Chapter 52 Bardy #2
“I think that is a splendid idea,” Leonard says. “Do you have anything in mind?”
“Well, I do actually,” Bardy says.
Dare he suggest it?
He thinks it is what Hana had meant when she gave him that artist’s name as a gift.
“So out with it, stop sitting there looking all mysterious,” Lou demands.
“It’s to do with the Constable painting.”
“The trouble is just one minor work from Constable won’t get the press’s attention,” Kate says, sadly.
“Well, I have an idea . . . of what might . . .” Bardy starts. “No, let’s keep it for our first meeting. I’ll tell you then. For now, I think we should toast our new group.”
Kate grabs the bottle of wine and tops up the glasses.
Bardy looks at all these people—his friends—the home birds, the exotics, and he thinks of Tay, now a migrant heading north. But hopefully a seasonal visitor.
He stands and raises his glass. The others follow suit.
“I give you, the King Lear Liars.”
The others have left, and Kate and Bardy have moved outside to watch the sun go down over the creek.
Kate has gone inside to fetch a sweater.
It is a beautiful evening, but the chill is setting in.
Bardy’s not feeling the cold. But then he’s not feeling anything—except shock and awe that this amazing woman likes him.
As he waits, he gets out his phone and reads up on the artist, Sean, that Hana told him about.
It’s a great story. Makes him laugh. He thinks again of the gallery.
Everyone said one obscure Constable painting wouldn’t attract the press.
But this? Could the King Lear Liars pull it off?
Maybe if Nate were to turn a blind eye . . .
He puts his phone away and watches a seabird flying low over the water.
He’s not sure of the species. He needs Leonard.
What was it Leonard said about some seabirds .
. . the petrels and the gannets? Not so much home birds or migrants, more like nomads.
Natural travelers. Perhaps that is what Hana really is.
A traveler. Well, he knows he’s a home bird.
No doubt about that. He squints into the sun.
But no reason why he can’t be a traveler now and again.
New Zealand. And short trips. A visit to Leeds could be good. He and Lou could make a day of it.
He thinks back over the evening, the lies, but also their achievements.
How far everyone has come. He’s glad he finally got his poems out there.
Maybe he will approach a publisher? Who knows.
And Leonard’s musical, Wobble. Kate was right, he really can picture it on stage.
More than anything, he is pleased Leonard is no longer comparing himself to his brother.
And Pia seems to have thrown off worries about her family and stopped pigeonholing herself as “creative as a stone.” Satya had said something interesting as she was leaving tonight too: she and Jack are turning their basement into somewhere to paint, sew, perform music .
. . anything creative really. So, the awesomely impressive businesswoman is learning to play.
Satya also said she didn’t want all the paints, crayons, and brushes she’s bought over the years stuck away in drawers.
A bit like the photos she’d taken of them.
She wants them out, to be enjoyed even if sometimes it is just looking at them—the promise of them.
He guesses a bit like Linda and her spices.
And what about Linda learning a bit of patience and realizing things can take time?
Never thought he’d see that. Remembering her garden sculpture makes him think of Lou.
He smiles. Wonders how the drink with Lisa will go.
He’s pleased for him. And pleased that he is now happy making something that he just likes to look at.
Not yet another bowl for his green salads.
He grins to himself, thinking of Mr. On-there-like-that.
Kate emerges from the house. Kate the artist. She certainly was that. He is a bit in awe of her talent. What was it about him and artists? Their love of color? But with Kate, it was all about the light. And her painting showed that.
She joins him on the bench at the water’s edge, and they sit watching the sunset. The birds calling all around them. It is full tide, and the expanse of water in front of them is sparkling in the rays of the dipping sun.
Maybe this is what sex with Kate will be like? Sparkling?
He’s willing to find out.
Still hopes it doesn’t kill him.
Kissing her had certainly been something else.
But not what he had expected.
He reaches out and pulls her to him, the last of the sun’s warmth on his arms as he wraps them about her. She leans into him, and she tilts her face to his.
He murmurs in her ear, “Come on, and kiss me, Kate.”
Six little words.
And there it is.
It isn’t just Kate who is shining. With this incredible woman kissing him, he, Jon Shakespeare, a sixty-four-year-old retired English teacher, in that moment, shines glorious and luminous.
Gardener Bardy, a simple man who has never, in his heart, traveled far from home, a man with a lot of love to give—he is alight.
He is golden.
A good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon—or rather the sun and not the moon, for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps its course truly.
If thou would have such a one, take me . . .