Morning Glory(44)

“What time is it?”

“Eight,” he says with a smile. “You slept through the evening, right on to morning. You must have been exhausted.”

I rub my eyes and nod my head. “Thank you,” I say, “for staying.”

He passes me the cheese and fruit plate, and grins. “You talk in your sleep, you know.”

I take a bite of sliced apple. “Oh no, what did I say?”

“There was something about a boat,” he says, “which isn’t surprising, and a whole lot of other gibberish. But you said my name.”

“I did?”

“Yes,” he says proudly. “I admit, I tried to eavesdrop, but I didn’t get very far.” He walks back to the kitchen and returns with two mugs. “Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you,” I say, sitting up.

“I hope you don’t mind that I stayed. I just didn’t feel right about leaving you here alone.”

I take a long sip before I speak again. “I keep thinking, what if I’d died out there on the lake? I would have been dead for two days now. Dex wouldn’t even know. Whenever he’d get around to coming home, whenever he could break away from his precious art, he’d come home and I wouldn’t be here.”

Collin looks at his feet, as though the very thought of Dex unnerves him, but he doesn’t share what he’s thinking. “Well, you’re OK, and that’s all that matters,” he finally says. “Now that you’re up, I’m going to go home and shower. I’ll be back this afternoon to check on you.”

In truth, I don’t need anyone to check on me. I bumped my head; I’ll recover. But I touch my hand to the bandage on my forehead and nod. I like that he wants to check on me. I like that someone wants to check on me. “Thank you,” I say softly. He beams back at me.



Three days pass, then four. Dex remains unreachable. If he’s at his studio, he’s not answering the phone, because when I call, it just rings endlessly. I decide that maybe he’s gone on a trip. Maybe he’s finally gone to that gallery in Paris where he was invited to exhibit his work. But would he really go to Paris without me? Without even telling me?

When Saturday comes, I am crestfallen. It’s the night of the Frank Sinatra concert. I call his studio four times. I don’t know why I keep trying; he never answers. But this time, someone picks up.

“Hello?” It’s a woman. She sounds young, younger than I am, perhaps.

“Oh,” I say quickly. “I must have the wrong number. I was trying to reach Dexter Wentworth.”

“Just a sec,” she says, setting the phone down.

Maybe she’s a model, I tell myself. Dex hires them from time to time to pose for him while he paints. I imagine she has long black wavy hair that hangs in front of her bare breasts. Her hips are round and her skin porcelain. Dex has her on the couch, the way he used to have me pose for him. I close my eyes, then set the phone back on the receiver.



It’s four thirty, and I haven’t even dressed yet. I should be ironing my red dress, the one with the deep V-shaped neckline and stitching around the waist. It flatters me in all the right places, and I’ve imagined wearing it to see Frank Sinatra. I’ve planned it for days now. Dex would come home, see me in the dress, and wrap his arms around my waist like he always has. He’d whisper in my ear, “You look stunning.”

I wonder if I’m hallucinating when Dex walks in the door an hour later and sets his hat on the counter. He looks terrible. He hasn’t shaved in days; his cheeks are gaunt. Dark shadows linger beneath his eyes.

“Hi,” he says, sitting in the chair by the windows. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t ask why I’m propped up on the couch with pillows. He just stares at the lake.

“I called your studio today,” I say. My words are tense, tinged with hurt. My voice reverberates in the air, but Dex doesn’t seem to notice or care.

He shakes his head. I can smell the stale, sweet smell of alcohol on his breath, even from across the room. “I don’t understand it,” he says.

“What?” I ask, sitting up.

He still doesn’t look at me. “It was perfect,” he says. “It was my masterpiece, and they . . .” He buries his head in his hands.

“Oh, Dex,” I say soothingly, rushing to his side. I wonder why it’s so easy to assume this role with him, so easy for him to keep taking and for me to keep giving. “Tell me what happened.” I remember the series of paintings he’s been working on for months. “Was the installation today?”

“The curator hated them,” he says, staring ahead.