Mark rode his bicycle to the riverbank, parked it beside the shelter for the ferry and sat down on the bench inside.
He had no watch but knew it was too early to go and knock on Danielle's door. She would still be walking home after school. Or would she? She could be hanging out with a friend or be busy with something intramural. Volleyball? If only they attended the same school that would not be an issue.
His stop had another reason. He was nervous. What would he say? Would he stumble over his words and look like a fool? Would she smile happily or with that smile he saw her bestow on others -- more of a sneer? Dismissal.
Butterflies in the stomach. Was he reading everything wrong?
Saturday's dance at the Apollo had been fun. He had been at his gregarious best, he thought, and Danielle had willingly danced with him. He even had been so confident he had asked her mother to dance as well. She too had agreed. To something she called a fox-trot, although he did not know the steps. His false steps had made her giggle, but not condescendingly. They had light-hearted banter and -- because he could only afford two beers -- he had not made a drunken fool of himself. And could not buy a round for Danielle or the two of them.
When it was time to go, he had said, wagging a threatening finger, "I'll come knocking on your door this week." Danielle had replied, "OK" and her mother, Jocelyn, merely smiled.
A lot can be read in a simple "OK" and now he was parsing that single, enigmatic word.
Two girls on bikes came riding down to the ferry. One of them kept pulling her skirt fastidiously down over her knees. The other one let it ride, billowing over her thighs. She gave Mark a taunting look when she drove by. The stopped at the top of the wooden ramp leading down, where the ferryman was washing down all the silt left by the ebbing tide.
Would Danielle taunt him?
He did not know these two girls, so figured they were from Danielle's school. Perhaps it was time to collect his courage and see if she made it home yet and invite her to the movies on Saturday.
He cast one last look at the saucy girl, got back on his bike and rode the five blocks, past the town square, to Danielle's house. Like so many, it was a row house where the garage took up most of the main floor, leaving only room for the entrance, lobby and a staircase leading up to the living quarters. He leaned his bike against the house and rang the bell.
It took a little while and he worried no one was home before the intercom came alive. "Yes?"
"It's Mark," he announced, his heart thumping.
There was a fraction of a delay before the reply came. "Oh. Hi. Come on in." And the buzzer went that unlocked the door.
He stepped in a marble-floor hallway, two stories tall, with white walls and two paintings decorating the walls. Stairs led straight up to a landing with a second set leading up from there to the next floor. He could see all the way to the top of the third floor.
No one was there. His mind in a race, he looked around, saw a tray for shoes and boots. Would he take his shoes off now or when he was asked?
At the top of the second flight of stairs, Jocelyn emerged. She was clad in a white smock. She waved and descended the stairs to the living area. "Come on up, Mark," she called out.
"Shall I take my shoes off?" he asked.
"That would be nice," she agreed.
Shoes off, he climbed the stairs. Jocelyn met him at the landing with outstretched hand. "Dannielle's not home yet, but come on in, anyway," she said. And added, "I look a mess, don't mind me."
She was. The white smock she wore was splattered with paint. Not house paint, but oils and acrylics. Splashes, blotches, streaks of reds, yellows, blends of all colours. Her face, though, was unblemished, but her fingers showed that she had been painting. Mark had taken it all in in an instant, even to her feet in heeled indoor sandals, and her hair in need of a brush.
"You paint?" he asked.
"I try," she smiled. "But do come in." She led the way into the living room that bathed in afternoon light filtered through sheers. "I'm due for a break anyway. A drink?" she asked.
"No, thanks, Ma'am."
"Jocelyn," she corrected him. "I'm going to cheat and have a small Dubonnet on the rocks. Take a seat."
And she left him for the kitchen.
The room oozed luxury. It made Mark feel ill at ease. The room, airy, had a warm-beige carpet, tan leather chairs--a sofa, a love seat, an armchair--buffet and, by the window, a table with a record player, complete with vinyl records stacked, ready to drop down and play.
Jocelyn returned, carrying two glasses. "You did say on Saturday you've yet to taste Scotch. So, here is some of my husband's favourite brand. You're supposed to drink it neat, they say, but a splash of water is permitted. I added some. Try it. There a first time for everything."
She sat down across from him and now he noticed that Jocelyn was not wearing hose or stockings, sitting primly, knees together.
"I half expected you to show up. I guess you're here to ask Danielle out?"
She sipped her drink, her brown eyes questioning.
"Yes," was all he managed.
Where was the gregarious boy of last Saturday? Tongue-tied?
"We had fun. You were fun," she went on. "Not too many boys like to dance. Danielle appreciated that. So did I, as a matter of fact."
"Thanks, yes, I enjoyed it too." Mark produced a smile. "Although I still have to apologize for how often I stepped on your toes."
Jocelyn slipped one foot out of sandal, stretched out her leg and wiggled her toes, each nail a dash of red. "They're back to normal," she smiled. "Although they could have used a massage." She lowered her voice. "Actually, my hubby did, so it all worked out."
Mark laughed in response. It was the right thing to do. And took a sip of the whisky.
Whisky, he instantly concluded, is an acquired taste. He put the glass carefully down on a coaster, on the glass-topped coffee table between him and Jocelyn.
She looked so different. This was not the meticulously made-up woman at the Apollo, demure mother of Danielle. There was something unfished, fresh about her despite, or because of the rumpled, paint-stained frock and flecks of paint on her fingers.
Mark decided he had to at least try and carry on a conversation. "I didn't know you paint."
"Like I said, I try." And she pointed at herself, her outfit. "Sometimes there's more paint on me than on the canvas."
Again, Mark joined her in an agreeable giggle. "You paint abstract, then?"
"No. Would you like to see? My studio is on the upper floor."
It was impossible to disagree. Jocelyn stood up. "Take your drink with you."
She walked ahead of him, up the stairs, and now he noticed that the frock -- more of a lab coat, really, was rather short, reaching only halfway down her thigh. She has nice looking legs for someone who is around forty, he thought.
Jocelyn's studio was in a large room with a window looking north. Mark was unaware of the significance of muting light and colours by denying direct sunlight. It was a messy place, with paint-splattered sheets on the floor, several easels, two three-legged stools, a counter strewn with paraphernalia. Canvases line against the wall. A standing mirror.
Had Mark been asked what to expect he would have said, "Still lives. Landscapes." Instead, he saw portraits. Old faces, young faces, men, women, boys, girls. Light, dark, close-up, full-bodied. Thin, thick.
There was a portrait of Danielle, a self-portrait of Jocelyn, one of a man who had to be Danielle's father.
