Chapter 12 #3
Claire twists her fingers into her pearls.
The answer is simple, but in present company she’s ashamed to admit it.
Anita encouraged her to apply, even helping to pay for the application, but Pete wanted to settle down and get married right away.
Claire sobbed on Anita’s shoulder in this very shop the night she agreed to reject the admission offer.
Being back here is like a strange reminder of the path she almost took.
“She’s a brilliant painter, Jacqueline. She has an incredible grasp of color,” Anita says, thankfully interjecting before Claire needs to reveal yet another of her weaknesses.
“And such insight—she could capture more about a person in a five-minute sketch than most artists could in a full portrait sitting. Just wonderful.”
“Anita, please,” Claire says, pressing her cool hands to her warm face. “I only sketch sometimes. I haven’t painted in ages.”
“That’s too bad. I’ve kept some of your pieces up around the place to liven things up, see?” Anita says, pointing to the painting of the acacia tree.
Jackie’s eyes widen dramatically.
“This is yours?” Jackie says. She takes a few steps closer to the painting, raising a hand as if to trace the yellow brushstrokes. “Claire, it’s gorgeous. You didn’t tell me you could paint like this.”
“It was a long time ago,” Claire says quietly.
“I have more in the back. Come on, we’ll dig them out,” Anita says, already halfway to the studio door.
“We really don’t need to do all of that,” Claire calls, but Jackie is already following Anita with a grin on her face.
“This one got the attention of the Art Institute,” Anita says, flinging a dusty sheet off of a rack full of unframed paintings.
She pulls out the closest one, holding it up for Jackie to see.
It’s one Claire remembers well—her first mixed media piece.
She’d painted scraps of fabric into the canvas with oils, using the different textures to offset the detailed faces she sketched above them.
“Claire,” Jackie says softly. She steps closer to the painting, and this time she does trace the brushstrokes. Her fingers drift across the composition Claire had long forgotten. “This is what you called a silly distraction?”
“She won an art competition with this piece,” Anita boasts.
Claire is torn between discomfort, and a sudden and fierce rush of pride.
Jackie is looking at her art as if it’s worth something.
The visit ends up being far longer than Claire anticipated.
Anita drags out every old painting and sketch of Claire’s she can find, from landscapes to portraits to her brief forays into abstracts, showing each to Jackie in turn, and Jackie praises each one in detail.
Claire is sure by the end of it that all the blood in her body has moved to her face.
Once Anita has finally let them leave with yet another assurance that Claire is welcome back anytime, Claire buckles into the Mustang with a lighter heart than she’s had in years.
“That woman is a riot,” Jackie says, chuckling as she checks her mirrors and pulls out of the parking spot. “I’d like to introduce her to Theo.”
Claire hums in agreement. She’s not entirely sure Anita’s view on homosexuals, but she can see her being tickled by Theo’s attitude.
“And you,” Jackie says, levelling Claire with a pointed look over her sunglasses, “you’ve been hiding your light under a bushel.
Those paintings were amazing. And I’m not saying that to be nice,” Jackie says loudly, before Claire can protest. “I’m saying it because it’s true.
I’ve seen much worse work hung in galleries. ”
Claire can’t bring herself to accept the compliment, but she manages not to deflect it by pressing her lips together.
“If your sketchbook is anything like those pieces, I’d love to see it someday,” Jackie says. “Anita is right. Why would you hide a talent like that?”
Claire’s mind drifts to the dozen half-finished sketches of Jackie in said book, and her cheeks burn. “I didn’t think it was worth anyone’s time.”
Jackie sighs. “And who told you something like that?”
The answer is obvious, and goes unspoken.
“Can I ask you something personal?” Jackie says. The car slows to a stop at a red light.
“Of course.”
“Do you regret not going to college?”
Claire stares hard at the traffic light.
It burns into her eyes, that glowing red spot—it reminds her of Jackie’s darkroom.
She wishes she were there now, where Jackie might not be able to see the more than anything written across her face.
“Regrets aren’t very useful, are they? I didn’t go.
There’s not much point in wondering what might have been. ”
It’s a lie, of course. Claire has thought a thousand times about what it might have been like to accept the offer. She’s never even been to the campus, but she’s seen it on the news before. It’s been a long time since the longing was this acute.
The light turns green. Jackie usually hits the gas with a lead foot at a green light, but this time the car doesn’t move until the Ford behind them honks its horn.
“I’m sorry,” Jackie says. It’s almost lost to the wind. “For what it’s worth, I think you would have thrived.”
It’s only as Jackie drops her off at home that Claire realizes Anita didn’t ask any of the usual questions.
She didn’t ask after Pete—she didn’t even reference him by name, only calling him that boy like she always has.
She didn’t ask if or when Claire was planning to start a family.
She only asked after Claire. Her art, her life, and a few questions to get to know Jackie.
Just one whole, lovely afternoon with two people who care more about how Claire is doing than about what color the nursery will be.