An Excerpt from Where Home Is
Where Home Is
by Karen J. Hasley
When I opened the door to Douglas Gallagher, I felt a rush of self-indulgent satisfaction that I hadn't returned the hat. I saw undisguised appreciation in his eyes coupled with another emotion hard to name, an emotion that made me feel like a deer suddenly come face-to-face with a mountain lion. Something of the carnivore in Douglas Gallagher, I thought, but instead of fear, I felt only a confusing mixture of gratification and excitement.
Douglas brought flowers again, a bunch of violets that perfectly matched the spray of flowers on my hat. When I commented on the coincidence, he shrugged.
"You shouldn't be so quick to credit coincidence, Katherine. In my experience, it has very little real impact on life." I looked up from pinning the flowers onto my jacket.
"But what else could it be? You couldn't have known I'd wear violets on my hat today."
"No? I suppose you're right."
But I heard something in his tone that made me edgy. I remembered how he had known all about my family and me, how he had recited the facts of my life and how uneasy I'd felt at the time. I didn't like the idea that I was somehow being spied upon. The thought seemed incredible, but the violets were an exact match and he was very pleased with himself.
Douglas handed me another check from his pocket. "Before I forget, please accept this in honor of Easter or spring or just because I'm glad to see you again."
"You're too generous."
"That remains to be seen." I detected the same enigmatic tone that had caused me earlier disquiet, but then he smiled and said, "I'm sure you can find a use for it that will benefit the people you care so passionately about. That's my only motivation, Katherine." I put the check carefully in the hall bureau drawer and turned a thankful smile to him.
"Of course we can put your kind donation to good use. Thank you, Douglas."
The weather was perfect, sunny and as warm as June, and the day was nearly perfect, too. Douglas knew a great deal more about art than I and was an informative guide through the Art Institute.
"For a man of business, you seem very comfortable in the arts," I told him. "I think I'm surprised."
"You shouldn't be. Chicago capitalists bought every painting in this place. I know each one's history and can appreciate it for its material worth even if its aesthetic appeal sometimes escapes me."
I lingered in front of one of the museum's new acquisitions: a portrait of a woman in a striped dress carefully bathing her child, both dark heads bent to the water, something natural and endearing in the shared, common activity.
"Mary Cassatt," Douglas read, "The Child's Bath. From the look on your face you must like it."
"I do, very much. I thought the El Greco was grand and its colors magnificent, but I'd never hang it in my parlor." I looked at the Cassatt again, caught how trustingly the chubby child relaxed in her mother's arms and how tenderly intent the woman was on so prosaic a purpose. The mother's strong hands that protectively supported the child reminded me of my own mother's hands. "This one, though, takes me back to my childhood. I could look at it every day, I think, and be comforted by its message of home and family."
"I didn't expect you to have a turn for such domesticity."
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Copyright © 2008 Karen J. Hasley.
All rights reserved.
