The Notebook

He finally turned away, shaking his head, and went back to the porch. He checked the barometer again. It hadn’t changed. Then he looked at his watch.

Allie should he here soon.

ALLIE SPENT the morning downtown. The Depression had taken its toll, but she could see signs of prosperity beginning to work their way hack. Fort Totten Park looked exactly the same as it had fourteen years ago, and the kids who played on the swings after school probably looked the same as well. She smiled at the memory then, thinking back to when things were simpler. Or at least had seemed to be.

Now, nothing was simple. She wondered what she would have been doing now, had she never seen the article in the paper. It wasn’t very difficult to imagine, because her routines seldom changed. It was Wednesday, which meant bridge at the country club, then on to the Junior Women’s League, where they would probably he arranging another fund-raiser for the private school or hospital. After that, a visit to her mother, then home to get ready for dinner with Lon, because he made it a point to leave work by seven. It was the one night a week she saw him regularly.

She suppressed a feeling of sadness about that, hoping that one day he would change. He had often promised to and usually followed through for a few weeks before drifting back to the same schedule. “I can’t tonight, honey.” he would explain, “I’m sorry, but I can’t. Let me make it up to you later.”

She didn’t like to argue, mostly because she knew he was telling the truth. Trial work was demanding, both beforehand and during, yet she couldn’t help wondering sometimes why he had spent so much time courting her if he didn’t want to spend time with her now.

She passed an art gallery on Front Street, almost walked by it in her preoccupation, then turned and went back. She paused at the door for a second, surprised at how long it had been since she’d been in one. At least three years, maybe longer.

She went inside and browsed among the paintings. Many of the artists were local, and there was a strong sea flavour to their works.

On one wall, though, there were a few paintings more suited to her tastes, by an artist she’d never heard of. Most appeared to have been inspired by the architecture of the Greek islands. In the painting she liked the best, she noted the artist had purposely exaggerated the scene with smaller-than-life figures, wide lines and heavy sweeps of vivid, swirling colour, drawing the eye, almost directing what it should see next. It was dynamic, dramatic. She considered buying it before she realized that she liked it because it reminded her of her own work. She examined it more closely and thought to herself that maybe Noah was right. Maybe she should start painting again.

At nine thirty Allie left the gallery and went to Hoffman-Lane, a department store. It took a few minutes to find what she was looking for. Paper, drawing chalk and pencils, not high quality but good enough. It wasn’t painting, but it was a start, and she was excited by the time she got back to her room.

She sat at the desk and started working: nothing specific, just getting the feel of it again, letting shapes and colours flow from the memory of her youth. After a few minutes, she did a rough sketch of the street scene as seen from her room, amazed at how easily it came. It was almost as if she’d never stopped.

She examined it when she was finished, pleased with the effort. She wondered what to try next and finally decided. Since she didn’t have a model, she visualized it in her head before starting. And though it was harder than the street scene, it began to take form.

Minutes passed quickly. She worked steadily, checking the time frequently so she wouldn’t be late, and finished it a little before noon. It had taken almost two hours, but the end result surprised her. It looked as though it had taken a great deal longer. After rolling it up, she put it in a bag and collected the rest of her things. On her way out of the door, she looked at herself in the mirror, feeling oddly relaxed, not exactly sure why.

Down the stairs again and out of the door. As she left she heard a voice behind her. “Miss?”

She turned. The manager. The same man as yesterday, a curious look on his face.

“Yes?”

“You had some calls last night.”

She was shocked. “I did?”

“Yes. All from a Mr. Hammond.”

Oh, God. “Lon called?”

“Yes, ma’am, four times. He was concerned about you. He said he was your fiancé.”

She smiled weakly, trying to hide what she was thinking. Four times? Four? What could that mean? What if something had happened back home? “Did he say anything? Is it an emergency?”

He shook his head quickly. “He really didn’t say, miss. Actually, he sounded more concerned about you.”

Good, she thought. That’s good. And then, just as suddenly, a pang in her chest. Why so many calls? Had she said anything yesterday? Why would he be so persistent? It was completely unlike him. Was there any way he could have found out? No, that was impossible. Unless someone saw her here yesterday and called… But they would have had to follow her out to Noah’s. No one would have done that.

She had to call him now: no way to get around it. But she didn’t want to. This was her time, and she wanted to spend it doing what she wanted. She hadn’t planned on speaking to him until later, and she felt almost as if talking to him now would spoil the day. Besides, what was she going to say? How could she explain being out so late? A late dinner and then a walk? Maybe. Or a movie? Or.

“Miss?”

Almost noon, she thought. Where would he be? His office, probably… no. In court, she suddenly realized, and immediately felt as if she’d been released from shackles. There was no way she could talk to him, even if she wanted to. She was surprised by her feelings. She shouldn’t feel this way, she knew, and yet it didn’t bother her. She looked at her watch, acting now.

“Is it really almost twelve?”

The manager looked at the clock. “Yes, a quarter to.”

“Unfortunately,” she started, “he’s in court right now and I can’t reach him. If he does call again, could you tell him I’m shopping and that I’ll try to call him later?”

“Of course,” he answered. She could see the question in his eyes, though: But where were you last night? He had known exactly when she’d come in. Too late for a single woman in this small town.

“Thank you.” she said, smiling. “I’d appreciate it.”