Points of Departure by Pat Murphy Read Free Book Online Page B

moment and clung to it. She was unique. No one else couldhave caught that moment in just that way.
    “Yes,” Liz admitted quietly. “I’ve seen Elsa’s work. She does have promise.”
    On her way out, Liz passed by her old studio and paused at the door. Elsa stood with her back to the corridor, facing the open window. The girl’s easel held a self-portrait that was almost complete. In the painting, Elsa wore the same twisted half-smile she had worn when thedog had greeted her in the yard. Liz stepped forward, about to speak to the girl, and as she did so, realized: I always painted with the window open. She turned and fled.
    “I thought you were going to stay for a while,” Amanda complained as Liz stowed her suitcase in the trunk of her car. “You said you didn’t plan to start driving to New York for a week or so.”
    “I know. I just…” She met Amanda’sgaze. “I don’t belong here anymore.” She hesitated. She had been about to say—“I’ve been replaced”—but she had thought better of it. “You’ve been telling me that for years. I just now realized you were right.”
    Amanda looked worried. “Where are you going, then?”
    “I’ve already called Mr. Jacobs, the man I worked for in San Jose. I’m going to be taking him to lunch.” She tried to force a light-heartednote into her voice. “Oh, don’t worry about it, Amanda. I’m just too restless to stay in one place just now.” She hugged the older woman good-bye and got into the car. With the engine running, she reached out the car window to squeeze Amanda’s hand. “I’m sorry, Amanda. I just have to …” She hesitated, uncertain of what it was she had to do. “I’ll write you from New York,” she said.
    Liz reachedthe small silk-screening company in San Jose well before lunchtime. She had held her first design job here, drawing logos and designs for T-shirts.
    She sat at Mr. Jacobs’s desk in one corner of the workroom while the elderly man finished packing an order of T-shirts. Mr. Jacobs’s pipe lay unattended in an ashtray on one corner of the desk, giving off a scent that touched old memories. Mr. Jacobsstood with his back to her, folding shirts and layering them neatly. She had offered to help, but he had turned her down, saying it was quicker to do it himself. She watched him work—a wiry old man dressed in jeans and a blue workshirt. He had always worn jeans and a blue workshirt. Liz suspected that if she returned in five years he would still wear jeans and a blue workshirt, still have justthe same bald spot in his thinning gray hair. Liz tilted her chair back, resting her feet on the oak desk top, and relaxed.
    As Mr. Jacobs worked, he complained about his unreliable help—high school students who worked long enough to buy new wheels for their cars, then quit. When the car needed a new paint job, they asked to be rehired.
    “I’ll bet you still hire them back, don’t you?” Liz accused,grinning at the old man.
    “He sure does.” A woman stepped from Liz’s old office and answered her question. “You’re supposed to be going out to lunch with your friend,” the woman continued. “I said I’d pack those.”
    “See what kind of help I have, Liz,” Mr. Jacobs said.
    “Libby is always ordering me around, just like you used to.”
    Liz put her feet back on the floor and let her chair return to anupright position. Libby wore blue jeans and had long straight hair. When she smiled at Liz, her smile was crooked—a slightly cynical line.
    Mr. Jacobs scowled at the younger woman unconvincingly.
    “Watch yourself there. You can be replaced you know.”
    They went to the dinette a few blocks from the silkscreen company for lunch. Liz was uneasy and distracted.
    Feeling awkward, but unable to avoidthe question, Liz asked about Libby. “She looks like an interesting person. Is she a good designer?”
    Mr. Jacobs nodded. “She sure is. She’s a good kid—I’m fond of her. She reminds me a lot of you when you