Chapter 11
I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror, frowning at the floral sundress I had on.
It was pretty enough, I supposed, with its bright pink and yellow flowers, but it wasn’t really me.
I’d spent a good forty-five minutes trying on and discarding outfit after outfit, each one feeling like a lie.
Why should I dress up for Richard Tatum, of all people?
We were just friends, catching up on old times.
Besides, this was my new life, and I was done trying to impress anyone.
Comfort and ease should have been my clothing priority, not whether Richard would be proud to have me on his arm.
“Who am I trying to please?” My choice made, I felt lighter, like I’d already shed a suffocating layer. A simple blouse, a pair of jeans, and canvas flats would suffice.
“Grandma, are you ready?” Elijah called from the living room. Poor child. I’d enlisted his help in choosing an outfit. He squeezed me in between zonking videogame monsters, but he wasn’t happy about it.
“Coming,” I replied, taking a deep breath before stepping out to face him.
Elijah looked me up and down, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “This? You don’t look like you’re going on a date. The dress was better.”
“Good,” I said firmly. “Because I’m not going on a date, I’m going as my normal, non-dating self. Richard is an old friend, and we’re just going to support local artists tonight.”
Elijah tilted his head thoughtfully before breaking into a smile. “Well, being yourself is always the best way to go, Grandma.”
His words warmed my heart, and I smiled back. “You’re absolutely right, Elijah. Thank you.”
The evening air brushed against my skin as I walked up to the old Victorian just off the square. The once-private residence had belonged to the town’s main doctor, I remembered. He and his wife were friends of Grandma Jewel, and I had been there once for a Christmas party.
Back then, I thought it was a slice out of an old movie.
Now restored, it provided the perfect backdrop for art.
Inside, the house-turned-gallery buzzed with conversations and the aroma of catered hors d’oeuvres.
People milled around—artists discussing their work with grand gestures, patrons pondering designs with glasses of wine in hand.
My casual outfit felt stark in comparison to the room full of meticulously chosen ensembles.
Yet here and there, I caught sight of others who had also opted for a more down-to-earth approach.
I chuckled to myself, thinking back on all those events my ex-husband and I had attended, where my eyes might have critically lingered on someone who dared to break the mold.
And now, here I was. Joyce Marrietta Hicks, mold-breaker.
I spotted Richard, dressed to impress in a charcoal suit. His face lit up as our gazes met, but I was determined not to let his charm faze me. This is about friendship and art, nothing more.
“Joyce!” Richard called from the entrance, smile bright.
“Hi, Richard,” I replied, feeling excitement and apprehension.
“Wow, you look beautiful,” he said, with that eagerness that reminded me of our high school days.
Beautiful felt over-the-top for my attire, my bare face, and my bushy hair behind a stretchy cloth headband. Especially from someone who was one step down from dressed for a symphony.
But I accepted his compliment, lest he deem me one of those women who didn’t know how to do so. Eager men always home in on that kind of woman, one who hasn’t already claimed her beauty.
No. I had to play like I didn’t like him.
Which I didn’t. Do I? And why am I playing games, anyway?
He gently guided me toward a lonely painting of a mockingbird, where he leaned in close to my ear. “I could sop you up with a biscuit.”
The tickle of his breath caused me to jump. “Richard,” I hissed, “you are crossing the line.”
“Too strong? Too fast?” he guessed.
“Too much. I already told you that I am not trying to be in a romantic relationship. I need a friend right now. That’s it. Are you capable of developing a friendship with me, without all this extra pressure?”
He paused for a moment, taking in my words. Then his head bobbed backward as though he’d been punched in the face with the truth. “I don’t know.”
“Try,” I said. “Or else we can’t see each other again.”
He shrugged. “I’m just the guy trying to get the girl.”
“Well, I’m not a girl, and I don’t want to get got. So can we just enjoy the night as two people who are grateful to be alive, who’ve been through a lot of stuff, and who like art? No pressure?”
Richard took a drink of his wine. “You’re switching up the rules. But I like it. Takes the pressure off me, too.”
“Wonderful.” I sighed. “I’m sorry I was so blunt.”
I silently chastised myself for apologizing. Habits.
He laughed. “I don’t think I would have truly heard you if you hadn’t been blunt.”
The spry crinkle in his eyes told me he had actually heard me. I mean, it was a shame I had to break it down for him like that, but it felt good to be clear about what I needed and what I didn’t need. Him clawing on me and making passes all night would have only made a tough day worse.
“Thank you,” I said, relieved by his response. We left the mockingbird alone and walked into a room just off the main corridor. The scents of old wood and fresh paint mingled in the air.
“This was the library,” I remembered. “My grandmother brought me here once. Did you ever visit Dr. Maynard’s house?”
“No. Two different sides of the tracks,” he said.
“Guess you’re right about that.”
The next room we entered was slightly smaller than the others—intimate, almost. An overhead chandelier cast a gentle shadow across the floorboards.
The walls were adorned with an array of paintings that felt deeply personal.
This space retained the aura of quiet reflection, the books replaced by canvases of varying sizes.
Some abstracts, others unbelievably realistic. Each telling its own story.
As we meandered through the room, our conversation flowed from one artwork to another.
It was easy, like slipping into an old pair of shoes.
The servers, moving gracefully through the space, offered trays of hors d’oeuvres and wine, which we took with gratitude.
The wine, rich and smooth, seemed to ease the remnants of tension between us.
Somewhere between the abstract landscapes and the watercolor portraits, I found myself talking freely about my impressions of each piece.
Richard had a vast vocabulary when he wasn’t busy impersonating Casanova.
It was amid this backdrop of eased defenses and shared appreciation for the art that we stopped in front of a small, somewhat melancholy work.
The impressionistic oil painting depicted a single figure standing at the edge of a pier, looking out over a gray, tumultuous sea.
The isolation and longing in the figure’s posture resonated with me, mirroring the emotions swirling within.
Maybe it was the wine or the casualness that Richard and I both sank into during that hour, but I found myself opening up to him.
“I’ve got so much to figure out, Richard.
With my daughter. And my finances,” I confessed, feeling vulnerable.
“I really need to get the kitchen up to par and finish the construction at my duplex, but I’m going to need a job to pull it off.
Can you believe it? Working again after retirement? ”
“No offense, but I don’t see the point in retiring, so long as you’ve got your mind and your health. That’s why I never stopped working,” he said. “Everybody I know either dies or finds a part-time gig after retirement.”
I supposed he was trying to make me feel like less of failure for having to return to work, especially after all the hoopla people made over retirement. So I tried to force a smile, but it didn’t work.
Richard’s expression softened, and his voice was gentle as he spoke. “You said earlier that we’ve both been through a lot.”
“We have.”
He sipped from his glass. “All those trials and struggles made us stronger. Right?”
“Yeah. They did.” I patted his arm.
“We come from a generation that knows how to make things work. How to dig in—work hard, keep trying, keep our faith. I feel sorry for kids these days. Everything’s so convenient.
They don’t get to make as many mistakes as we did, you know?
They ride the train to the top without trekking up the mountain.
But they haven’t developed the stamina, and their lungs haven’t had the chance to gradually adjust along the way.
So they can’t enjoy the top because they took the convenient shortcut to get there. ”
“Hmmm…” I thought about Gabriella and how she had left the square when it was clear she wouldn’t win. She was crushed by the judges’ reaction to her last-minute platter. This experience was part of her mountain trek, I reckoned.
“Richard,” I said, pausing in front of a vibrant painting of wildflowers, “thank you for being here tonight and for listening. As a friend. It means a lot.”
“Of course, Joyce,” he replied, his eyes sincere.
As Richard and I continued walking through the gallery, we approached a vendor selling various handcrafted items. He picked up a simple beaded bracelet and handed it to me. The white squares with black capital letters spelled out the word strength.
“Here, Joyce,” he said gently. “I want you to have this.”
“No strings attached?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Absolutely not.” Richard chuckled. “Just a reminder of all that’s in you.” We both laughed as I received it gratefully, touched by his gesture.
“Thank you, Richard,” I said, sliding the bracelet up my wrist.
He paid the vendor and walked me back outside to my car, where we parted with a cordial hug. No pressure.