Page 26 of Look on the Bright Side

A week later, and eighteen days before the planned opening, a huge nor’easter named Mathilda ripped out great chunks of the Cape, taking down giant trees, swallowing houses on the ocean side, vomiting up the destruction on the formerly pristine beaches. The Outer Cape was without power for upwards of a week. Families were displaced, beaches destroyed. Marinas were littered with broken boats. A federal emergency was declared, and two people were killed during an attempted rescue of an overturned boat, including a coastguardsman.

Nineteen people came to the opening, and a third of them were related to her. Ellie had already dropped the prices, sensing the impending doom of her show. It was worse than she’d imagined. She didn’t sell a single painting. The only “reviewer” who came was a high school student from Truro who was writing an article for the school newspaper.

Out of the twenty-two formidable, breathtaking paintings she’d created over the winter, painting till her hands cramped, loving her craft once again, confident, excited and happy, only one painting sold all season long. At a 75 percent discount. It was a disaster.

Down the street, Tim’s Bridge Gallery held a huge show for a new artist who had just burst onto the scene—angular houses painted in vivid, nearly neon colors, all sharp angles and weird proportions. Every painting sold at the opening. The owner had looked at Ellie with apologetic eyes as she talked with the thrilled consumers.

It was frustrating, how the worst times seemed to have so much more power than the good times. Those good seasons, that sense of pride and accomplishment, shriveled compared with the year of Mathilda. Even today, as she did at least once a week, Ellie wondered if she’d ever feel truly confident again, business-wise. The days of painting for love, and not just for sale, seemed like a dream from long ago.

Which did not mean Long Pond Arts wasn’t about to have a great year. “Keep on the sunny side,” Gerald liked to sing to her when they took a shower together. It always made her smile. No matter what, she had led a very lucky life. Money worries were never fun, but most people had them. In times of financial crunch, like they’d had the year of Mathilda, Gerald took extra shifts at the hospital. But now, at last, he was retired, even though he’d kept his certification. For more than forty years, he’d worked full-time, and while he’d loved his job, it was draining—the many healthcare crises, chronic understaffing, the physical labor of his work, some horrible coworkers, an ever-changing administration with batches of new rules every time someone was replaced or quit, not to mention the many grim situations he faced close up.

It wasn’t that she resented his retirement. She just wished she could retire, too. She loved the gallery, but if she hit the lottery (tough, since she didn’t play), she’d sell it. Sell it and spend her mornings reading Atlas Obscura and the New York Times the way Gerald did. Go to the places they talked about visiting. Garden again, because she loved gardening. When the kids were little, she started seeds in March, and by July, they could make an entire meal out of what they had grown in the now crumbling raised beds she’d built back then. She could spend more time with Esme and Imogen; visit their oldest grandchild, Matthew, at Georgetown; read and take long walks and set up her easel somewhere, painting just because she wanted to. She and Gerald could lie under the big tree in the backyard with their books, holding hands, drinking iced tea, reading passages aloud to each other. Because yeah, they were that couple. The poster kids for marriage done right.

As if on cue, her phone rang. “Hi, babe,” she said.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he answered. “Wondering what you want for dinner. And also wanted to brag that I got Wordle in two.”

“Wow,” she said, smiling. “Smart and sexy.” She’d tried the game a few times and liked it—plus, word games were good for the brain—but never remembered to play it daily, the way Harlow and Gerald did. Didn’t really have the time.

“Any food preferences?” he asked. “I’m going to Stop & Shop in Orleans, so the sky’s the limit.”

“My hero. Um…how about roast chicken?”

“It’s a little hot for that. You know, running the oven for hours.”

Her old recipe, back in the days when she was the one who cooked, had required only an hour for roasting, but she didn’t want to micromanage. “Okay. Something vegetarian, maybe?”

“How about steak?”

“Steak would be fine, hon,” she said, rolling her eyes. Why call for her opinion when he obviously didn’t need it?

“What about a vegetable?”

“Whatever looks good. Hon, I have to run. I have a Zoom call with the arts council. Love you!”

“Love you more. I have plans to demonstrate that later, too.”

She smiled as she hung up and clicked on the link for her meeting. Part of being a business owner was being active in the community, and the council’s annual appeal was coming up.

For an hour, she talked about donors and listened to the impact of a handwritten note versus a mass email. “Ellie, you do that beautiful calligraphy,” Janet said. “Can you handwrite the letters?”

“To five hundred people?” she said. “No. Sorry. I can do one, and we can print them up, though. No one will be able to tell.”

“But that’s so impersonal!”

“I just don’t have the time, Janet.” No one else volunteered to help, or reminded Janet there was an easier way to reach people—this new thing called email.

“Well, can you at least handwrite in each of their names so it looks more organic?”

“I…” Would it take more time to just agree than it would to field seventeen or thirty calls from Janet? “Sure.”

The thought of a home-cooked meal, a martini and sex at the end of the day eased her irritation.

She and Gerald had met backpacking in Europe in their early twenties. Ellie and her friend had gone to a beach in Spain, and there he was, coming out of the water like Neptune’s hottest son—tall, black-haired, tanned and ripped with muscle. He saw her and smiled, and Ellie’s whole body flushed and tightened. Before they’d exchanged a word, she already wanted to sleep with him. At twenty-three, she’d been in love before, had had two serious boyfriends (if a person could say anything was serious at twenty-three). But with Gerald Robert Smith, things felt momentous from that very first second. Ellie knew he’d be important to her. She felt it in her bones before he even said a word. Then he did say a word—“Hi”—and they were pretty much a done deal from then on.

After a week, they felt like they’d known the other for centuries but also couldn’t wait to share more new things together, hear each other’s stories, see each other in different situations, introduce their friends and get their take. She and Gerald—never Gerry—spent the next six weeks traveling around Europe, drinking cheap wine, making love and inhaling each other’s souls.

People predicted it would fade. “You’re not going to feel this way forever, you know,” her mother had said. “Marital bliss is a lie.” Ellie ignored her. Dad didn’t seem to care that much, saying only that hopefully Gerald could support her, since Ellie was an artist. Dad always used air quotes and dropped his voice to a whisper when he said those words. “She thinks she’s”—pause for effect—“an artist.” He had hoped she’d become an actuary. Grace, Ellie’s sister, was the only one who was enthusiastic. Sweet Grace. They’d always been close.

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