Friends and Strangers - J. Courtney Sullivan Page 0,87
need a drink.”
Two men wearing tweed jackets and an older woman in a flowing black cardigan huddled by a folding table, on which sat several bottles of wine.
Elisabeth went straight over and filled two cups.
She said hello to the professors.
They seemed baffled by her presence.
“Hello,” the woman said, as if it were a question, the way people used to answer the telephone.
Returning to Andrew, Elisabeth whispered, “Are we the only outsiders here?”
“It would appear so, yes.”
“Have you seen Sam?”
“No.”
Over his shoulder stood a lanky girl in a blue peasant skirt. She was topless, long dishwater hair covering her breasts. She held a small paper plate of crackers and chatted with two other girls as if there was nothing out of the ordinary.
“Andrew,” Elisabeth said, glancing toward her.
He looked over, then back at Elisabeth, eyes wide.
A girl with a septum piercing stared at them as if to say, You got a problem with that?
Elisabeth took her husband by the arm. “Come on, let’s look at the art.”
They passed several black-and-white photos of a zaftig woman with dark lips and eyebrows. There were paintings of flowers, O’Keeffe rip-offs, or perhaps they were meant as homage.
One student had pinned Ziploc bags of varying sizes to a corkboard—the largest bag contained long red strands of hair, cut from the artist’s own head; another held fine clippings collected from her razor; another still, a few unmistakably coarse tufts of pubic hair.
“Moving on,” Andrew said.
They turned a corner to see a painting of a woman on a porch, looking out at the ocean in the distance. It was so different than everything else on display. Classic, old-fashioned.
Elisabeth’s first thought was that it was beautiful. It reminded her of Cassatt. Her second was that this must be Sam’s. A glance at the placard taped to the wall confirmed it.
She stepped back.
“She’s good.”
Andrew laughed.
“What?”
“You sounded shocked when you said that.”
“No. I mean, she’s really good. Don’t you think?”
He looked closer at the painting. “It’s pretty.”
Elisabeth felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Sam in jeans and a green sweater. Beside her was Isabella, a bright red Santa hat on her head.
“I’m so sorry you got here before me,” Sam said as they hugged hello. “Isabella got us locked out of our dorm room, and I was wearing sweats and no shoes. It took the maintenance guy an hour to come pick the lock.”
“Sam,” Elisabeth said. “You’re so talented. I had no idea. I thought you’d be good, but—you’re great.”
“You don’t have to say that,” Sam said, sounding bashful.
“I mean it. I’d love to buy this,” Elisabeth said. “Is it for sale?”
Andrew gave her a look. She wished she could freeze time and explain that she was only trying to convince Sam of her sincerity, and besides, it wasn’t likely to cost very much.
“That’s so sweet,” Sam said. “Honestly, I’d just give it to you. But I made this for my mom for Christmas. It’s based off a photo of my grandmother taken down the Cape when I was little. She passed away a couple years back.”
“Is that a family beach house?” Elisabeth asked.
She tried to remember if Sam had ever mentioned one.
“I wish,” Sam said. “That’s the hotel where my cousin got married.”
“Your mom’s going to love it,” Andrew said. “What a thoughtful gift.”
“Maybe I could convince you to let me commission something after winter break,” Elisabeth said.
“Sure,” Sam said.
“A picture of Gil, even.”
“I’d love that.”
“Hey, what’s up with the girl who forgot her shirt?” Andrew whispered.
Sam looked over. “That’s her thing. She’s going topless this entire year to prove—Izzy, what’s she trying to prove again?”
Isabella rolled her eyes. “Who knows. If someone had to make it her thing, you’d hope it would be a girl with better tits.”
“Ignore her,” Sam said.
Isabella grinned. She plopped the Santa hat on Gil’s head and he gave her a huge smile. Sam snapped a picture with her phone.
Later that night, she texted it to Elisabeth with a heart, and the words, Thank you for being there.
It would be a month before they saw each other again. Sam would take the bus home to Boston and spend two weeks there, then fly to London to see Clive the day after Christmas.
Elisabeth got into a funk thinking about it, and about the larger sadness it foretold. In a few months, Sam would be gone for good, and then whom would she talk to, what would she do here?