Waterbury Winter, page 12
“No, someone else.”
“Aha. The new Barnaby. Ladies’ man.”
Barnaby guffaws. “Hardly. I came here to do a sketch for my new painting.”
“Okay. Want a drink to help you along, or are you still stayin’ off it?”
“Haven’t touched the stuff for a week now. How about a glass of water?”
“Whatever you want. In a martini glass, then no one will know,” Sean says, winking. “Want an onion to make it a Gibson?”
“You always were generous to a fault, my friend,” Barnaby says as he takes his place on a stool and pulls out his sketchbook.
As the afternoon progresses, more people enter the bar, the Saturday crowd. He knows most of them, and they greet him as they sit down. Charley claps him on the back. “Hey Sean, a drink for Barnaby on me,” he says. “What are you drinking, man? Vodka?”
There’s no fooling Charley. “Water. No thanks, but I appreciate the offer,” Barnaby says.
“Whoa. Turning over a new leaf, are we?” Charley asks.
“Trying to,” Barnaby replies, smiling.
“Have you got a bottle of Bootleggers there for me today, Sean, old buddy?” Charley calls.
“Sorry. No deliveries today because of the weather. How about a Samuel Adams?”
“Shit. I’m telling you, you can’t get good service anymore. Sam Adams’ll probably throw my game off.”
Barnaby ignores him. He finishes several sketches and notes the color values. He always feels comfortable in the bar. He enjoys the sounds of chatter, the way people become cheerful after a drink or two, and the colors of bottles like the ones he’ll have in his picture: ochre, burnt sienna, raw umber, cerulean. Without alcohol, he’s aware of brighter colors and sounds, as though he’s acquired a new pair of glasses with clear lenses to view a familiar scene. All the same, as he closes his book, he wishes he could have just one drink before he goes. One wouldn’t hurt, and it would ease his increasing nervousness at the prospect of the evening ahead . . . but he’ll be seeing Lisa, a woman who would notice if he arrived with even a hint of alcohol on his breath, and who would chastise him. And he’s painting again. Art and booze don’t mix well. With effort, he slides off the seat, grabs his coat, and hurries out the door.
Back at home, he’s proud he resisted the drink. Maybe he will manage the evening with Lisa just fine. He shaves and showers. His clothes, though worn, are freshly laundered. He’s grateful not to have to worry about dressing up for the symphony. At seven he sets out for Lisa’s.
“Come in,” she says. “Take those boots off, please. They’re wet and they’ll muddy the floor.”
He unlaces his shoes, pleased he’s wearing fresh socks without holes. She’s in the kitchen stirring a pot on the stove, and it smells like onions. She wears an apron over her black figure-hugging dress. “Make yourself at home,” she says. “Would you like a soft drink or something else?
“Coffee would be fine,” he says, noticing a pot on the counter. He sits down at the kitchen table.
“I’m making coq au vin. Hope you like it.”
“Er, I’m sure I will,” he says. He’s never heard of it.
“Takes a long time to make, but it’s worth the effort. I took a course in French cooking last year. You’re not a guinea pig—I’ve tried this out on others before. We’ll start with French onion soup. It just needs a few minutes in the oven.”
“That’s nice,” Barnaby says. At least he’s familiar with the soup.
“I’m finishing the dessert now. Chocolate mousse. It’ll be cold by the time we’re ready to eat it.
“Great. I love chocolate.”
Lisa hands him a mug. “Here’s your coffee. The soup needs a few more minutes before it’s ready. Come over here and sit by the fire.”
He moves to the couch, and she sits next to him. Barnaby shifts a few inches away from her. He has no idea what he’s in for, with the unfamiliar food, and he’ll have to make the best of it. She stares at the fire with an amused expression on her face. He’s unsure what she finds funny.
“Too bad about the concert,” he says.
“Oh, that’s okay. It would have been nice, but there’s not much time to talk when you’re listening to music. This way we’ll have a chance to get to know each other better.”
He hesitates. “Uh, I wanted to take you to the concert to thank you for figuring out who took my painting.”
“You’re welcome. Quite a coincidence that the case I worked on took me to the family who used to employ Alma. Julia thought so, too.”
“You mean Julia was involved in the case, as well?”
Lisa blushed. “Um, only a little,” she stammers.
“Do you two work together often?” he asks.
“No, not usually. I’ve had a heavy workload lately, and I asked her to help out.”
“So she met Alma?”
“We both met Alma. She loves the painting. It was good of you to let her keep it.”
“How did you find out that she had it?”
Lisa avoids his eyes. “Uh, I don’t remember exactly. It came up when we visited her.”
“That is a coincidence, then. Strange.”
“Oh well, that’s how it is sometimes in my business. Strange things happen. I think the soup is ready now. Would you be good enough to light the candles on the dining room table?”
She hands him a box of matches. The table is set for two with flowers in the middle. He lights the candles and takes a seat. She brings in two bowls of steaming soup.
“Cheers,” she says, raising a glass of water.
They concentrate on eating the soup.
“Very good,” Barnaby says. “French onion.”
“I always like it, especially in winter.”
As she takes their empty bowls into the kitchen, he watches her prepare the next course for serving. So Julia had something to do with the discovery of the painting. He must thank her. When Lisa comes back to the table carrying plates of dark brown food, he peers up at her.
“Does Julia have a boyfriend?” he asks.
Lisa gasps. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. Does she?”
“I don’t know. She used to. Not sure if she’s still seeing him or not.” She slams the plates on the table, splashing brown sauce on Barnaby’s shirt. “Oh, I’m so sorry. The plate is hot. I’ll bring a cloth to wipe you off.”
He shrugs. “It’s okay. I have a washing machine. Don’t worry about it. I get paint on myself all the time.”
She ignores him, fetches a paper towel, and wipes the stain from his sleeve. He catches a whiff of her perfume and holds his breath. Staring at her hand, he raises his eyes to her neck and face, and watches as she bends to throw the paper away under the sink. In spite of himself, he finds her attractive.
She sits down opposite him. Picking up a fork, he digs into the chicken.
“Delicious,” he says. “Rich.”
“It is rich. Cooks for hours.”
“I’m not used to eating like this,” he says. “When I make chicken, I roast it in the oven with salt and pepper. This sauce makes it taste completely different.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yes. Very nice,” he says.
In fact, he does like it. The flavors are complex, like a layered oil painting, where application of many glazes builds the depth of color. It’s artistry he admires. She must have spent a lot of time preparing this dish. He watches her with new appreciation and notices her anxious expression. He struggles to think of something to say.
“You’ve been kind to me, Lisa, and I want you to know I value that.”
Her face relaxes. “Thanks for saying so. As I keep telling you, I want to help you.”
“Let me ask, do you like your line of work? It seems like you’re always there, even when you’re not.”
“I did like it at first. Not so much anymore. I truly like helping people, but now I find I want more.”
“In what way?”
“More for myself. More of a life for myself.”
She peers up at him, and he reaches over and pats her hand. She doesn’t resist the connection.
“We all want that, I guess,” he says, “but most of us are more selfish to begin with. If I may ask, how did you get involved with your work in the first place?”
He lifts his hand. She sighs and takes a deep breath. “My husband was an alcoholic. We married young, and I didn’t know about his problem until later. He died in a car accident. DUI. After that I got my master’s in social work. That’s probably why I’m so hard on you about the drinking.”
“I see. Actually, it does help, to have someone pay attention. Thought about you this afternoon when I wanted a drink. I knew you wouldn’t approve, and I resisted.”
“I know how hard it is. Good for you!” Lisa says with a wide smile. “I could almost hug you for that.”
“It’s okay. The parrot approves as well.”
She frowns. “Your parrot doesn’t like me.”
“Well, as I’ve said, you’re competition.”
She clears her throat. “Talk to me about painting. That’s what you really want to do, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he says at length. “I’ve had a stroke of luck with that, too. I’ve sold a few pictures.”
“You have? Who bought them?”
“A guy I used to know, in fact, someone who Julia used to date. We all knew each other years ago. He has a gallery in New York.”
“Right. I forgot. Julia and you knew each other before. What’s the name of the place? I go to the city sometimes. I might pay a visit.”
Barnaby scratches his head. “Goldstone Gallery, in the Village, I think he said.”
“All right. I’ll check it out,” Lisa says. “If you’re ready, let’s have dessert,”
The mousse, silky textured, dark, and chocolaty, ends the meal. He spoons the spongy gel slowly into his mouth, scraping the dish. After they finish eating, Barnaby sighs with satisfaction.
“It would be easy to get used to this way of living,” he says. “You’ve spoiled me. Thank you for the best meal I’ve had in years. I’m sure I enjoyed it more than the concert, not being a classical music fan.”
“I’m glad you liked the food. Would you like another cup of coffee?”
“Yes, please. You know, you’re a superb cook. You should open a restaurant.”
After their coffee, he stands to leave. Lisa gives him a quick hug. He hugs her back, thanks her again, and reaches for his coat and boots. On the way home he judges the evening has worked out better than he expected. She knows how to entertain, and she’s a fine cook. He’s grateful he didn’t offer her a spaghetti dinner at his house. But what had she said about Julia? Julia was involved in the painting’s discovery. Now he has another reason to call her.
The next day he works on his bar painting adding background details like the walls and glasses on shelves, then slogs through the snow to O’Malley’s for lunch. He again resists the temptation to order a drink.
“So how did your date go last night?” Sean asks.
“Well enough. That woman knows how to cook.”
“Home cookin’ is best. Do you like her? Are you goin’ to ask her out again?”
“I do like her, but she’s only a friend.”
“So why not go out with her a few times, get to know her?” Sean asks.
“I don’t have time for a relationship now. Trying to finish a painting.”
“I wouldn’t let that stop you, if you like her.”
“Okay, thanks for the advice. I’ll think about it.”
“You do that. It’d be good to see you with a companion. You’ve been on your own for a long time, depressed, I’d say, and drinkin’. Lately you’ve been happier. Might want to take advantage, that’s all I’m sayin’.”
“I know you mean well, Sean, my friend. I need to go slowly. That’s my style, and anyway, there’s another woman I want to see. I came here to eat. What’s on the menu?”
“Split pea soup. Beef stew.”
“I’ll have the soup. Got to get back home to work, and I don’t want anything too heavy. I had a big meal last night.”
“Well, you’re sure changin’ your style. The old Barnaby would have gone for the stew.”
“Guess you’re right.”
Barnaby washes the bowl of soup down with a glass of water and trudges home. Working again on his preliminary study, he adds details and adjusts colors. He wants to create luminosity in the scene, atmosphere that he can replicate later. At day’s end, flooded with relief and more than a little pride, he declares the study done. He’s ready for the next step, a large painting of O’Malley’s.
On Monday, the streets plowed, Barnaby deliberates going to work. He knows that Sal needs help and has lost business because of the weather. As if on cue, the phone rings.
“Barnaby, I know it’s your day off, but I could sure use your help in the store,” Sal says.
“All right. I can come in,” Barnaby says, “but I’ll need to clear my driveway first.”
As he shovels, cursing all the while at the snow and hard physical labor, he decides it would be a good time to call Julia. He’d like to invite her to dinner at the Country House, one of the finer restaurants on the outskirts of town. She’s probably at work now, but he’ll call her that evening.
CHAPTER 19
Julia drives slowly to work in the bad weather. She finds Lisa waiting for her.
“How was your weekend? How’s the washing machine?” Lisa asks.
“Fine. Fixed. How did it go with Barnaby? Did you go to the concert?”
“No. They cancelled it. We had dinner at my house.”
“Did you have fun?”
“Yes. I like him. But we need to talk again about the Hawkins case. I want to contact the family again, now you’ve broken the ice with Alma.”
Julia takes a step back. “Actually, I’d like to follow up,” she says. “I told Elsa I’d investigate some appropriate living places for her mother.”
“Well, you can do that without seeing the family again.”
“True, but Alma is going to need some convincing if she’s to move there. I’ve only recently made a connection with her.”
Lisa frowns. “This is my case, and I’ll handle it,” she says coldly.
Julia gazes at her in astonishment. “I don’t understand. Last time we talked, you acted only too happy to have my help.”
“I’ve changed my mind and besides, I want to look at that painting. It might not be Barnaby’s. Was it signed?”
“I didn’t notice, but it’s a beach scene, similar to ones he painted in Providence.”
Lisa turns her back without another word. Julia shakes her head and drifts toward her office. What is going on with Lisa? Why would she doubt that Barnaby was the artist after he had confirmed it? She hadn’t said much about their date, either. Perhaps—dare she hope?—it hadn’t gone well, although since Lisa is such a good cook, she can’t imagine that Barnaby didn’t at least enjoy the meal. And now Lisa wants to re-involve herself in the case, precisely when she, Julia, is making progress.
Maybe Barnaby will never call now.
Some days she wishes she had taken more control over her personal life, with something to work toward, something more important than repairing a washing machine.
She’d had to arrange repair of the one at home in Boston, too. She cringes at the memory. After her mother’s urgent visit to the doctor, waiting for test results, more whispers of “We’re so sorry, Alice,” the trip to the pharmacy, more waiting, and resettling of her mother in bed, the lapse of time caused the floor boards to warp. Meanwhile, her father quietly drank his bourbon within arm’s reach of the telephone, grousing that the washer still needed fixing.
That incident seemed to change something in her mother. The following week, she asked Julia to fetch a journal from a chest in the bedroom closet. A rich leather-bound book with Alice Lowell Morgan embossed along the bottom lay on top of yellowing letters and folders beside several maps. Julia brought the book to the bedside. Alice took it, fondling the cover with wasted fingers.
“This is a history of our family I’ve been writing. I want you to finish it.”
Stomach churning, Julia turned the pages filled with her mother’s rambling script.
“Mama, I’m no writer. How can I do this?”
“You can. It’s our family history. It’s who you are. The documents you need are there, in the chest. I’m out of time, Julia . . . promise me, please?”
Alice reached for her daughter’s hand, and Julia bent to kiss the damp forehead.
She promised. Then she let it drop from her consciousness. Twenty years ago.
After lunch, Margaret Hill stops by, her expression stern.
“Julia, I just got a complaint from Elsa Hawkins. She’s upset because Lisa went to visit the family this morning, and Elsa expected you. Why did you drop out of the case?”
“I didn’t. I wanted to go back, but Lisa insisted that she be the one. I’m sorry to hear the family’s unhappy.”
“Well, I’d like you to make amends. There’s another problem, too, something about a painting that Lisa said the mother stole.”
“What’s the trouble there? I thought we cleared that up. Something’s amiss. I’ll be happy to go along and talk to them but perhaps you need to make it clear to Lisa—and me—whose case this is.”
Julia leaves Margaret standing with raised eyebrows in her office and heads for the Hawkins house. Things are going crazy. Lisa is behaving erratically, to put it mildly. Barnaby has already forgiven Alma for taking the painting and doesn’t consider it a theft. Lisa’s losing judgment. That’s an important quality in a social worker, and something must be seriously wrong if Lisa is letting personal matters interfere with her work to this extent.
Julia rings the doorbell. Elsa’s face appears through a crack in the door.
“Oh, it’s you,” she says. “Come in. I thought it was that other woman again. Lisa.”
Julia takes off her coat and smiles at Elsa. “How can I help you?”
