Perfect on Paper (25 page)

“F
ort
Lauderdale
?!” Elinor Ann said when I called as early as post-New-Year’s etiquette would allow the following morning. “What in the world is he doing down there?”

According to the email, taking a busman’s holiday:

“People actually do that?” Elinor Ann said. “Pay good money for a tropical getaway and stay inside all day long?”

“Apparently crossword people do.”

It had taken several exchanges with Billy before I was able to sort out the details. “They solve a series of puzzles varying in size and difficulty,” I explained. “They’re awarded extra points if they finish before the time limit, have points deducted for incorrect letters—that’s where the judges come in.”

“I suppose that sounds like a rip-roaring good time to you.”

The idea of spending three nights in a stateroom with Billy Moody certainly did, but I wasn’t about to mention that. “The tournament part, sure. But flying back and forth to Florida during Christmas week and spending the entire day below deck? Not exactly.”

“Maybe there’s hope for you after all.”

There was one other salient point I neglected to bring up. A different crossword tournament—
the
crossword tournament, according to Billy—was held every February right across the Brooklyn Bridge. And, according to Billy, I absolutely had to compete in it this year.

But that was a conversation for another time—like the day before the tournament was to take place.

“Speaking of hope, what about you?” I said. “How was Macungie?”

“Surprisingly not bad. Of course, Cal was right by my side the whole time, but I Acted As If I were just like everybody else and—well, I was. And then this morning I drove into town and back, just to see if I could manage it.”

“And?”

“Well, I didn’t throw up. Or pass out. I guess you could call that progress.”

“Of course it’s progress!”

She sighed. “I just hope I can keep up my momentum. Angus’s cast comes off in a couple of days, and he can’t wait to get back behind the wheel.”

“Don’t forget.…”

“I know, I know. The boys still need their mother.”

I’d spent the bulk of our call in front of my easel, trying to determine whether Dinner’s final portrait in the plum porkpie hat required any finishing touches. It did. I’d forgotten to put the commemorative thermometer in his mouth. After a quick image search on the Web, I painted in the glass tube and thin silver line of mercury and stepped back. The canvas was complete, and so was the series.

I went into the living room and upended the coffee table onto the couch, which I shoved against a wall. I had just enough floor space to lay out all sixteen canvases. For the next hour or so, I played with the arrangement, making sure the brightest colors were evenly distributed and the portraits done in profile were looking directly at my favorite head-on poses.

Only one painting remained in its original position, in the upper-left-hand corner of the grid: the one I’d promised to Ray Devine.

He’d called back minutes after I’d sent the jpegs the night before.

“I want one.”

I’d been hoping to hear those exact words. “You do?”

“Dana, I—I love them. They’re so clever and colorful and witty and… you. They’re so you. I’m so proud of you.”

Despite my solitary state, this was shaping up to be the best New Year’s in recent memory. Ray had a good eye, and his opinion had mattered to me since the first day we’d worked together at Prints on Prince.

But back then, Ray’s review would have made my day—no, my year. And as happy as I was to have his approval, I already had my own. I knew the work was good.

Hmm,
I thought to myself.
Can I finally be growing up?

“You know, you’d better not break up with that boyfriend of yours,” Ray added.

“Huh?”

“That pig is your Helga.”

“Huh. I guess he is. So… which one do you want?”

“Which one do you think I want?”

My eyes fixed on the canvas featuring the leopard skin pillbox hat. Bob Dylan was Ray’s favorite musician; in fact, he’d provided most of the soundtrack to our affair. “Let me guess. The one that reminds you of a certain song from
Blonde on Blonde
?”

He laughed. “Like I always say—best album old Bob ever put out.”

“I remember. The painting’s yours.”

I went to get my camera and took several shots of the final layout. Then I rummaged under the sink for enough shopping bags to carry all sixteen canvases downstairs. Vivian would be clamoring for them as soon as she opened the store tomorrow.

By the time I was done, I heard my stomach growl, and no wonder—it was nearly two o’clock. Maybe I should run down to the falafel place on Second Avenue and pick up a baba ganoush.

On second thought, Hank had told me the vet expected to release Dinner after his overnight stay. Maybe I should run down to the falafel place, pick up two baba ganouches, and surprise him when they returned from Mullica Hill.

That was exactly what I’d do. It had been a long week. I’d missed Hank and my nights at the brownstone.

I thought back to the list I’d been compiling in my head on the day we met. Hank had all the qualities I’d been looking for in a man: Funny. Kind. Devoted. Smart, but not necessarily book smart.

Billy had those qualities as well. But Billy was a kid—albeit a book-smart kid. The age difference hadn’t mattered to me when I’d been with Ray, but that was only because I’d been too young to know better. The way I saw things now, it was difficult enough to make a serious commitment to someone. Why complicate the situation even further?

I nodded to myself, taking one final look at the paintings. It was time to start living like a grown-up. What better day to begin?

I grabbed the key and my purse and went out to greet the new year.

I could tell from the chain holding the double front doors shut that he hadn’t arrived home yet. The padlock was on the outside. I opened its hasp, stepped into the foyer, and pulled the chain around. So much for surprising him. He’d know I was in the house as soon as he noticed the position of the lock.

But I was the one who turned out to be surprised when I heard the sound of hooves approaching from the back hallway.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

Dinner regarded me impassively, gave the bag containing the baba ganoush an enthusiastic sniff, then turned and retreated to the kitchen.

There was no sign of Hank in there, nor was there any evidence of a recent trip to the vet. The counter was free of pill bottles, as were the cabinets, and, though I was no expert, Dinner appeared to be in perfect health. His appetite had certainly revived; when I reached into the bowl of apples and tossed him one, it disappeared in an instant.

I wandered back to the foyer and poked my head inside the parlor. No overnight bag, no medication. Just a rapidly desiccating tree, still leaning in the corner where Tom-Tom had propped it on Christmas Day.

I decided to continue my inspection upstairs, where I was relieved to discover new signs of renovation. The switch-plate challenge had at last been met: Each room had new ones screwed into place, and when I flipped the toggle in what was to be the master bedroom, a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling illuminated the murk.

But the real revelation came when I opened the door to the adjoining bathroom, which had undergone such a luxurious transformation that it now rivaled the kitchen for sheer opulence. Walls had been knocked out to create a space just a tad smaller than Carnegie Hall. The original
claw-foot tub was now reglazed in a matte white finish, which contrasted nicely with an ultramodern corner shower sporting six water jets on each of its marble walls. But the true masterpiece was the floor. Hundreds—maybe thousands—of pieces of pastel beach glass had been arranged there in meandering curves, then sealed with sand-colored grout. Hank had been busier than I realized.

Or not. I thought back to the words he’d spoken the last time we’d seen each other: “Contractors contract.”

I scanned the room until I spotted a business card stuck into a corner of the mirror that hung over a pedestal sink.
ART UNDERFOOT
, it read.
TILEWORK BY TIMOTHY
.

Another floor guy. I should have known.

Before I could investigate the provenance of the shower and refurbished tub, I heard pounding at the front door. He was back.

“Do
not
confront him right away,” I instructed myself on my way downstairs. “Give him a chance to explain why his pig is home and he isn’t.”

I fumbled with the lock, then threw open the door.

“Sure am glad you decided to drop by,” Hank said, grinning at me. In one hand he held his truck keys and a knapsack; in the other, a garment bag. “I been driving around looking for a parking space ever since I dropped off Dinner.” He walked inside, dropped his luggage, and wrapped his arms around me. “Boy, am I glad to see you. I sure missed you, Dana.”

I was
such
an asshole.

As if that wasn’t sufficient, I was an asshole who couldn’t leave well enough alone.

“What’s in the garment bag?”

“What, this? Just my tuxedo.”

I drew back. “I had no idea a trip to the vet was such a dressy occasion.”

He laughed, but I could have sworn I saw his shoulders tense before he responded. “Aw, heck. That thing’s been hanging in the back of the
truck for months now. Didn’t want to get plaster dust all over it, but now that the hall closet’s got a door, I reckoned it’d be safe to bring inside.” He gestured toward the closet, which indeed had a new door—no doubt installed by a door guy.

Clearly it was time to take a page from Elinor Ann’s playbook if I wanted to salvage this relationship. It was time to Act As If everything was fine instead of wondering what possible sequence of events would require a general contractor to don formalwear on New Year’s Eve.

After he’d hung the garment bag on the closet pole, I smiled and tilted my head toward the hallway. “I picked up lunch on my way down. You hungry?”

“Starving.”

We went into the kitchen, where I spotted his cell phone charger sitting empty on the far end of the counter. So he
had
forgotten to take it with him on his trip to New Jersey. At least some percentage of what came out of his mouth was the truth.

“I was worried about you last night,” I said as he was unwrapping the sandwiches.

“Why’s that?”

“It was awfully late when you called. I was beginning to wonder if you’d been in an accident.”

“Yeah, I sure am sorry about that. I was so beat when I finally checked in to the motel, I just plumb forgot to do anything but shut my eyes. By the time I woke up, I was so hungry—well, same deal.” He pulled his phone out of the knapsack and placed it in the charger. “Not that there’s gonna be a next time, but if there is, I promise to stay in better touch.”

“Good.” I took a deep breath. “Uh… Hank?”

“Yeah?”

“What was it you were saying last night when our call got cut off?”

“Last night?” His eyebrows knitted together while he tried to remember. “Oh, that. You didn’t hear me?”

“No,” I said, instead of what I really wanted to say, which was
“No!!!”

A sly smile crossed his face. “You mean right after I wished you a happy new year?”

“Yes,” I said, instead of what I really wanted to say, which was
“Yes!!!”

“Oh, not a whole heck of a lot. Just… I love you.”

“You do?”

He leaned over to kiss me while my brain pinged around my cranium like a ball inside a pachinko machine. “Course I do. Can’t you tell?”

Hank Wheeler loved me! This highly attractive man with impressive (albeit temporary) housing and a lucrative (albeit potentially imaginary) career and undeniable (albeit grammatically incorrect) charm was in love… with me!

And how convenient that he already owned a tuxedo for our inevitable foray down the aisle!

My appetite had vanished, and apparently Hank’s had, too, because we proceeded directly to the bedroom. Hours later, we polished off one extremely soggy baba ganoush sandwich (I had foolishly left mine too close to the edge of the counter, and Dinner’s clutches) and Tom-Tom’s bottle of champagne before going back to bed, where I slept the untroubled slumber of the delusional.

It was not until the following morning, when curiosity compelled me to open the door to the hall closet and pull down the zipper on the garment bag, that I realized precisely how delusional I was.

Hank had been honest, up to a point. There was indeed a tuxedo inside the bag.

But attached to its lapel was a boutonnière that was only just beginning to wilt.

“Maybe he had to go to a funeral,” Elinor Ann said.

“Yeah, but don’t the flowers generally wind up on the coffin, as opposed to the lapels of the guests?”

“Then where do you think he was last night?”

I’d been trying to figure that out all the way home. “I can only come up with one possible scenario.”

“A wedding,” we said in unison.

“But why wouldn’t he have invited you?” She hesitated. “Dana, you don’t think Hank’s the one who—”

“The one who got married?”

“I hate to say it, but…”

The thought had crossed my mind, but based on his recent behavior, it didn’t make sense. “Not unless he felt obligated to help some illegal immigrant get her Green Card.” Or unless he was a pathological liar who got some sort of perverse kick out of telling women he loved them just before marrying someone else.