Chapter 10 A Highly Curated Collection #2
“So,” Helen said after writing a list of the books Margaret was taking, “can I get anything else for you today? You have an
itch that needs scratching? A curiosity that needs satisfying?”
It suddenly occurred to Margaret that she did.
“Do you have any books on modern art?”
“Shelves full,” Helen said. “Are you looking for a specific artist?”
“Yes, Lawrence Ahlgren. I really don’t know much about him.”
Helen’s frown indicated that she didn’t either.
“I’ll get Edwin. He’s in back, trying to massage the accounts into profitability. A pointless exercise, I assure you. He’ll
be grateful for a distraction, and the art section is really his baby.”
If Helen was an exotic bird of rare plumage, Edwin was as common as a crow.
He stood half a head shorter than his wife and wore wrinkled trousers, scuffed loafers, a pilled blue sweater vest over a
blue shirt with frayed cuffs, and thick eyeglasses that needed cleaning. But Edwin, too, had a magnificent head of hair—thick,
white, and a bit long. Margaret suspected he would rather spend his time reading than sitting in the barber’s chair.
The art section of the bookstore was indeed Edwin’s baby, and he knew every inch of it.
“No one has written a book specifically on Ahlgren,” he informed her. “Though I suspect that will change in years to come.
If I’m remembering correctly, he is mentioned somewhere in here . . .” Edwin paused, flipping through an oversized book with
a black cover. “Yes! Here he is, page 314. It’s only three pages though. I don’t suppose you want to buy a whole book just
for three pages, do you?”
“Umm . . . that depends. How much?”
Margaret winced involuntarily when he told her the price. Edwin sighed.
“Just put it back on the shelf when you’re done,” he said. “Try not to break the spine.”
The defeat on his face made Margaret feel guilty. Helen and Edwin had spent an hour of their collective time helping her without
making a sale. He placed the book in her hands, then turned to shuffle toward his office. Margaret couldn’t stand it.
“Say, Edwin? Just one more thing. I’ve been thinking about getting my husband a gift.”
As soon as she said it, she realized it might be a good idea.
In the weeks since the argument in the kitchen, Margaret and Walt’s relationship had been . . . not chilly, exactly, but stagnant.
They’d never gone this long without making love, and Margaret missed it, not just the release of passion but the emotional
connection of physical touch. Margaret didn’t feel that was Walt trying to punish her. Their home life was actually calmer
than before, but only because they were talking less than before. Walt was spending more nights at the VFW. When he was home,
he spent the evening staring at the television and drinking beer, polishing off a six-pack on most nights.
Though she was starting to think a fight might be less insufferable than this separation of silence, she couldn’t bring herself to start one.
Having stood witness to years of loud, unfiltered verbal battles between her parents, she considered arguments to be anathema.
Perhaps a gift could help close the distance between them.
“When we were in college, Walt loved Hemingway. Can you recommend something?”
Edwin spun toward her like a top released of its string, beaming a smile.
“I’ve got just the thing! Scribner’s published an anniversary edition of The Old Man and the Sea. Beautiful illustrations. And only five dollars.”
“That sounds perfect,” Margaret said.
“Wonderful choice! I’ll leave it at the counter. I’ll even gift wrap it for you.”
Edwin walked away whistling, with a spring in his step. When he was gone, Margaret opened the art book and started reading
about Lawrence Ahlgren. The entry told her only a little about his work, offering no clue as to how a rapidly rising abstract
expressionist painter had come into contact with Charlotte—who, for all her interest in art, was obviously from a different
world. But one thing did catch her eye.
According to the book, Ahlgren was Danish and had started to attract some notice while still living in Denmark. However, his
star didn’t truly begin to rise until he came to New York in 1959. But . . . hadn’t Charlotte told her they’d met at a party
in New York nearly a decade before?
That Charlotte might not have told her the whole truth bothered Margaret. Though she’d told herself repeatedly that it didn’t
concern her, she couldn’t forget the raw, unguarded hunger in Charlotte’s expression when she looked at Ahlgren’s painting.
And Margaret was starting to form a theory.
Other women talked about their husbands.
Charlotte almost never did. Apart from the fact that the move to Concordia had been his decision, and that Charlotte resented it, all Margaret knew about Howard was that he spent his time shuttling between New York and DC, where he was supposedly opening a new branch of the family brokerage firm.
Margaret had yet to meet him; he seemed almost never to sleep at home.
Were Howard’s absence, Charlotte’s banishment to the suburbs, and her conspicuous failure to speak of her husband connected
to Ahlgren? A jealous husband certainly might uproot his family to put a stop to a wife’s infidelity, or even to an unwise
infatuation. For all Charlotte’s loose talk about “loaner husbands,” Margaret had a hard time imagining she would actually
cheat. But there was obviously tension in the marriage, which could explain so many things . . . the pills, the afternoon
cocktails, and the vein of sadness and anger that sometimes cracked the veneer of Charlotte’s frenetic energy and caustic
humor.
Margaret wished she knew for sure, and that Charlotte trusted her enough to talk about her personal life. Talking wouldn’t
alter the circumstances, but it might help Charlotte feel less alone.
Still, unless Charlotte brought it up, it really was none of Margaret’s business.
Margaret slid the book back into the vacant slot on the shelf and walked to the register to retrieve her books, including
the gift she hadn’t planned to buy. Helen was waiting for her, holding out a slim rectangle wrapped in forest-green paper
and tied with a tan ribbon.
“Hemingway? Really?”
“It’s a present for Walt. I just thought—”
Helen cut her off with an uplifted hand and a stony expression that said while she might forget Margaret’s betrayal in time,
they must never speak of this again. Margaret clamped her lips shut. Helen picked a small booklet up off the counter and held
it out to her.
“Could you please give this to Bitsy when you see her tonight?”
“Sure,” Margaret said, happy to change the subject. “What is it?”
“A pamphlet of vegetarian recipes from Loma Linda University. She came in asking for a vegetarian cookbook. Tell her I’m still
digging, but this is all I’ve been able to find so far.”
Margaret flipped through the pamphlet pages, perusing recipes for easy chili, tasty nut loaf, and cauliflower fritters. Most of them sounded truly unappetizing.
“Bitsy isn’t going to eat meat anymore? Not even fish? Why?”
“Beats me,” Helen replied. “All she said was something about hell freezing over before she ever cooked another steak for Kingsley
Cobb.”