Homecoming by Belva Plain Page A

Ellen’s heart.
    “I don’t know what got over me today. The drowsy spring weather, I guess. Kevin phonedfrom Paris, dear. I told him you weren’t home yet. He’ll call back at five.”
    At five precisely as always, the call arrived. “I’m missing you terribly,” he said.
    “And I you.”
    “What did you do today? Don’t you get off earlier on Wednesdays?”
    “Yes, but I took a walk afterward.”
    “Where did you go?”
    Kevin had a habit of wanting detailed explanations for everything, which was sometimes bothersome to Ellen, but still, since he willingly gave such explanations for his activities, she really should not let it be bothersome to her.
    “Went around looking into galleries.”
    “Did you see anything you liked?”
    “Yes, for thirty-five thousand dollars.”
    “Well, I can’t promise you anything in that range, darling. But I’ll tell you, there’s an art gallery in almost every fair-sized town in France, and they’re not always too high priced either. Wait till you get here. You’ll see a lot of landscapes, the kind you’ll love. What’s the weather like over there?”
    “A wonderful spring afternoon, warm and soft.”
    “That’s a perfect description of you. It’s rained here all day, and it’s still pouring tonight. What are you doing this very minute?”
    “I was just emptying my handbag. It’s full of junk.”
    “I was counting the minutes until five o’clock. Now I’m going to turn off the light. Big busy day tomorrow.”
    When she hung up, Ellen sat with the handbag on her lap, tossing things into the wastebasket: a worn-down lipstick, a torn handkerchief, a piece of a candy-bar wrapper, and a card.
Mark Sachs
, it read, under the name of the gallery.
    Momentarily, she felt a tiny pang of regret. Wouldn’t the young man have been astounded if she had said, “Yes, I love it, I’ll take it”? She would have enjoyed seeing his face, but that was absurd. She tore up the card and tossed it, too, into the basket.
    About two weeks later Ellen walked through Fifty-seventh Street carrying a pair of shoes that she had just bought. The shop windows werefilled with colorful objects; adult toys, she called them, even while enjoying them. There in the gallery’s window was “her” painting. Really lovely, she thought, and was wondering to herself whether, ridiculous as it was, she might try to paint something like it: a brook in falling snow, dark water, dark bare trees, the sky to be light gray, almost white—
    “So you’re still thinking about it?” And there was her salesman, coming through the door.
    “No, I can’t possibly do it. The only reason I said I’d think about it was that I wanted to make an easy exit.”
    He smiled. “People do that all the time. It’s understandable.”
    “What I’m really thinking about is how I might try to paint something like it.”
    “You’re an artist?”
    “I don’t dare say that. I’m a would-be artist.”
    “Even the greatest had to start.”
    There came then a pause with nothing to fill it, and she moved away from the window.
    “Going east or west?” he asked.
    “West to Fifth and then uptown.”
    “So am I.”
    They walked to the corner, waited at the red light, and turned north. She felt awkward and foolish to be keeping step with this total stranger and having nothing to say.
    Mark Sachs
was his name. She remembered how it had looked on the card, discreet and refined, almost like engraving.
    “Nice to get through early,” he said. “We’re not all that busy this time of year. Nice to get some air.”
    “It’s not too hot to walk, for a change. I’m going to get off the avenue and go through the park.”
    “So am I. Whenever I visit my parents on Central Park West, I like to cut through the park and out at the natural history museum. That gives me about a mile and a half’s worth of exercise, anyway.”
    The dialogue was now slowly starting up.
    “They’ve done wonders over at that museum. But my love