Free After You've Gone by Alice Adams

finds that she lacks just now the stamina for jealous speculation.
    Her arm really hurts badly, though; she wishes someone would come, and she wonders who will be the first—who will come in to find her in this worse than undignified position? Will it be her old friend from school days, Lisa, who is bringing the strange young man? Or will it be Bynum and Phyllis, who are old friends—or Bynum is. He is a sculptor, and Phyllis, his latest wife, a very young lawyer. Antonia believes they are not getting along very well.
    Or (at this new notion Antonia grimaces to herself) it could always be tall, thin, sandy Reeve himself, who is given to changing his mind, to turning around and away from trips, and people. Reeve, a painter too, is more apt to come home early from trips on which he is accompanied than from those he takes alone; but even that is not a formulation on which anyone, especially Antonia, should count.
    Antonia is aware that her friends wonder why she “puts up” with Reeve, his absences, his occasional flings with young art students. And she considers her private view of him: an exceptional man, of extreme (if occasional) sensitivity, kindness—a painter of the most extraordinary talent. (On the other hand, sometimes she too wonders.)
    Antonia knows too that her friends refer to Reeve as “Antonia’s cowboy” …
    Reeve is from Wyoming.
    She tries next to lie down, believing that some rest might help, or ease the pain, which now seems to have become a constant. Never mind how appalling the spectacle of herself would be, her oversized body sprawled across the floor. However, she can’t get down, can’t reach the floor; the broken armimpedes any such changes of position. Antonia finds that the most she can achieve is leaning back against table legs, fortunately a heavy, substantial table.
    Perry Loomis, the unmet guest, is a journalist, just getting started, or trying to in New York. He could surely sell an article about such a distinguished, increasingly famous woman, especially since Antonia never gives interviews. Now, having cleverly engineered this meeting, and being driven in from Marin County by Antonia’s old friend Lisa, Perry is overexcited, unable not to babble. “It said in
Time
that a lot of speculators are really grabbing up her stuff. Even at thirty or forty thousand per. She must hate all that, but still.”
    â€œIt’s hard to tell how she does feel about it,” Lisa responds. “Or anything else, for that matter. I think success has been quite confusing to Antonia.”
    The bay is heavily fogged, slowing their progress from Mill Valley into town, to Antonia’s small house on Telegraph Hill. Not everyone slows, however; an occasional small, smart sports car will zoom from nowhere past Lisa’s more practical Ford wagon. Scary, but she does not even think of asking this young man to drive. They met through friends at a recent gallery (not the opening) at which Antonia’s work was being shown. Perry described himself as a “tremendous Antonia Love fan” and seemed in his enthusiasm both innocent and appealing. Which led Lisa fatally to say, “Oh, really, I’ve known her almost all my life.” Which was not even quite true, but which, repeated to Antonia, led up to this dinner invitation. “Well, why don’t you bring him along when you come next Thursday? I’m almost sure Reeve won’t be here, and poor Bynum must be tired of being the token man.”
    â€œAnd she’s so beautiful,” rattles Perry. “Was she always such a beauty?”
    â€œWell, no,” says Lisa, too quickly. “In fact, I don’t quite see—but you know how old friends are. As a young woman, she was just so—big. You know, and all that hair.”
    â€œBut I met her,” Perry reminds her firmly. “At that thing in New York. She had on the most marvelous dress, she was ravishing,