by Claire Fogel
“I never did thank you earlier, did I? I guess seeing that arrow in Nick’s back pushed everything else out of my mind. I owe you a big one, Randi.”
After Kevin hugged all of us, he went home with a plastic container of spaghetti that he insisted he would eat for breakfast. Mom just laughed, and Randi and I went upstairs to my room with a pot of herbal tea to help us relax.
After we’d changed into our pajamas and had our tea, Randi asked, “What’s Sean going to say when he hears about this? He got in Nick’s face too, didn’t he?”
I sighed. “Actually, Sean got in Joey’s face first, but he was right there when I threw my knife at Nick’s hand.” Groaning, I said, “Kevin’s probably calling Amy right now. Then Amy will call Sean. Sean doesn’t call me at night anymore, but he may tonight, just to ask me if I’m okay. That’s the kind of guy he is.” I shook my head. “I really don’t deserve him.”
I was telling Randi about everything I’d seen at Barrett, and the cool people I’d met there, when the phone rang. Randi looked at me with a sad little smile.
Of course it was Sean.
“I’m fine, really. I just got a scratch on my neck. When Nick recovers from that arrow wound, he’s going away for a while. He won’t bother us again. Randi saved me today. Actually, I’m not sure what happened first; the arrow that hit him in the back, or Randi knocking Nick’s arm away from my neck. I don’t know which of Dad’s men did the shooting, but I’ll thank him when we find out.
“Yeah, thanks for calling, Sean. Good night.”
I put the phone down and shook my head. “I really don’t deserve him.”
Looking thoughtful, Randi said, “Cara, I can’t date Sean. He’s obviously in love with you. I can’t compete with that.”
“Randi, he deserves someone who can return his feelings. I can’t.”
She chuckled. “I can’t help it, Cara. You must be out of your everlovin’ mind. Sean McKay is every girl’s dream!”
And she was right. But my dreams were of someone else.
Just before we drifted off to sleep, Randi asked, “By the way, the Chief mentioned Elvenwood. What is that, Cara?”
“Oh, just the area where my father’s workers stay; sort of a camp, not a real place.”
Sounding half asleep, she mumbled, “Oh.”
The next day my father spoke to every one of his men who had been in the forest the day before and found out who had shot that arrow into Nick Romanov’s back. It was Gavin, my former disgraced bodyguard.
He’d been working in the southern part of the forest that day and was walking back to camp along the edge of the woods when he saw Randi and me walking to my car. He was about to walk out of the woods to say hello to us when he saw Romanov dash out from behind a parked car and grab me.
When Gavin saw that Romanov was holding a knife to my throat and heard his threats, he didn’t hesitate. His arrow hit Romanov in the back a split second later. When he saw the police and ambulance arrive, and could see that I hadn’t been hurt, he went back to camp.
My father didn’t seem as surprised as I thought he’d be. “After everything that happened last year, Cara, I knew if Gavin ever had another chance to protect you, he wouldn’t hesitate. He knows how much he owes you.”
I’d forgiven Gavin a long time ago, a lot sooner than the rest of Elvenwood had.
For the rest of the winter, nothing else too dramatic happened. My life was actually peaceful. Sean and I coexisted peacefully in class five days a week. Kevin and I took turns driving to school peacefully Monday through Friday, although I still had to remind him to slow down. Kevin hadn’t lost his lead foot.
Valentine’s Day came and went. Amy, Kevin, and I exchanged insulting cards like we did every year. Even Sean dropped a funny card on my desk that morning. It was only mildly insulting and made me laugh, which he enjoyed.
A couple of times a week, I bundled up at night and went out on the back porch to sing Rowenna’s song. She wasn’t out flying during the frigid winter weather, but I heard her rusty voice faintly saying, Thank you, Cara.
I spent my afternoons and weekends painting almost non-stop. Francis Sullivan had sent me a message through my father that he had an art show scheduled in April, and he wanted me to exhibit some of my work along with his. I was determined to have some good watercolor paintings finished in time.
Naturally, it continued to snow off and on, so there was that to deal with. I hadn’t had a chance to ride Storm in months. I hadn’t been able to visit Elvenwood either. I missed the village, my friends there, and especially my beautiful grey.
Finally around the end of March, the weather warmed up temporarily—I knew winter wasn’t done with us yet—and I was able to ride Storm to Elvenwood for the day. My father had been riding back and forth all winter to make sure all was well in the village. His big grey, Smoke, was apparently strong enough to ride through any kind of lousy weather, even blizzards.
I had my art portfolio strapped to Storm’s saddle and it was pure pleasure riding him again. He greeted me happily with snorts and whinnies, and I hugged him around his dark gray neck and told him how much I’d missed him. We were both happy to be together again. Most of the snow had melted in the forest, making it an easy ride to Elvenwood.
My father had business in the village that day, so he and Smoke were right behind us. The sun had come out, teasing us that spring might not be too far away.
When we rode into Elvenwood, I immediately felt the village’s magic surround me and I began to feel happier than I had in months. Elvenwood always had that effect on me.
We pulled up in front of my father’s cottage, thanked the greys for a good ride, and sent them to the stable. I carried my portfolio into the cottage and my father lit the fireplace to heat water for tea.
I had barely put down my portfolio before Roscoe barreled into me, greeting me so joyfully, you’d think he hadn’t seen me for a year. Which, to a dog, is probably what these last months had seemed like. I sat on the floor in front of the fireplace with the happy dog, rubbing his ears and scratching his back. I didn’t live here in Elvenwood, but at that moment it felt like I’d come home.
We had our tea together and then Elvenwood’s residents began to arrive to meet with my father. After I’d said hello to everyone, I took my portfolio over to Francis Sullivan’s studio.
I walked around his cottage to the studio and knocked on the door. I heard, “Come in, Cara.” I don’t know how he did it. He had to be psychic.
He was wiping paint off his hands as he walked to the door to greet me. Wearing a big smile, he wrapped one arm around my shoulders. “Welcome back. We’ve all missed you this winter, Cara.”
With a twinkle in his blue eyes, he asked, “What have you brought me?”
I opened my portfolio and spread out a few watercolor paintings and some of my older pen and ink drawings on his table. “I think these are my best, Francis.”
He bent over the table, examining each one closely, finally standing up with a pleased smile. “Two of your watercolors are excellent, Cara. You’ve painted autumn in the forest with the most glorious mixture of colors. Both of them are wonderful and I am sure they will sell, if you’re interested in selling them, of course.”
He walked back to my pen and ink drawings. “I believe you’ve been calling these your ‘Elf’ drawings. I’ve always loved them. I’d like to display four of them.” He pointed to the four that were my favorites, where I’d drawn Ian up in an apple tree, Melissa in the woods, Ian hiding behind a rose bush, and, of course, my drawing of Adam leaning against a tree next to the duck pond. The Elves were mostly hidden, looking like fantasy figures within the multiple shades of the forest’s greens and browns in summer.
“Cara, your pen and ink drawings are masterful, truly. Your watercolors are coming along very nicely, but these two are the only ones I think should be shown this year.” He looked down at me and smiled. “I’m quite sure they will improve every year.”
I tol
d him about my visit to Barrett Art Institute. “Mrs. Barrett, the Dean of Students, said she thought I could make a career out of just pen and ink. What do you think?”
“Well, yes, you could concentrate on just pen and ink. But I really think you can do so much more, Cara. Your watercolors show real promise. The two I selected to be shown are as good as anything I’ve seen. I just don’t want you to limit yourself. You have so much potential.” He smiled. “Frankly, dear, I think you’ve barely scratched the surface so far.”
I was floored. “Uh, thank you, Francis. I appreciate all the advice you’ve given me. You’re really helping me stay focused.”
He nodded. “Good. Now leave these six pictures with me. I’ll have them framed here in the woodshop and then one of the men, probably your father, will take them to Mr. Callahan. He’ll meet with my agent who will transport them to the art exhibition in April. It will be in Albany. Harry can give you all the details.”
“You’re not going, are you?”
He laughed. “No, Cara, I don’t travel anymore. Frankly, I don’t have to. My work is so well known now. But I would encourage you to be there. This will be the first public showing of your work, and art buyers and critics like to meet the artist.” He chuckled. “They will all be amazed how young you are, and how very talented.”
“Thank you, Francis. I’d better let you get back to work.”
“I’ll see you soon, Cara. Keep working on your watercolors; they’re getting better all the time.”
I left his studio and walked over to Kathleen’s. I hadn’t seen her since the first snowfall. My visit with Francis had left me excited and I guess it showed.
Kathleen greeted me with a warm hug and we sat down in her cottage, which resembled a small clinic more than a home. But since she was the village healer, that’s what was needed.
“Cara, I haven’t seen you for so long. I have visited your mother a few times, but you were always in school. I’ve missed you!”
I had missed her too. Kathleen had become a good friend during the past year.
She smiled. “Your mother has kept me up to date with what’s been going on in your life, dear. And I know you two have had your problems, but all mothers and daughters go through the same thing at about your age. All part of growing up, I think.”
“Yes, I guess so. Things at home are more peaceful now.” I didn’t add that I still held my mother responsible for Adam leaving back in October. Kathleen must have read my mind.
“Cara, I know that Adam left after your parents’ wedding. And I know that was a terrible blow to you. I can guess why, dear.” She patted my hand, her eyes sympathetic.
I knew Kathleen understood, but I was still determined to put it out of my mind.
“That’s over and done with. I’m concentrating on my artwork now. I’ll be starting art school in a few months. I don’t have time for distractions.”
“And isn’t Francis Sullivan showing some of your work with his own this spring?”
I smiled, my spirits restored. “Yes, it’s so exciting! He’s giving me the kind of start that most artists don’t get. I’m so grateful to him.”
“Well, dear, I don’t think he’d be doing it if your work wasn’t exceptional.”
“Thanks, Kathleen.” I stood. “I’d better get back. I haven’t seen Ian yet.”
She laughed. “Prepare yourself. Ian has grown since last autumn.”
We said goodbye and I walked back to my dad’s cottage, waving at a few villagers I passed. Everyone had a smile and a “Welcome back” for me.
I was almost at Dad’s cottage when a boy burst out of the cottage across the road and raced to my side, arms outstretched. It was Ian, who was now almost as tall as I was!
The last time I saw him, he almost reached my shoulder. He had apparently shot up at least four inches in the past few months.
“Cara, finally!” He hugged me, grinning hugely. “I’ve missed you. Actually, I think everyone in Elvenwood has missed you. Welcome back!”
I just stared at him, hardly believing my eyes. “Ian, how old are you anyway?”
Laughing, he said, “I’m eight now.”
“Ian, are all eight-year-olds this tall?”
“Yes. I’m a normal height for eight. I don’t think I realized how small you are!”
I snorted. “Don’t rub it in. But it was nice being taller than someone for a while.”
“How long are you staying?” he asked.
“Just a little longer. I came to visit Francis Sullivan and show him my latest artwork. He’s invited me to show my work along with his at an Art Show next month. It’s a great honor.”
“I’m not surprised. Your drawings are wonderful. My parents think so too.”
“Thank you, Ian. I’d better go in and see when my father wants to leave. As soon as the weather gets warmer, I’ll be visiting more often.”
His freckled face serious, he said, “I hope so, Cara. I’ve really missed you.”
I hugged him and he ran back to his cottage while I went inside.
My father was alone, sorting through a stack of paperwork. “It’s time for more tea, dear. Would you make some for us?”
I added more water to the pot, got it boiling, and poured it over the tea in the teapot. I carried the teapot over to the table where he was working and poured a cup for each of us.
“Thank you, sweetheart. I had to speak with so many people this afternoon, my throat is really dry.
I sat down with him and told him about Francis Sullivan’s plans for me.
He looked delighted. “Cara, that’s wonderful, but I’m not at all surprised. Your art deserves to be shown. Which pieces does he want to use?”
I described the two watercolors and the four pen and ink Elf drawings.
“I’m sure the public will love your work, dear.”
He looked over my shoulder out the front window and chuckled. “We’d better finish our tea. It just started to snow.”
I groaned and we drank our tea quickly, bundled up and left the cottage, heading for the stable. Will had saddled up our greys at the first sight of snow.
Laughing, he said, “Well, I’ll have to say ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’, lass. We’ll just hope for an early Spring.”
I gave Will a quick hug, we mounted our greys, and rode out of Elvenwood as the village took on the charming appearance of a Christmas card. Snow was falling softly on the picturesque cottages with their thatched roofs. It was a beautiful scene.
Storm seemed to enjoy running on new snow and took the lead back to my father’s camp. Throughout the forest, the falling snow turned the scenery all around us to something magical. We saw deer run past us, seeking shelter, and I was sorry when the ride was over. Everything looked beautiful as the snow fell.
As pretty as it was right now, I was still not a fan of winter.
It wasn’t long before the snow melted and we were able to exchange our heavy winter parkas for lightweight jackets and sweaters. When most of my winter clothes had been stored away, I was happy. Winter was finally over for another year.
I had finally received the photos Lily had taken of me at Barrett. She had made me look so good, I barely recognized myself. She emailed me that the photo collage she was putting together was going to be spectacular.
Harry Callahan had called to ask for a photo of me to use for the art show. It was perfect timing. When I asked Lily if we could use one of her photos, she was delighted.
The art show in Albany was only a week away and Mom decided to go with me. My dad chose to stay home because, as he put it, he attracted too much attention, which he felt belonged to me. I appreciated his thoughtfulness, so typical of my father.
We were sitting in the kitchen after dinner one night when Mom said, “Albany is a much longer drive than Syracuse, Cara, so I think we’ll have to stay at a hotel and drive back the next day.”
I’d never stayed in a hotel before. When I mentioned that to my mother, she just smiled. “You’l
l probably enjoy it.”
The opening of the art show was on Saturday and would continue until the following Friday, when it would close, making room for another artist’s show. As I packed for our trip, my nerves were getting the better of me. My artwork was going to be shown to the public for the first time. I had no idea whether it would be well received. Was I even ready?
Naturally, it rained on Saturday. Mom took one look out the window and asked me if she could do the driving. It was a long drive, so I said yes. She said her little compact car needed a long highway drive, which was fine with me.
Other than the rain, it wasn’t a bad drive. We reached Albany a few hours before the art show and had plenty of time to check into a hotel and change our clothes.
Francis Sullivan had told me that most of the people who attended an Art show on the first night would be fairly wealthy people and would be dressed accordingly. Therefore, skirts would be required, whether I liked it or not. Mom loaned me her little black dress for the occasion so that I would look more “professional.” Fortunately, it fit me. She brought a tailored black suit for herself.
Amy and I had been practicing with hairstyles that would make me look older, and we had settled on a sleek chignon at the nape of my neck. I thought it added a few years, but Mom just smiled and told me I looked lovely. In other words, in her eyes, I still looked like a teenager. She loaned me her jade earrings and I knew there was nothing more I could do.
The Art Gallery wouldn’t be open until four o’clock, so we had a little time to relax at the hotel. I loved our room. It was equipped with a refrigerator, a microwave, and a coffee maker. “I could live here,” I told Mom.
She laughed. “I think you’d get tired of microwaved food before long, dear.”
When it was finally time to leave for the Gallery, nerves hit me. Would anyone like my paintings or my drawings? Would they wonder why my artwork was being shown alongside Francis Sullivan’s well-known work?
