by Meg Tilly
He patted her hand. “Don’t worry, Mom. It’s no problem. I’ll throw a few things in my suitcase and catch a flight out.”
“But your manuscript. I know you have a deadline coming . . .”
“It’s not a problem,” he said, pulling her in for a hug and dropping a gentle kiss on the top of her graying hair. She felt slighter than before, more fragile. His parents had gotten old while he wasn’t looking. “I can write anywhere. It will be nice to get away from New York for a while. I was supposed to take Nora to lunch tomorrow—”
“Not to worry. I’ll let your godmother know it will be lunch with me instead.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Give her my love.”
“Will do.”
He kept the reassuring smile firmly on his face until the elevator doors closed behind him. Shit. He rolled his shoulders, trying to dispel the tension that had settled there. His father’s request was a massive inconvenience. It would disrupt the flow of his writing to hop on a plane and fly to the Pacific Northwest.
Never mind. Family first, he told himself. You’ll go to this Solace Island. Check out the Mansfield Manor for Dad, then return, back home in four or five days, maybe less.
Two
GABE MISSED THE last ferry to Solace Island by six minutes. He arrived at the terminal in time to see the ferry pulling away from the dock carrying only a handful of trucks and cars. Light was spilling out of the boat’s windows, leaving shimmering reflections trailing on the ocean’s dark, inky surface.
“Guess I won’t be arriving tonight,” he said as he watched the ferry recede in the distance. He swung the SUV he had rented at the airport in a tight U-turn and headed up the road toward the motel on the outskirts of the small town he’d passed through moments earlier.
After an unsatisfactory fast-food dinner of dried-out, greasy fried chicken and a biscuit that could have been put to good use as a hockey puck, he set his laptop on the spindly desk and tried to write. He’d managed to get a couple of pages in on the plane, but as he read them over, he realized they were shit. He deleted the day’s work and took a slug of soda that had been part of his meal package, grimacing. The soda had no fizz—just like his writing.
* * *
* * *
HE WOKE EARLY, his phone vibrating on the nightstand. He picked it up, glanced at the screen. It was his dad.
Typical.
Normally, when his dad phoned him at the crack of dawn he’d let the call go to voice mail, but yesterday had shaken him.
He swiped the screen. “Yup?”
“What do you think of the place, boyo?” His father sounded much better than he had yesterday, full of vigor.
“Not there yet. Luggage took a while. Missed the last ferry.”
“Well, you’re in for a treat. Can’t believe I managed to snag the property.” His dad chortled gleefully. “Of course, McCall had to croak first. Bought it from his widow for a song.”
“Good going, Dad,” Gabe said, knowing full well that his dad had probably overpaid. McCall had been one of his best friends, and he would have used the excuse of the purchase to make sure his widow was well taken care of.
“Call me when you’ve had a chance to walk through the place.”
“Will do. You’re sounding good. The antibiotics must be kicking in.”
“Yes. Well—” His father’s words were cut short by an extended coughing fit. His dad made a valiant effort to continue the conversation, but finally Gabe convinced his father it was best he not overexert himself. “Right—” Cough . . . cough . . . “I’ll hang up then—” His dad blew his nose long and loud. Gabe pulled the phone away from his ear, but not fast enough. He could have lived quite happily without hearing all that moisture trumpeting through his dad’s nose at such close range. “I look forward to hearing your thoughts on the place, Gabe. A piece of heaven, Solace Island is. A little piece of heaven.”
Gabe hung up, catching sight of the digital clock on the bedside table. It was 5:26 a.m. His dad must have forgotten to factor in the time difference. He considered trying to grab a couple more hours of sleep. After fifteen minutes of staring at the dark ceiling, he got up.
The motel room was damp and smelled of mildew, the beaten-up linoleum floor cold under his feet. He didn’t need to open the curtains to know that it was still dark outside. He gathered up his belongings and checked out.
The early-morning ferry to Solace Island was surprisingly full. A lot of large trucks, some long haul, some short distance. Gabe got out of his vehicle and stretched in the brisk air. The edges of the night sky were starting to soften as he weaved his way between a commercial dairy truck and a beat-up vehicle that—from the smell emanating out of the back—was used for hauling either garbage or manure.
He entered the small ferry lounge. With the exception of two straggly haired backpackers leaning against each other and catching a few more moments of sleep, the place was empty. There was a coffee/espresso/hot chocolate/tea vending machine. How bad could the coffee be? Gabe thought, rummaging in his pocket. He pulled out a handful of change and fed it to the machine. He made his selection and watched as a paper cup dropped down and a thin stream of watery brownish-gray liquid began to dribble into his cup. It did not look promising.
He took a sip anyway.
One was enough.
He tossed the coffee into the gray garbage bin and went back out to his vehicle, reclined his seat all the way back, and shut his eyes.
Three
ZELIA THOMPSON SHOVED her chair away from her dad’s old mahogany desk with its light walnut inlay. The large desk dominated the small office space she had commandeered for herself in the back room of her gallery, but she didn’t care. Whenever she felt frazzled she would smooth her hands across the gold-embossed green leather writing surface and think of her father working at that very desk, and it always soothed her. At the moment, however, there was no soothing to be had. She needed distance from the unsettling image on her desktop computer screen.
Nope. Moving my chair back isn’t enough. She stood and took a half step backward. The soft underbelly of her knees bumped against the seat of her chair. Her fingers pressed against her lips in an almost praying position as she stared at the painting displayed on her glowing computer, unable to tear her eyes away.
She stepped forward, clicked the mouse, and then hastily retreated again.
Another painting was now on the screen, a slightly different palette, but equally disturbing. Gone were the green tones representing . . . foliage, perhaps . . . ? The browns and steel gray were also absent, but the varying shades of rust that seemed to spill outward like a septic wound were present in this painting as well. The brushstrokes the artist had used to lay down the paint created an optical illusion. The dark, deep reds seemed to seethe and bubbled outward, merging with a thick, almost-black darkness. Both of the paintings were abstract, yet it was clear they were portraits of some kind, some features missing, others out of place, with the artist’s signature, Dattg, scrawled in the lower-right-hand corner.
“Clearly the artist has talent,” Zelia murmured. “But my God . . .”
Something about the paintings made her feel slightly nauseous. She stepped forward to click to the next painting in the portfolio but found herself putting the computer to sleep instead.
“I’m going out,” she called up to where her employee, Mary, was carefully unpacking Kendrick’s bronze and glass Water Lilies sculpture. “I’ll need you out front while I’m gone.”
“For sure,” Mary replied. “Be right there.” A second later she appeared at the top of the stairs, stopping to untie her work smock and hang it on a hook. As Mary descended the stairs she smoothed back into submission the few flyaway wisps of her mousy brown hair that had escaped her bun.
Zelia still couldn’t believe the good fortune that had befallen her on that rainy February day three years ago wh
en the inimitable Mary Browning walked through the door and inquired about a job. She couldn’t have been more than midtwenties at the time and yet she’d seemed much older, as if life had knocked her around a bit. She was soft-spoken, self-contained, very knowledgeable about art, plus she had organizational skills that blew Zelia’s mind.
Zelia was not about to quibble with the fact that Mary didn’t have a social security number and needed to be paid in cash. To pacify her need to pay her fair share, Zelia figured out how much would’ve been paid in taxes and once a month she wrote a check for that amount to the Solace Island Community Services, which provided food security to the locals, shelter and housing, mental health outreach, services for developmental disabilities, and more.
She knew it was wrong to pay an employee under the table, but there had been something in Mary’s eyes that had made Zelia’s decision a no-brainer. Beyond Mary’s calm exterior, Zelia had felt waves of quiet desperation emanating from her pores, and underneath that, suffocating, bone-deep loneliness, and isolation. Having been orphaned at nineteen, Zelia knew what it was like to be a young woman alone in the world.
Was it an idealistic, risky thing for a small business owner to do? Perhaps, but she didn’t regret her decision. Solace Island was a beautiful place to live, but finding reliable year-round employees had proven to be a challenge. In the three years before Mary had arrived, it had been a constant revolving door of employees. Most of the hires were decent people, but they were more transient, their priorities not career-based. They would work for a few months and then drift off to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, go to a yearlong yoga retreat or a work-study at Esalen. Once Zelia had come back from lunch to find the gallery unattended. The young man she’d hired had a blanket spread out on the roof. He’d been enjoying the view, smoking a joint, and working on his all-over tan.
At least when Mary dropped off the radar it would be for only a day or two. She’d always return, no explanations offered, but she’d work with a vengeance and within hours the gallery would be running smoothly again.
“Is everything all right?” Mary asked.
“Mm-hm,” Zelia replied, wrapping her cashmere shawl around her. She’d splurged on it when she’d traveled to England about a year after her husband, Ned, had died. She’d rescheduled the trip several times before she’d finally made it to London. Grief had had a way of sucking her down back then. The slightest task had seemed to require a colossal effort to accomplish: brushing her teeth, showering, wearing something other than Ned’s oversized clothes.
Finally, she’d managed to pull herself out of the gray fog that had enveloped her. She’d gotten on a plane, flown to England, and met with the talented young Welsh artist she had been tracking.
Yes, Zelia thought as she picked up her purse, the shawl she’d purchased six years ago had cost an arm and a leg, but it was totally worth it. The baby’s breath softness of the shawl comforted her, and when she’d wrap it around her shoulders she was filled with happiness. It was as if a master weaver had woven an angelic song of joy into the very fibers of the yarn.
“I won’t be long,” Zelia told Mary. Then she slipped out the door to enjoy the brief patch of sunshine that had forced its way through a gap in the dark, fast-moving clouds. She inhaled deeply, arching upward, face to the sky, and filled her lungs with the crisp, late-February air. She glanced at her watch: 4:45 p.m. Too much to do, too little time. “Fifteen minutes,” she murmured. “Then I’ll return.”
She cut across the park to the boardwalk that followed the ocean’s edge, glad she’d worn her Frye boots. They were stylish, yet comfortable enough to allow her to indulge in one of her long walks at a moment’s notice. She lengthened her stride, legs happy to stretch out. The sound of her boot heels hitting the wood walkway reminded her of horses. A two-legged horse, she thought with a smile. She shook out her arms. The natural swinging momentum that accompanied a vigorous stride didn’t satisfy them, so she let her arms have their way and did a couple of complete circles, as if her arms were propellers on a seaplane preparing to take off.
“Ciao, bella!” Nicolò Rossi called from the doorway of his pasta shop.
When he and his sister, Sofia, had opened their shop four years ago, Solace Island residents had celebrated. What a luxury it was to have access to authentic homemade pastas, sauces, and hefty chunks of Parmesan, Romano, and pecorino cheeses imported from Italy. Their store also sold fresh mozzarella and ready-prepared foods like lasagna, eggplant Parmesan, and tiramisu.
Zelia waved, but she didn’t stop. He was a lovely man, single, and apparently attracted to plus-size women, if his pursuit of her was any indication. He wasn’t bad-looking. However, she’d already dipped her toe in that water. Went on a date. Had a good-night kiss. No sparks. At least on her end. Unfortunately, he hadn’t arrived at the same conclusion.
The boardwalk gave way to concrete steps that led across a small path, through a postage stamp of a park, and up another flight of steps, which spit her out on the road. She followed the road, deep in thought. What should I do? The artist is talented, but . . . She shook her head, her hands, too, as if she could shake the disquiet off like raindrops from a tarp. She strode past the marina, where boats bobbed on the water, then cut through the pub parking lot.
Her friend Alexus had exquisite taste in artists and had mentioned in her e-mail that she was including three of Dattg’s paintings in her exhibit that was opening tonight at her gallery, Feinstein & Co., in Greenwich, Connecticut. That Alexus had managed to carve a name for herself amongst that crowded, competitive art scene was impressive, and even more remarkable, her business was thriving.
Zelia started up another long flight of stairs that climbed the rocky cliff face and would eventually lead to the giant sculptures that stood in Mansfield Manor’s back field. Mansfield Manor was consistently on Le Monde’s Gold List. Gullible tourists with more money than sense would arrive, year after year, to pay ridiculous sums of money to stay in a smattering of rather dated, gray-shingle-clad country cottages.
I guess the real question is, Zelia thought, taking a break to catch her breath before ascending the last flight of stairs, why is Alexus pushing me so hard to do an entire exhibition for him?
They had become fast friends over the years—two women running their own galleries—becoming successful each in their own right. She liked Alexus’s quirky sense of humor and infectious laugh. They’d bumped into each other a few times at various art fairs at Frieze, in Miami. Then they’d been seated next to each other at a six-course tasting menu dinner in Basel. Wine pairing had been included. The food and wine pairings were sublime. By the end of the evening the two of them were laughing, perhaps more than they should have. A long-distance friendship ensued. Every now and then there would be a flurry of texts, some about work, some bemoaning the shortage of desirable men, and sometimes it was just a brief hello, how’s it going? If Zelia’s flights transferred through JFK or LaGuardia, she’d book a day between flights and grab a shuttle to Greenwich for a nominal fee. She’d sleep on Alexus’s sofa bed. They’d stay up late talking and ingesting copious amounts of fine chocolate and red wine. Alexus had even made the trek to Solace Island once, after which she’d declared, ‘It’s quaint, my dear, very rustic. But my God, Zelia, what the hell do you do for fun?”
Just thinking about the look on Alexus’s face when she’d said that made Zelia smile, but just as quickly the smile fell away. Yes, they were friends— But for her to ask me to put on an entire exhibition for this unknown artist seems a bit bizarre.
“There is something I’m not seeing,” she murmured. She took hold of the wooden banister and headed up the last flight. It felt good to move, to feel the slight burn in her legs. The cold wind blowing off the ocean nipped at her fingers and face, causing Zelia to wrap her fluttering shawl more tightly around her body.
Alexus has never asked me to show a single artist’s work before. Sure, sometimes
in conversation an artist’s name might come up, but usually it was tied to an outlandish story about something the artist had done or said. This wasn’t that. This was a demand cloaked as a request.
The stairs were behind her now. She paused for a moment and scooped up the hem of her velvet dress. She tied a large knot in the rich jewel-toned fabric to protect the bottom from getting soaked by the coarse strands of uncut grass that had survived the winter. Then she was off again, striding through the field. The smell of damp earth and crushed grasses rose like a gentle strand of music, keeping her company as she strode toward the towering sculptures. There was something about the dark, faceless figures that comforted her. Hooded, yet somehow peaceful as they stood patiently with their gently sloping shoulders and bowed heads.
She stood for a moment among the sculptures, her head bowed as well, eyes shut. “I can’t do it,” she said aloud. Suddenly she felt lighter.
* * *
* * *
GABE WAS AT the window in the Hampstead Cottage, a mug of coffee in his hand. He was taking a break from writing at his computer.
He’d decided on the ferry ride over not to let the management know he was there on behalf of the new owner. He’d get a better idea of how Mansfield Manor was run if he wasn’t getting preferential treatment. So far he had spent the morning tromping around the property. The exteriors of the manor and cottages were very picturesque. The site couldn’t have been situated better. The interiors were the problem. They were extremely dated. Appeared to have been renovated in the early 1980s and not touched since.
However, the grounds were lovely. Stunning, really. The gracious front lawn gave way to a private beach, where a nestled, hidden cove was flanked by towering Douglas firs, red cedars, and a sprinkling of dogwood, maple, oak, and aspen trees. The views across the smattering of smudged-purple shadowed islands were glorious and far-reaching. If one wanted an even broader horizon, the guests could take the path on the right side of the property, along the water’s edge, to the wooden bench resting on the farthest point of land. From there the world opened up. One could see the bobbing boats in the marina, and beyond that to the lovely town of Comfort, which was only a seven-minute amble away.
