Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing) Read Online Free PDF Page A

the bus stopped to let me off, he kissed me goodbye. My first real kiss. Salty.
    I could use a glass of wine, but there isn’t any, so I settle for tea and discover there’s no milk either.
    Damn!
    This means a trip to the village, and it’s Sunday, and the place will be crowded and I’ll never find a parking spot. I pull on a pair of shorts, shove my feet into espadrilles, and pick up my purse.
    My Volvo crouches in the driveway like a crumpled toad. Poor thing. It suffered, without complaint, through two years of teaching teenage boys to drive. I slip behind the wheel and wince when my thighs are welded to scorching hot leather. Turning the ignition, I offer a quick prayer to the god of internal combustion engines. When it fires, I roll down my window. The air conditioner is on the blink again.
    It’s a five-minute drive to the village. Knots of people—mostly tourists—clog the sidewalks and spill from shops and cafés along Bay Street. I edge my car into an alley, park behind someone’s boat trailer, and nip in the side door of Tuttle’s Market, a small, family-owned grocery store with narrow aisles, wooden floors, and clerks who know every local customer’s name. I grab a carton of milk, six cans of Fancy Feast, and a loaf of French bread, still warm from the oven.
    “Hey, Jill, I see you’re out for blood,” Jim Tuttle says as he rings up my total.
    “I am?”
    “Your shirt.”
    I look down. Printed across my chest are the words: If it’s called tourist season, why can’t we shoot them? The shirt isn’t mine; it belongs to one of my sons. Alistair, probably.
    Jim hands me a brown paper bag.
    I run to my car—no ticket, this time—and drive back to the beach in a fog of nostalgia. Does Colin still have that stomach-churning chuckle? Does that lock of hair still flop across his forehead? Do his cheeks still dimple when he smiles?
    Does he ever think about me?
    I miss my turn and have to back up.
    Blacktop gives way to sand and dirt. My road, if you could call it that, has more holes than a colander. Gripping the Volvo’s wheel, I slalom around them and pray nobody’s coming the other way. A blue and white For Sale sign flashes by. My neighbor’s house is on the market for three million dollars and I wonder how long it’ll take Elaine Burke to sell it this time. I’m in the midst of designing the sales brochure for her. She’s going to make a boatload of money on this one, provided she can find a buyer who’s willing to pay a king’s ransom for nine bedrooms, six baths, and a solarium with a panoramic view of Long Island Sound.
    The Volvo’s brakes squeal as I pull up in front of my house. I pat the dashboard, grateful it survived another trip to the village. My front garden is now in full shade and the flowers have perked up. Shy nasturtiums hide beneath a canopy of leaves; an early morning glory winds itself though a thicket of cheerful zinnias. Clutching my groceries with one hand, I deadhead cosmos and daisies with the other. My legs brush against clumps of lavender and catmint. Their scents mingle. I breathe them in.
    The front porch sags beneath the weight of a wisteria I planted ten years ago. I make a mental note to find my pruning shears and trim it back. The steps are peeling. They could use another coat of paint. My window boxes need weeding.
    The phone rings. I shove the front door open with my shoulder and race for the kitchen.
    “Am I calling too late?” Sophie says.
    “Heavens no. It’s only six o’clock.” I dump my bag on the counter. It splits open and one of Zachary’s gourmet dinners rolls into the sink, still full of dirty water. I’m dying to ask about Colin, but can’t get a word in edgeways because Sophie’s telling me about one of her puppies that got stuck behind the refrigerator. Finally, she takes a break and I jump right in.
    “So tell me,” I say. “What’s he like?”
    There’s a pause as if Sophie’s gathering her thoughts. “Colin hasn’t