Page 37 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“She practiced medicine until she turned eighty,” Connie said. “She died at the age of ninety-two. I wish you could have met her. She was quite an inspiration.”

“So, what did she inspire you to do?” Lizzie asked.

“Nothing quite as noble as save lives, but she did teach me to follow my heart. My passion is painting. I studied art at Hunter College.” She held out her hands, and we could see flecks of color embedded inside the rims of several fingernails. “And as you can see, I’m still at it.”

“I’ve seen her work,” Dad said. “She’s good.”

“If only everyone were as generous as your father,” Connie said. “I’m not exactly a starving artist, but I still have to supplement my income by giving private lessons, or if I get lucky, picking up substitute teaching jobs.”

I didn’t care how she earned a living. I was more interested in my father’s comment. Unless Connie was bringing her paintings to the support group meetings, Dad had seen them up close and personal. I filed that away.

“So did you move here to teach?” Lizzie asked.

“No, I came here to paint. My late husband was a yacht broker. It’s like a real estate broker; only instead of selling homes he sold ridiculously expensive boats. I’ve always loved the Hudson Valley, but we lived in Miami, where there’s lot of sun, lots of water, and lots of people with money who want to cruise around on it. After he died, I knew I didn’t want to stay in Florida, but it took me over a year to settle the estate, sell the house, get rid of the furniture, pack up, and get on the road.”

“How’d you decide on Heartstone?” Lizzie said.

“That was a no-brainer. Back when I was in college, I would drive up here from New York City. I love painting Americana, and Heartstone is a treasure trove of barns, farms, Federal houses—even this lodge is a throwback to kinder, gentler, simpler times. And unlike Florida, you’ve got four seasons. I got here in late September, and I can’t tell you how many tubes of red, yellow, orange, and gold I’ve gone through. I just finished a painting of the pond across from the hospital. It’s so serene. It gives a girl a chance to drop the wordidyllicwhen she goes out to brunch. I can’t wait to paint it when its freezes over.”

“Magic Pond,” my father said. “It was Kate’s favorite place.”

“Well, in that case, I really hope I do it justice.”

“I’m sorry about your husband,” Lizzie said. “How did he die?”

“Lizzie!” Dad snapped.

“Finn, that’s okay,” Connie said. “My grandmother would have asked the same exact question.”

Lizzie isn’t easily stroked, but being compared to a trailblazing feminist physician totally captivated her. Her eyes warmed, and she got that sheepish, aw-shucks look that happens whenever she gets a compliment she can’t handle.

“Steve was seventeen years older than I am,” Connie said. “He was out on the ocean with a prospective buyer, and he had a heart attack. The client had no idea how to pilot the boat and could barely figure out the radio. By the time the Coast Guard got there, it was too late. It was quite a shock. One morning he went to work, and that afternoon two detectives showed up at my studio to inform me that I was a widow. Your father and I have been discussing the pros and cons of sudden death versus a long protracted illness.”

“And where’d you net out?” Lizzie said.

“They both suck something fierce,” Connie said.

My father stared at this new woman in his life, and his eyes crinkled, the corners of his mouth turned up, and the apples of his cheeks puffed out. It was a look I knew well—so much more intimate than a mere smile. It was the same special way that he gazed at my mother when she said or did something that made him proud. He was beaming.

But I don’t think he was reacting to what Connie said. I think he was thrilled to watch his almost-girlfriend and his youngest daughter forge a bond.

He didn’t say a word, but I decided that I knew what he was thinking.

One down, one to go.

TWENTY-TWO

“What did you think of Connie?” Lizzie asked me after brunch.

I shrugged off the question. “She’s okay.”

“She’sokay? Way to heap on the accolades, Margaret.”

“Hey... can I help it if I wasn’t blown away the way you were?”

“I wasn’tblown away. I liked her. Dad likes her. Hell,Momwould’ve liked her.”

“I doubt it. Mom was big on table manners. Did you see the way the woman wolfed down that omelet?”

---