Family Happiness by Laurie Colwin Read Free Book Online Page B

painted in white for a year. The past year they had hardly seen Lincoln at all. He had begun to paint in color again. The paintings in the group show, and this one-man show, were the result. They were not like anything Polly had ever seen and she wanted one fiercely.
    Henry and Andreya caught up with her. “Look,” said Henry. “There’s Lincoln.” Polly looked around and saw him at once: a tall, well-made man with an unsmiling boyish face, and a thick shock of straight hair that fell onto his forehead. He had a big, pouty mouth and, when he smiled, a crooked grin. He was wearing the sort of clothes an Irish fisherman might wear: a briary sweater, a pair of tweed trousers, and heavy laced shoes. He cut through the crowd toward Henry and Andreya, and when he saw Polly, he stopped and kissed her on the mouth.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry,” he said, stepping back. “I thought you were someone else.” He smiled a rattled smile. “Why,” he said, “it’s a little pack of Solo-Millers. Hello, Henry. Hello, Andreya.” He turned to Polly. “You must be the Solo-Miller sister.”
    â€œPolly Demarest,” said Polly.
    â€œDora,” Lincoln said, “isn’t it?”
    â€œEveryone calls me Polly.”
    â€œOf course. Well, Andreya. What do you think?”
    â€œI cannot understand these pictures, Lincoln,” Andreya said. “They are about things . What do they mean?”
    â€œAndreya likes for everything to have a lot of abstract meaning,” Henry, Jr., said. “It’s her European heritage. It’s a shame we didn’t bring the dog. He would really go for this stuff.”
    â€œStop being such an oaf, Henry,” said Polly. “These pictures are just beautiful. They don’t need to be explained.”
    â€œI have to go and mingle with these art types,” said Lincoln. “I’d rather stay here, but I’ll be back.”
    Henry and Andreya wanted to circle the gallery once more. Polly went with them, and then Henry began to yawn and Andreya began to itch. Like small children, they expressed their boredom physically.
    â€œLet’s get out of here,” Henry said.
    â€œOne second,” Polly said. “Wait for me. I’ll be right back.”
    She searched the room for Lincoln, and when she spotted him it seemed to her that he was looking in her direction. She went right up to him.
    â€œI want to buy one of those oil-on-paper pictures,” she said.
    â€œYou’ll have to come to my studio,” said Lincoln. “Tomorrow is good for me.”
    â€œMe, too,” said Polly. “What time?”
    â€œAny old time. Lunchtime. I’ll write my address on this piece of paper. Here.”
    The next day Polly felt rather fevered. She was distracted all morning, then lost track of time and had to race out of the office and down to the subway, her heart pounding. She was going to have an adventure, she knew: lunch with a painter. She was going to buy a painting. Polly’s life was full, but she did not get out much by herself. She and Henry had inherited pictures and had bought pictures together, but this was to be all hers. She would hang it in her office and no one would have to know that she had bought it.
    She ran out of the subway and searched around for Lincoln’s street. It was not a part of town she had ever been in before. She finally found the piece of paper to check his address, rang his bell, and waited. When he opened the door, Polly impulsively kissed him.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you were someone else.”
    This gesture shocked both of them. They stood awkwardly at the door until Lincoln composed himself enough to smile and show Polly in. The front of the studio was his work space, with an apple-green floor. Lincoln was as precise as a Japanese master: his shelves were neat and his walls were bare except for his black-and-silver kite,