To Have and to Hate

“So then it’s fine if I date as well?”

On the surface, it’s an appropriate question, but deep down, I’m only asking to prove that I, too, have romance in my life. Lots of it. Tons.

“Of course, though I expect you to practice discretion. Our relationship will be public now that you’ve agreed, and as I mentioned, I have a reputation. This city is smaller than you think, and word travels fast.”

“Understood.”

He turns back to his computer. “I’ll have Mason place a wedding announcement in The Times next week.”

I want to ask a million more questions—about the wedding announcement, about his expectations for me, about the arrangement we’ve struck for me to continue living in his apartment—but I sense I’ve been dismissed, so I start to head for the door of his office.

“Elizabeth,” he says, catching me on the way out.

I turn back to look at him over my shoulder.

“Thank you for breakfast.”

I smile before heading back out into the hallway, pleasantly surprised by how our conversation went. Though I wouldn’t say Walt was overly warm, he at least answered my questions, and now I feel like I’m not tiptoeing through a minefield going forward. Well…not as much.

After I finish cleaning up the kitchen, I head back to the library, more than a little excited to spend my day there. I round the corner and step into the room, surprised, yet again, to find that Walt has rearranged it overnight.

I’m dumbfounded. What he’s done is no small change. It would have taken a crew of people to pull this off. Both the couches and coffee table are now completely gone. The heavy drapes that were hanging over the windows before have been removed as well so that natural light floods into the room. My small table and chair are still there, but the plastic floor covering has now morphed into one five times the size so I have a lot more room to work.

Most notable, however, is the new easel, and not just any easel. I recognize the Abiquiu Deluxe immediately because it’s been on my wish list for oh, I don’t know…a decade. A few of my professors at RISD kept them in their studios, and I’d drool over them every chance I could get. Rather than straining my back by hunching over a table, the easel will allow me to secure my canvases at the exact heights I need. In addition to that, by loosening the knobs on the back, I can adjust the painting to the degree of tilt I need at any given moment. By keeping my canvases upright, the dust from my pastels will fall and collect on the easel’s tray table instead of smudging across my drawings.

It’s the Range Rover of art easels, and I could cry, honestly.

I don’t even think before I dart back out into the hall and rush one room over to Walt’s office. The door is still open. He’s on the phone, already busy, but I don’t care. I press my hands together and mouth, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” while hopping up and down with glee.

He nods—and I swear there’s a shadow of a smile there too—before I disappear back into the library.

All day, I work, and I can hear Walt talking and typing faintly on the other side of the wall. Though I can’t make out his words clearly, I like the reminder that he’s here in the apartment with me. I hadn’t realized how lonely I’ve been the last few days—hell, years, really.

I didn’t have a huge crop of friends at RISD. Early on, someone found out where and how I grew up, and the knowledge alienated me from the rest of my classmates. They assumed I was a stuck-up snob born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and there was no point in trying to clarify that while I did grow up in that world, I didn’t quite belong in it. They all assumed their spots at the prestigious art school were earned, while mine was gifted. It meant my art never stood on its own, that I was continually having to prove myself, work harder, keep to myself.

I was largely fine with being left alone to focus on my art. It meant that in the five and a half years I was there completing my combined bachelor’s and master’s program, I made a lot of progress in terms of cultivating a unique technique and signature style. I found an identity in my layered pastel canvases, and now that I’ve graduated—a semester earlier than most of my peers—I can start to hone that style and see if I can gain a foothold in the overly saturated New York City art world.

Walt and I don’t cross paths again that weekend, which is strange given our proximity to one another. I eat an early lunch in the kitchen, on edge, waiting to see if he’ll make an appearance, but he never leaves his office. Later that night, as I’m in my bathroom, washing my face, I hear the elevator arrive and then depart. I don’t hear him return until late Sunday morning, when I’m in the den watching TV.