a closet rearranged, a dresser reorganized in a way that did not mix plain whites with logoed T-shirts. âAt least you can find things,â sheâd said, though Gary couldnât remember ever having lost anything. Maybe he lost the occasional thing in the sense of not laying his hands on it right away, but not in the sense of never finding it again. His privacy was shrinking, which wasnât a bad thing if you were in a relationship, provided you wanted to be in the relationship. He needed to think on that a little more.
The wooden box remained in the bottom drawer of the dresser, now covered with neatly folded sweatpants instead of wrinkled shirts and tattered sweaters. Though he often sensed the question form in her head, she never actually asked about the box, which was shaped like a treasure chest with a hasp and a padlock. The key was in his wallet.
The box preserved not only privacy but memories: a pencil dented with teeth marks; two metal badges for admission to the Metropolitan Museum of Art; two ticket stubs for The Atomic Café ; a matchbook from a Cuban restaurant. He knew from experience that the memories associated with all souvenirs had half-lives that discharged whenever you returned to them. The half-lives of these had spent themselves in the days after he got out of rehab. The book was different. Time and exposure had not changed the minimalist sketches or the simple yet allegorical language. If anything, the book only became more meaningful.
He propped the spine on his dead lap and slowly thumbed through the pages. He closed the book and put it back in the box and covered the box with the sweatpants. He shut the lights, and after his eyes adjusted to the gray tones of his bedroom, began his nightly maneuvers.
The missing piece, his missing piece, was in the courthouse. He knew that for sure.
He lay on his back and adjusted the bed so he would not snore. After a while, he imagined he heard Ursula unlocking the door. But it was only one of those illogical, disconnected thoughts that came on the edge of his dreams.
Â
CHAPTER 11
In the tiny West Clare village of Lisdoonvarna a bed-and-breakfast offered painting lessons to its guests. The owner was an accomplished painter herself who believed that the light of West Clare, reflecting off the Atlantic on one side and the gray stone pavements of the Burren on the other, rivaled the light of Provincetown in Massachusetts. Painters came from places like Dublin, Paris, and Berlin to take formal instruction before breakfast and again after dinner. During the day, when the light was available, they took to the roads and could be seen at easels all over Clare, from the rocky coast near Doolin, to the town square in Ennis, to megaliths standing atop lonely hills.
Lord Leinster discovered the bed and breakfast after the debacle of the Roman silver trial. He had returned to Dublin and, feeling antsy, drove west without a particular destination in mind. Clare called to him, and at nightfall he pulled up in front of the B-and-B. He registered as Paul Douglas, paid for a week in cash, then, after toting his baggage to his room, turned off his cell phone and crawled into bed with the idea of sleeping that week away.
Two days later, he took his first painting class.
Leinster had displayed an affinity for several talents in life. Getting married was one, heeding bad advice was another, losing scads of money (often a combination of affinities one and two) was a third. But his affinity for painting was as real as it was surprising. Within a year of that first accidental visit, watercolor landscapes of the Burren bearing the signature âPDâ began to appear in galleries in Dublin and Derry. His first sale went for twenty pounds; he thought he had made a million.
Now he was driving the Burren again. The morning air was cool to the point of cold. But the sky was clear, and as the gray hills filled the distance an idea for a series of paintings came
The wooden box remained in the bottom drawer of the dresser, now covered with neatly folded sweatpants instead of wrinkled shirts and tattered sweaters. Though he often sensed the question form in her head, she never actually asked about the box, which was shaped like a treasure chest with a hasp and a padlock. The key was in his wallet.
The box preserved not only privacy but memories: a pencil dented with teeth marks; two metal badges for admission to the Metropolitan Museum of Art; two ticket stubs for The Atomic Café ; a matchbook from a Cuban restaurant. He knew from experience that the memories associated with all souvenirs had half-lives that discharged whenever you returned to them. The half-lives of these had spent themselves in the days after he got out of rehab. The book was different. Time and exposure had not changed the minimalist sketches or the simple yet allegorical language. If anything, the book only became more meaningful.
He propped the spine on his dead lap and slowly thumbed through the pages. He closed the book and put it back in the box and covered the box with the sweatpants. He shut the lights, and after his eyes adjusted to the gray tones of his bedroom, began his nightly maneuvers.
The missing piece, his missing piece, was in the courthouse. He knew that for sure.
He lay on his back and adjusted the bed so he would not snore. After a while, he imagined he heard Ursula unlocking the door. But it was only one of those illogical, disconnected thoughts that came on the edge of his dreams.
Â
CHAPTER 11
In the tiny West Clare village of Lisdoonvarna a bed-and-breakfast offered painting lessons to its guests. The owner was an accomplished painter herself who believed that the light of West Clare, reflecting off the Atlantic on one side and the gray stone pavements of the Burren on the other, rivaled the light of Provincetown in Massachusetts. Painters came from places like Dublin, Paris, and Berlin to take formal instruction before breakfast and again after dinner. During the day, when the light was available, they took to the roads and could be seen at easels all over Clare, from the rocky coast near Doolin, to the town square in Ennis, to megaliths standing atop lonely hills.
Lord Leinster discovered the bed and breakfast after the debacle of the Roman silver trial. He had returned to Dublin and, feeling antsy, drove west without a particular destination in mind. Clare called to him, and at nightfall he pulled up in front of the B-and-B. He registered as Paul Douglas, paid for a week in cash, then, after toting his baggage to his room, turned off his cell phone and crawled into bed with the idea of sleeping that week away.
Two days later, he took his first painting class.
Leinster had displayed an affinity for several talents in life. Getting married was one, heeding bad advice was another, losing scads of money (often a combination of affinities one and two) was a third. But his affinity for painting was as real as it was surprising. Within a year of that first accidental visit, watercolor landscapes of the Burren bearing the signature âPDâ began to appear in galleries in Dublin and Derry. His first sale went for twenty pounds; he thought he had made a million.
Now he was driving the Burren again. The morning air was cool to the point of cold. But the sky was clear, and as the gray hills filled the distance an idea for a series of paintings came
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