
It sounded like a bold line from a play and Spence had nearly delivered it that way, too.
My mother looked at him, her expression adoring. “I agree,” she said.
My mother stood to help Spence as we heard a voice calling from the foyer, “Hello? Vicky? The door was open…”
“Cass! We’re in the kitchen!”
I loved to see my mother act so casual.
Cassandra Milton strode into the kitchen carrying a big shopping bag. She looked salon fresh and ten years younger than her actual age. “I got those bowls I told you about,” she was saying.
She stopped short when she saw Charlie and me in the kitchen, then regained her composure. “Charlie. Nice to see you awake and dressed for the day.” She chuckled. Charlie’s former laziness was a running joke to many of my mother and Spence’s friends. Charlie laughed, as well, taking everything in stride, as usual.
“And you, Izzy,” Cassandra turned to me. “I saw you the other day through the window at Madeline Saga’s gallery. I knocked on the glass to get your attention, but you didn’t seem to hear me.”
“You know Madeline?”
“Oh, gosh, I’ve known her for years. Stan and I first bought a painting from her when she was in her old gallery space.” Cassandra’s husband, Stanford, had died six years ago. “We’ve been friendly since then. I see her sometimes at gallery events or restaurants. I occasionally still drop in to see what new works she’s gotten. I just adore her joy about art. But I have to be careful when I’m there. Her excitement is contagious, and half the time I go away with something I hadn’t intended to own at all.” She laughed at her own impetuousness.
Cassandra turned to my mother and began regaling her with a tale about the bowls in her shopping bag. Charlie smiled at me and left the room.
I remained sitting where I was, struck with the thought that Madeline’s love for art and her gallery put her in contact with so very many people. The net we used catch our thief, I realized, might have to get wider.
27
I t had felt satisfying at first, typing in truthful words, letting frustrations out to the world—frustrations about Madeline. Hitting the sendkey with a satisfied thump of a forefinger, a surge of redemption.
After years of hating the disjointed and unappreciated feelings that Madeline caused, the reason for those feelings had emerged. And it was this—Madeline Saga’s devotion to her art, her understanding of artists, was at such a level that no one else seemed to be able to achieve it, or even in many cases, to be aware that such a state existed.
And so sending the comments and the emails—at first, it was gratifying. But when the understanding came in—that Madeline’s level couldn’t be achieved, that was when the true anger began.
And that was when the worry started, the
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