The Blue Hour Read Free Page B

that question nagged at me. We project onto others that which we need and seek at a given moment. Life, they say, is a great teacher. But only if we are truly willing to shake off the illusions and misnomers within which we dwell.
    Love, however, always muddles clarity of vision. And a life without love is a bit like the balance sheets over which I gaze every working day: far too concrete, too reasoned. And my love for Paul was as bound up in his recklessness as in his talent, his intelligence, his ardor for me.
    When I got home, it was just after six p.m. I saw his car parked out front of the nineteenth-century Gothic place we’d bought together two years ago. When I entered the house I was startled to find that order had descended upon chaos. In recent weeks Paul had started treating our home as a happy dumping ground. But in the days I had been out of contact, not only had he divested the house of his mess, but all windows glistened, all wood surfaces were free of encroaching dust and smelled of lemon polish. There were fresh flowers in several vases. And I could smell something pasta-esque in the oven.
    As the door slammed behind me, Paul emerged from the kitchen, looking just a little sheepish. He couldn’t make direct eye contact with me. But when he did once look up in my direction I could see his encroaching sadness and fear.
    â€œSmells good,” I said.
    â€œI made it for you, for us,” he said, dodging my gaze.
    â€œHow did you know I’d be home tonight?”
    â€œCalled your office. They told me you’d be back at work tomorrow.”
    â€œYes, I came back. But . . .”
    He held up his hand.
    â€œI sold all the wine.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œI found a guy here in town. Big-deal collector. Offered me six thousand dollars for my cellar.”
    â€œYou have a cellar?”
    He nodded, looking so much like a little boy who had just been caught out in a very big lie.
    â€œWhere?” I asked.
    â€œYou know that shed behind the garage? The one we never use?”
    The “shed” was something akin to a bomb shelter, with two folding steel doors that lay flat to the ground. When we were in negotiation to buy the house we naturally had the shelter opened for us, and found a damp semilined cave. As the house already had a renovated basement, we simply put a lock on the shed doors after we bought the place and left it unattended.
    Or, at least, that’s what I’d thought.
    â€œHow long have you been building up this wine collection?” I asked, sounding most reasonable.
    â€œA while.”
    He came over and took me in his arms.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he said.
    â€œI don’t want apologies. I just don’t want a repetition of all this financial mess again.”
    â€œAnd I don’t want to lose you.”
    â€œThen don’t. Because I do want you, us .”
    To Paul’s credit he became industrious again after the wine debt incident, spending all free nonteaching hours on a new series of lithographs. It was the first time that Paul had settled down to serious creative work in over two years. Though his gallery owner in New York was enthusiastic, the general downturn in the market and Paul’s lack of visibility over the past few years had meant that the sort of prices he could demand had shrunk decisively. Still, he did manage to find a buyer, and though Paul was disappointed with the negotiated price, part of him was clearly thrilled with the fact that he still “had the chops” when it came to his art. After paying off most of his credit card debts, he then took me out to dinner at a very upscale (for Buffalo) French restaurant. He ordered a far too expensive bottle of Pauillac, telling me that his gallerist had another client interested in a new series.
    â€œThe buyer is willing to plonk down fifty percent up front—so that should be another ten grand to me in a couple of weeks. What’s a bottle of