“Not here,” she says, pointing over her shoulder to the back. “There.”
She vanishes again and I follow, crossing the landing at the top of the stairs, which seems darker now. I hear keys, then a lock turning, then a door opens ahead of me. Merrie flicks a switch and a single bulb lights, swinging from its cable in the middle of the large room. The window of this room faces the back alley behind the restaurant. It has the same hardwood floor as Merrie’s apartment, worn to a patina, but even higher ceilings. I realize that the mechanicals are exposed, as are the steel beams that hold up the roof. The windows have wire grid embedded in them and the door she unlocked is steel.
“They must have used it as a storeroom,” she says and I have a vague recollection of that.
“I think it was.”
She gives me a look. “Don’t artists prefer northern light for their studios?”
“But this isn’t my studio.”
“No, but it could be.” She walks around the space, which is beyond generous. It has to be thirty feet on a side but is empty.
Full of possibilities.
“What do you think?”
“It’s perfect,” I whisper. “How much do you want me to pay you?”
“Nothing.” She’s emphatic. “We made our deal and this space is just going to waste. Use it, Sylvia.”
I can’t believe my luck. “Are you sure?”
Merrie takes the key off her ring and tosses it to me. I catch it instinctively, my fingers closing around it even asmy heart starts to sing. “You’ve never wanted anything, the whole time I’ve known you,” she says with heat. “I’m so glad I can finally give you something you want.”
“Merrie!”
“This space is yours, Sylvia. Do what you want here. Paint. Sleep. Dream. Drink absinthe. Throw orgies.” She holds up a finger. “Actually, I demand an invitation if you do that.”
I laugh because I’m supposed to. The truth is that I feel lighter. Happier. Because of an armload of art supplies.
No, because of Mike.
Merrie is circling the space, hands high, like an actress on a stage addressing her rapt audience – or a high priestess summoning invisible powers. “Follow your muse and see where she takes you.”
“It’s been so long. I might have forgotten.”
“Then you’ll remember. Or you’ll learn a new way.” Her confidence is infectious and I feel my excitement rise.
Merrie spins to look at me, her expression so intent that I wonder what she’ll say. “I saw your face, Sylvia, when you opened that package. He gave you your heart’s desire, which means I’ve got to keep up.”
“Merrie,” I whisper, and give her a hug. “You leave everyone in the dust.”
“Consider that Mike Cavendish might not be as bad as his PR,” she whispers into my hair and I close my eyes, not wanting to think about that, afraid to not think about it.
What if I wasn’t wrong about him?
What if there is a reasonable explanation for his silence?
What if starting again and forgetting old wounds is the best way to move forward?
Merrie holds me tightly, enduring my happy tears like the good friend she is.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” she says, pullingback to meet my gaze. I shake my head and she grimaces. “If he keeps up this kind of shit, I might have to actuallylikehim.”
“You wouldn’t be the only one,” I admit and we hug again.
Then we get to work. She helps me haul everything upstairs and I spread it out, still gleeful over the collection. We vacuum the room and make a start on polishing the windows. No doubt the morning light will show all the spots we’ve missed. We find some drop sheets then press a couple of empty jars into service for my brushes. There are lamps that we found here, ones that Merrie thought were ugly, but they work, and along with a pair of extension cords, they join my collection. I bite my lip in wonder as I stare at it one last time before locking the door and securing it away.
