Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
T he Lake Eola farmer’s market occurred every Sunday morning in the heart of downtown Orlando. Tents and tables lined the sidewalks, which circled the lake, in front of the big colored fountain. I stopped to sample some buffalo ranch dip with a pretzel stick, smiling as I reflected on my sudden turn of fortune. Finally, Gary was on my side. He was going to help me get Janet away from Jack. Willingly!
As I walked through the crowds, the buttered kettle corn and smoked brisket tacos smelled like victory. Through the din of mango smoothie slurping and a guitar player strumming Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams”, I could almost hear the sound of the Universe in a slow clap, a begrudging acknowledgement of a match well played.
I found Gary in the artist section, next to the guy selling succulents attached to pieces of driftwood. It was the group of tents in the very back, past the homemade candle vendors and the self-published authors. Across from the one vegan food truck. It was the part of the farmer’s market where only the most devout friends and family dared to go.
Gary was still setting up when I got there. He smiled when he saw me, and I smiled when I saw him wearing the Yale T-shirt again. The one that showed off his biceps.
“You came.”
“Of course I came.”
“I got you a coffee.” Gary handed me a cup. “Just in case.”
“Just in case?”
“I didn’t think you’d show up.” Gary looked at me like he was still trying to figure out if I was just an illusion.
In truth, it had been a close call. Really close. What I wanted to do that morning was stay snuggled up in bed. But when Gary called and suggested we meet up at the farmer’s market so we could come up with a plan to distract Janet from Jack, I couldn’t let the opportunity slip through my fingers.
“I pegged you for a Caramel Macchiato girl.” Gary watched as I took a sip.
“Good guess.” I was, in fact, a Caramel Macchiato girl. Caramel Macchiato’s were my all-time favorite. At least until fall when they rolled out the pumpkin spice. A few more sips and my insides felt like Purrfect’s belly after a day of hunting lizards. Warm and fuzzy.
Somehow, even though we barely knew each other, Gary could read me like a book. I was never exactly a prolific dater, but no man in the history of my love life had ever come close to being able to read my mind. Even when I wanted them to. Like when I was hungry for Thai food, but my date would take me to the sports bar for a burger.
“Would you mind helping me unload these bins?” Gary pointed to a stack of large plastic containers.
“Sure.” When Gary suggested we meet up at the farmer’s market, he had been a bit sketchy about the details. All I knew for sure was that I was there to “help out.”
Gary opened the top bin and pulled out a piece of painted canvas. “Here,” Gary said, handing me one of his paintings. “Put this one in the front. There should already be hooks for hanging.”
I took the painting from him and made my way to the front of the tent. “To the left or to the right?” I asked. The two support posts that held up the front of the tent were filled with tiny holes to adjust the height of the legs. There were hooks in the top and middle holes, just big enough to fit into the clasps on the back of the frames.
“Left,” said Gary. “Wait, which one is that again?”
I turned the painting around so it was facing me, and for the first time, got a good look at Gary’s handiwork. “It’s a tree,” I said.
“What kind of tree?”
“I don’t know. A green and brown one. With branches. And leaves.” When Gary cocked his eyebrow, I said, “Sorry, I’m not a professional arborist.” I turned the painting around so Gary could decide what kind of tree it was for himself.
“Twisted Oak,” Gary said. “Put that one on the right.” Then he turned around and rummaged through the bin for another painting.
As I hung Twisted Oak on the middle hook of the right post, I had to admit that Gary’s painting wasn’t half bad. It was actually kind of good. The tree, an oak tree, I presumed, rose from a windswept hill, branches twisting and turning in every direction. A blackening sky loomed overhead. In the shadows of a swatch of dappled sun, yellow daisies poked up through the weeds. There was a certain darkness to the painting. But also beauty. And hope.
We spent the next thirty minutes arranging Gary’s artwork all over the tent. The pieces that weren’t framed sat in bins so passersby could sort through them at their leisure. But in the whole time we were setting up, there were no passersby.
As Gary hung a painting of a cypress tree dripping with Spanish moss, I took a moment to admire another piece he had set up by the cash box on the table. It also showed what I assumed was an oak tree, limbs reaching out and curling in on themselves like an animal’s talons. Like the Twisted Oak painting, a coming storm clouded the sky in this one. Nestled in one branch, a patchwork of twigs and thatch cradled a tiny blue bird, its feathers ruffled in the breeze.
I was so lost in the colors and the textures I didn’t realize that Gary was looking over my shoulder, standing close.
“That one’s called Last Flight,” he said.
“Sounds ominous.”
Gary shrugged. “It’s just a name.”
“But nothing happens to the bird, right?”
Gary’s eyebrow quivered. And a small smirk curled his lips.
“Something happens to the bird, doesn’t it?”
“Mary, it’s only a painting.”
“Yes, well, maybe you need to work on your picture naming.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Gary followed me as I strolled through the tent, looking at his other artwork. It was mostly landscapes. A quiet river snaking through a leafless forest. A snowcapped mountain melting in the morning sun. More trees. Lots of trees. Splintered branches. Hollowed trunks. Yellowed leaves.
“You know, some of these are pretty good. A little dark. But good.”
“Some of them?”
“Well, they’re all good. But a couple of them, I don’t know.” I struggled to find the right words. “It’s like they’re saying something.”
I guess I had found the right words because Gary smiled. “Thanks.”
“How long have you been painting?” I pointed to Last Flight. “Painting artwork, I mean. Not houses.”
“A few years,” Gary answered.
I did the math and made an educated guess. “After Anne was gone.”
For a moment, Gary’s face was as dark as the sky in Twisted Oak. “Yeah.”
I was tempted to ask him about her, curious to know what happened between them. But if Gary wanted to talk about it, I decided it would be better to let him bring it up. I had heard enough divorce horror stories from Ralph to understand it was a topic that was usually better left locked away in the dark.
Sensing it would be best to change the subject, I said, “Well, they really are good. I’m surprised you haven’t been doing it longer. Especially since you were already a house painter.”
“Actually, I started painting houses at the same time I started doing these.” Gary rearranged the painting on the front post. “Wright Stuff Painting was my uncle’s business. He let me come on part time when I needed to, well, do something productive. Then last month he retired. So now, well, I guess I’m running his business all on my own.”
Gary, being relatively new to the house painting business, certainly explained a lot. No wonder he felt compelled to express his personal opinions about my choice of color palette. And as an artist, I guess I could see why he might have been captivated by the classic kitsch of Aunt Catherine’s wallpaper. Mr. Wright was getting more and more interesting by the day. “What did you do before you started painting?” I asked.
“I was an architect.”
“You were an architect?” I felt my jaw drop.
“Mary, please. I got a perfect score in AP Calculus. Me being an architect should not be a big surprise.”
Gary was right. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Gary was super smart. Probably a genius. Back in school, he was probably the smartest kid in our class. He could have done anything. I asked the question that had to be asked. “How did you go from being an architect to painting houses?”
“Long story,” Gary deflected.
I looked around the tent. There were no customers. In fact, there hadn’t been a single customer since we finished setting up. The only person even close to the tent was a woman in a Metallica t-shirt walking a chihuahua, and she didn’t seem like the art buying type. “I think we’ve got time.”
Gary could tell I wasn’t going to just let it go without an explanation. He took a deep breath and seemed to brace himself. “When Ann and I first got married, before Kyle was born, I worked for this big architecture firm. They had clients all over the world.” Something about the look on Gary’s face reminded me of the little blue bird from his painting. “I traveled a lot. Australia. Dubai. Bangladesh. Do you know where Bangladesh is?”
“Actually, I do.” I had looked it up. Where Jack learned massage.
“Yeah, well, it’s an eighteen hour flight.” Something definitely happened to that little blue bird. “Once Anne was gone.” Something bad. “I had to be there for Kyle.” Something tragic.
My head felt like a helium balloon that had drifted off into space. I had to blink a few times to make my eyes refocus.
Deftly changing the subject, Gary pointed to the paintings on the display rack. “So you really like my work? You’re not just saying that?”
I pointed to Last Flight. “That one’s my favorite. I really like the colors. Especially how the dark tones blend with the light.” I walked over to get a closer look. “Like these red lines weaving through the bark of the tree. And this splotch of purple between the blacks and the grays.” I pointed to the corner of the canvas. “This bit of yellow here. The sun fighting through the darkness.”
I took a step back so I could take it all in. “You know what I think?”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“I think the little blue bird turns out just fine. I think she buckles down, rides out the storm.”
Gary only smiled, not confirming yes or no.
“I think she’s holding on to that hint of sunshine. Holding on to that last glimmer of hope. Last Flight means it’s the last time she feels like she has to run away. Because she learns to overcome the darkness. She doesn’t have to be afraid.” When Gary didn’t answer, I asked, “What do you think?”
“I think you should take it.”
“What, the painting?”
Gary nodded. “I want you to have it. Put it up in your aunt’s house. After all, those gray clouds would go perfectly with the greige.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t. You should sell it. Somebody is going to come along any minute now and snap that one up for sure.”
I followed Gary’s eyes as he looked around the vicinity of his tent. There was no one even looking in our general direction. Except the woman in the Metallica t-shirt, waiting for her chihuahua to poop.
“I wouldn’t hold your breath,” Gary said.
I pointed to the tent at the end of the row. “Well, it is hard to compete with the neon unicorn portraits,” I admitted. “Especially the ones where they’re sliding down rainbows.”
Gary cast a sidelong glare at the tent at the far end of the artist’s section, where the neon unicorn artist, a twenty-something year-old with dragon tattoos and nose piercings, wrapped up another sale.
“I have an idea.”
“Oh, oh.” Gary looked nervous.
“No, this is a good idea this time. Really.”
Gary still didn’t look so sure.
“When I was walking over here, I saw one of the food trucks was selling funnel cake. With whipped cream. And chocolate sauce.”
Gary looked at his watch. “Its nine am.”
“Funnel cake is basically a big, flattened donut without the hole.”
“So?”
“So let’s get some breakfast.”
* * *
The farmer’s market got busier as the day wore on. The playground filled with laughing children. Happy couples strolled through the gardens holding hands. Joggers and dog walkers packed the sidewalks..
Gary asked Michelle and Joan, the couple in the tent next to ours, to watch his stuff while we got a funnel cake. Michelle made jewelry out of bottle caps, and Joan made bracelets out of hemp. In return for their tent minding, we offered to bring them back some funnel cakes too.
As we walked past a table piled high with crates of zucchinis, Gary asked, “Have you been here before?”
“Not in a long time,” I answered. “When I was little, my dad and I would come every December to see the lights. They would set up Christmas trees all around the water, and the fountain would light up red and green.” Memories of holding my dad’s hand as we peered up at all the colors and sipped hot chocolate came rushing back. Boy, did I miss him.
As we waited in line for the funnel cakes, the mist from the fountain drifted over the breeze. Out on the lake, a flock of swan shaped paddle boats drifted back and forth. More swans, real ones, floated on the water or curled up under the cypress trees.
“You know you’re actually not that bad,” I told Gary, after he paid for the funnel cakes and we waited for our order.
“Gee, thanks?” he replied.
“What I mean is, Janet would be lucky to have someone like you. We just need her to see that you’re better than Jack. Even if she doesn’t see it for herself yet.”
“So we go back to the original plan, then?” Gary asked. “Get Janet to fall for me. So she forgets about Jack?”
“It’s the only way,” I said. “We just need to emphasize your good qualities. Let Janet see you for who you really are.”
“My good qualities?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to think of reasons Janet might be interested in Gary. “You’re good at painting. Artsy stuff. Not so much the houses. Or naming paintings. That could use some work. But you were also an architect. So that’s something I suppose.”
“How does any of that help?”
“You’re a great dad,” I added. “Like super dad level, for sure.”
“Super dad?”
“Super dad,” I confirmed. “But for Janet to see you as a better option than Jack, you’re going to have to meet him head to head. Show dominance in his domain. Strength against strength.”
“So what, like gladiatorial combat? Or a Medieval joust?”
“Do you know how to gladiator combat?”
“Not exactly.”
“Have you ever jousted?”
“Only in D&D.”
“Oh yes, dungeons and dragons. The key to every girl’s heart.” Gary wasn’t giving me a lot to work with. “What sports are you good at?”
“Hmm, let me think.” Gary stroked his chin contemplatively. “None.”
“Do you play golf?”
“I just said I didn’t play sports.”
“Golf isn’t a sport. It’s a recreational activity.”
“Tell that to Tiger Woods.”
“I will the next time I see him. Can you run a 15k?”
“Can you?”
I threw him a look. “There has to be something you’re good at. I mean, other than dungeons and dragons.”
“Order forty seven!” The funnel cake food truck guy didn’t look very patient, so I grabbed our order and we headed back toward the tent.
“There is one thing,” Gary said, as we stopped at the dip tent. I balanced the three plates of funnel cake in one hand while I used my free hand to sample the Habanero Lime.
“What one thing?” I asked, dipping a second pretzel into the Barbecue Cheddar.
“Pickleball.”
“Pickleball?” I nearly spit out my sample of the Cucumber Dill.
“Yes,” Gary said. “It’s like a mish mash of ping-pong, badminton, and tennis.”
With my brain temporarily paralyzed, my mouth switched to autopilot. “Like all the racket sports had an orgy.”
Gary frowned. “Gross.”
“You really play pickleball?”
“Kyle got into it from school. Now we play together whenever we get a chance.”
“Are you a banger or a dinker?”
“Dinker for sure.”
“Somehow I’m not surprised.”
“You play pickleball?”
After grabbing a pretzel-full of Avocado Chipotle, I said, “Of course I play pickleball. I play all the time.”
“You bang or you dink?”
“I bang and I dink.” I gave Gary a wink. But then he looked at me funny. So I winked again. And then I must have got an eyelash in my eye because my eye started itching really badly. Like someone was rubbing my cornea with sandpaper. So I started blinking really fast to get it out.
“Mary, are you having a stroke? Blink once if you’re okay. Blink twice if I should call 9-1-1. Okay, ah, what does four blinks mean? Is your brain malfunctioning?”
“Gary, my brain has never been more functional in my entire life.”
“Well, that’s concerning.”
“No, that’s perfect. We’ll challenge them to a match.” The dip tent lady was looking at me suspiciously, so I waited until she turned her head. Then I sampled the Teriyaki Sriracha.
“A pickleball match?”
“A pickleball slaughter. Here, try the Bloomin’ Onion.” I handed Gary a dip laden pretzel.
“Wow, that is good. You and I on a team?”
“Me and you on a team. We’ll destroy them. Annihilate them. Make them rue the day they were born.”
“Or maybe we just settle for some nice, friendly competition. This Parmesan Spinach isn’t bad.”
My mouth full of Horseradish Crab, I caught a glimpse of the dip tent lady heading our way.
“Sir? Miss? Would you like to purchase any of the dips you sampled?”
I pretended not to hear her, scooping up a pretzel full of Bacon Chive as we fled.