Chapter 17 #2
Of course, when Larry cut her off and chuckled with, “Henrietta always has her head up in the clouds,” she stopped the story short and promised Lon and Beatrice she’d finish it later.
Lon and Beatrice were accustomed to being told to “stop dreaming at the table.” They recognized something in Henrietta that they themselves still carried as children and dreamers.
After dinner, Larry told Matthew that he’d give him a tour of the house and grounds so that Henrietta and Marge could clean up and tend to the children.
When Matthew and Larry disappeared, Marge squeezed Henrietta’s hand and said, “Matthew’s going to talk to Larry about our doctor in Boulder!
It’s happening! It’s all going to be all right! ”
Henrietta couldn’t find a way to smile. She let the hot water run in the sink and tried to listen for where Larry and Matthew were in the house or on the grounds.
What were they saying about her body and her future?
What plans were they making? Marge eventually got the kids to calm down in the living room, where they played a little game they’d brought and laughed sparingly.
Henrietta wondered if her own children would sit quietly in the living room while their father did whatever he wanted. She wondered what she was doomed for.
But that was when they heard Matthew, crying out with enthusiasm.
“Larry, you never said a thing about them!”
Marge looked at Henrietta quizzically. She flapped her kitchen towel in the vague direction of the back hallway. “What’s that about?” she murmured.
Henrietta shrugged. But a feeling of intense surprise and fear washed over her. Was it possible that the only good thing in her life was about to backfire on her? Life couldn’t be so cruel. Could it?
“What’s that?” Larry responded to Matthew, his voice ringing through the house. “Oh. That. Of course.”
“They’re exquisite!” Matthew declared. “Honestly, Larry, I can’t believe you’ve kept all this quiet. There must be twenty of them back here. They’re divine. Wait a second. Marge needs to see this. She loves art. Marge? Come back here. Quick.”
Marge’s eyes widened, and she flattened the towel on the counter and headed to the back of the house. Henrietta felt frozen. She continued to listen, her heart shaking, as Marge exclaimed, “Larry Johannes. You’ve got to be kidding me! Are you the next coming of Van Gogh himself?”
Henrietta thought she was going to collapse.
Slowly, tentatively, she forced herself through the living room, past the quiet children, all the way to the back of the house, where she’d hidden her paintings and her paints and her empty canvases from the prying eyes of her husband.
She’d been so sure he never opened that closet door.
But Matthew, Larry, and Marge stood around, gazing at the painting of the little girl on the mountaintop—the same little girl Henrietta had seen skirting through the woods, on her way somewhere, her face filled with secrets.
Henrietta almost couldn’t bring herself to look at Larry.
But when she let her eyes flicker over to him, she saw a face beaming with pride.
Her knees buckled. For a moment, she imagined that Larry was finally seeing her talent for what it really was.
For a moment, she imagined that he was curious about her active and creative mind.
But then he spoke—not to correct Marge and Matthew, but to emphasize how right they were about his brilliance.
“You know, it’s always been a secret pleasure of mine, painting,” he said. “But I never imagined anyone would want to see what I did.”
Marge gaped at him, then twisted around to look at Henrietta. “You must have known how good he was.”
Henrietta scrunched her hands into fists. Even after everything Larry had done to her through the years, she was speechless.
“We need to call someone,” Matthew went on. “A gallerist. Larry, there’s no reason that these paintings should be stuffed away in a closet like this. Honestly, I can’t believe I opened the door to find this. You weren’t going to show me. You were going to keep them hidden away!”
Larry grinned madly. “You’re being too kind.”
Matthew’s cheeks were red. “You’re being overly modest,” he said. “Let me take this one to my friend in Boulder. He’ll set something up for you right away.”
That night, after Matthew and Marge took their kids home and left Larry and Henrietta alone in their mountain cabin, Henrietta sat up in the kitchen and listened as Larry spoke to Matthew’s friend-of-a-friend on the phone: a gallerist who was interested in seeing his paintings.
Henrietta felt as though her life was melting before her eyes.
She remembered the innkeeper telling her that she could be anything she wanted to in life, that she could leave Nederland and take her paintings on the road.
But now that Larry had called the paintings his, now that Matthew and Marge had verified that they were his, there was no going back.
In nearly every sense of them, the paintings were Larry’s now.
When Larry announced that there would be a painting exhibition in Boulder the following summer, Henrietta couldn’t bring herself to react.
Her cheek twitched, and she stumbled to her feet, wondering if she could hold herself upright.
When Larry’s arms reached out to hold her up, she felt an intense revulsion.
And then, he whispered in her ear, saying, “Matthew mentioned a doctor in Boulder. Someone we can reach out to for help. I think we should go there right away, honey. I think we should start our family. There’s no use saying whose fault it is or what went wrong between us. I see this as a chance to start anew.”