Chapter 4

• “Elizabeth,” she began. Her voice startled me. “I’m a very blunt person. As a lawyer, I’ll assume you typically are, too. I want to explain to you why I’ve invited you here tonight, though you will not ask. I suspect you’re afraid. Perhaps I should be afraid, too, and be wise. Get up and leave you.” Her smile was slow but it crept up her face until her eyes glowed. “I’m not a wise woman. You can tell by my paintings I have a lot of heartbreak. I enjoy it. It gives me material. It makes me strong. It makes me a woman, in fact. We all carry heartbreak, yes?”
• Under her thrall, I nodded.
• “I also have a habit of finding straight women irresistible. My last two lovers were straight. They were great lovers. I loved both of them equally and fiercely, but it ended. Know why?” Her smile turned a bit sad. “They were not in love with me. With the idea of ‘different’, the idea of ‘novelty’, the idea of ‘an artist’ who saw what was inside buried beneath their makeup and designer dresses, yes. Not me. You understand?”
• “I think so.”
• She took my hand and circled my palm with her finger. “I saw you looking at my painting with such longing. Such yearning. I paid attention to everyone’s face when they looked at that one. It was most important to me. And it seemed like you got it because you looked like you wanted it. Maybe I’m being a fool ... but I’d still like to get to know you. What do you say?”
• My hand in hers felt heavy. “I don’t know what to say. Is this a ... date?” She shrugged in reply. I sucked in a breath because of her non-response, which was an answer in itself. Rather than freak out, I decided to keep talking. “I don’t really get why ... why you ... Why me?”
• “I wanted to paint you. That was my first thought.” She looked down and noticed she was squeezing my hand. She pulled away and strangely I wanted to grab her hand back, but I didn’t. I reached for my wine, instead.
• “Paint me how? I can’t imagine anyone painting me,” I laughed.
• Olivia met my stare. “I could paint you. I’d love to, in fact. At my opening you looked trapped and uncomfortable. You looked like you desired to be miles away. I imagined you on the sand somewhere. In a desert looking beautiful. On a boat. Anywhere but there.”
• I kept my eyes on the table. “I don’t really love the art scene.”
• “Yes, there are lots of phony people around. One must be careful.” She thanked the waiter who put her steak before her. I moved back so that he could bring me my dinner, noticing for the first time how I was practically sprawled across the table.
• I didn’t know what to do. She hadn’t answered definitively if this was a date or not, and I didn’t know how that made me feel. Should I run? Stay? Freak out? My mind was so busy trying to make sense of it all that I remained there, seated with uncertainty.
• “Why did you want to paint cigarette ashes and wine glasses?”
• I looked up from cutting my chicken. “What?”
• “Remember I asked you what you would paint?”
• Ah, yes. “Because they looked lonely. I hate seeing the remnants of things left behind. Ostracized.”
• She took a bite of steak. “Are you sure you’re in the right field? You’re much more of an artist than you realize.”
• I laughed. “I don’t think so. I’m fond of concrete ideas. Things I can touch and see.”
• “Me too,” she said, running a finger around the rim of her wine glass. Her eyes reflected gold from the candle on the table.
• My nervous energy transitioned to an entirely different energy I wasn’t at all familiar with.
• “What’s your favorite movie?” I blurted. I wanted to inject a little normalcy into this encounter, something that everyone asked people.
• Olivia’s eyebrows lifted. “What’s yours?”
• “An Affair to Remember,” I answered without thinking.
• She grinned and tossed her black hair back. “Ha! Of course it is! I knew you were a romantic!”
• “I’m not, I swear!” I giggled, the wine and the dizzying quality of Olivia’s presence getting to me.
• “It’s okay to be a romantic, Elizabeth.” She said my name like she was making love to it. “We all are in some ways. My favorite movie is Pulp Fiction. Not initially thought of to be romantic but there is romance there in ways people don’t often realize.”
• “Where are you from?” I asked, wanting to pin down her accent.
• She moved her head back and forth. “Everywhere. I was born in France. I spent half my childhood in Italy. Most of my young adulthood in Germany. Then I moved here to New York. I’ve been here for fifteen years.”
• “Do you like it here?”
• “Yes. There is a sad beauty here that I admire.”
• “I have a confession to make,” I announced, putting down my silverware. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but it was something I felt like I had to do before the night was over. I was interested in getting to know her better, though to what purpose I didn’t know.