I’ve never seen sunglasses like that. Not pale, limpid. Verdant green circles, bespeaking vines, leaves, trees. His eyes flashed merriment, despite the green shield that concealed his natural baby blues. Heading for the drink table, I spotted the handsome man, with a lustrous pearl white beard. Our glances connected, just like the last time.
“You look familiar. Is your name Meriweather?” he asked.
“No, Richland.”
“You look so much like Meriweather. She was from England. Are you?”
“Some of my ancestors are.”
“Have we met?”
“Yes, many times . . . at gatherings like this.”
“I’m sorry. I’m Jeremy.” He gestured broadly toward the man standing beside him. “My friend, Tony.”
“Nice to meet you, Tony.”
I turned back to Jeremy. “Nothing to be sorry about. I’m Lynne. How’s the gallery doing, now that you’ve sold it?”
“I shouldn’t be saying this,” he said, in a stage whisper. “I helped the new owners get a loan, you know. My name was supposed to stay—the famous artist.”
I nodded my head, as if to say “Who doesn’t know your wall-embracing canvases and the renowned Jeremy Swift Gallery?”
“There’s already a new sign,” he said, an exaggerated pout circling his lips. “I’m not even allowed on the property!”
“Perhaps you’ll resolve your differences. Life changes. Maybe yours will take a new turn. Who knows.”
“I’m happy, Tony’s happy, you’re happy,” Jeremy said, enumerating each one of us with his finger. He swiveled toward the ice bucket, ready to load up on another cocktail.
I slipped into the crowd, smiling like Montaigne’s cat, knowing we would play this round again.
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