A Portrait of Marguerite

music in the background. In an instant, I was flung back to my high-school cafeteria, where I sometimes sat alone pretending I was there by choice. I almost hung up without speaking.
“Have you heard from Rob?” I finally asked in my clearest voice.
“Not for a few days. Hey, Margo, I can’t talk right now.” His words blended in with a bluesy country-western song. A woman shrieked with laughter, and Phil’s voice became muffled. “I’ll give you a call later, okay?”
“Sure.” The phone line went dead, the silence throbbing in my ears.
I thudded down in front of the TV and flicked through the stations until I found a schmaltzy old black-and-white movie. When the hero and heroine reunited, I began to weep.

I felt like a mother trying to corral her rebellious child as I followed Laurie into the art building on Monday evening. She’d barely spoken to me on the drive over, but I wasn’t sorry I’d asked how she and Dave were getting along. Divorce was not a notion to be tossed about lightly. I was living proof.
Halfway up the stairs, she came to an abrupt stop. She swung around and glared down at me. “This is the last time I confide in you.” She gripped her sketchpad like a shield. “I thought you’d see things my way.”
“I’m your friend, and I care about you.”
She began stomping up the stairs again. “Do me a favor, stop caring so much.”
“But, Laurie—”
She shoved open the door to the second floor. “Conversation closed,” she said, then marched into the classroom.
I entered the room and saw Henry standing near the doorway speaking to several students.
“My home’s too distracting to get much work done, so my studio is my refuge,” I could hear him say. “Like an athlete entering a gymnasium, I can get right down to business.”
He strode to the front of the room to speak to the whole class. I noticed his denim shirt and his jeans bore smudges of paint. He must have come straight from his easel.
“I’ve started buying my paints through the mail and have them sent directly to the studio,” he continued. “They’re cheaper, and I don’t waste a whole morning at the art supply store. I’m as easily distracted as anyone, but I’ve found ways to keep on track. Not that I don’t give myself a breather every few hours. I need time away from the studio to explore and be rejuvenated. Every artist needs down time.”
He erased the chalkboard with wide arcs. “I’m usually ready for a break around noon every day, and you’re all invited to stop by my studio tomorrow—if you have the time or inclination.” He wrote his address. “Several of you have asked about work space, and I’d be happy to show you around.” It was located on the east shore of Lake Union, he said, not difficult to find.
The next day, my car jostled down the rough, cobbled hill toward Lake Union. I turned onto Henry’s narrow street to find it inundated with parked cars. Around the corner and halfway down the block, I wedged my Toyota into a parking spot, then walked until I found the weather-beaten, one-story structure. Was this the right place? The building looked old and neglected, its paint chipping and cracking. But the front door had been enameled a crisp malachite green, with the address neatly inscribed above it.
I checked my watch and realized I was five minutes early. Hoping to see someone else from class, I lingered on the sidewalk for a moment. Finally, I climbed the front steps and searched for the doorbell, but found none. I tried rapping on the door, but got no response. Maybe others had arrived already, I thought, and they couldn’t hear me above the chatter. I turned the doorknob and pulled the door open several inches. I could smell the familiar odor of paint and thinner, which meant this had to be the right place. I gave the door another tug to see a small front hall devoid of any furniture except for a low wooden table supporting a telephone and a few scattered papers.
I heard classical music lilting around the corner. I followed my ears to discover Henry standing in front of a wide canvas. Engrossed in his painting, he hummed as he dabbed on colors—first burnt umber, then raw sienna. His arm moved like a branch being rhythmically propelled by gusts of wind. Except for two threadbare chairs in front of a spacious picture window and canvases stacked against the walls, the room was bare.
He continued painting, now in quicker strokes, and hummed a bit more loudly. Was it Mozart? I wondered. The piece ended, and another began. I decided to retreat, to wait outside until others arrived. At that instant, he noticed me.
“What time is it?” he asked, his words resounding off the bare floor.
I looked at my watch again. “It’s not quite noon. I’m early.” Sidestepping toward the door, I almost knocked over an empty easel. “I could wait outside.”
“No, this is fine. I’m ready for a break.” He’d probably started the painting this morning. So far, the surface was tinted with layers of muted colors, which I assumed would be the background for whatever he had planned.
Setting his brush in a can, he stood back to examine his work. “It’s good for me to get a little distance.” He grabbed a rag to wipe his fingers, then tossed the cloth in a corner on top of several others. “Sometimes I get so caught up that I forget to slow down and look at the whole composition.”
He directed me to a thermos sitting on a wooden crate near the window. He poured two cups of coffee and handed me one before sitting on one of the armchairs. I stood for an awkward moment, then planted myself on the other, keeping my weight forward. Inhaling the heady steam rising from my cup, I stared out the window at the bay,