The Joining Tree

by Claire Fogel

  When I told Gavin I thought that same driver had led me back to Barrett the year before in another snowstorm, he said, “Yeah, maybe. I’ve seen that guy when I take Ralph out for a walk.”

  “Oh? Does he live nearby? I’ve been wanting to ask him if he was my Good Samaritan last year, but I never see him.”

  Gavin hesitated. “He always waves when he sees me and Ralph, but he’s always in his van. He must live somewhere nearby.”

  We may have been stuck in Syracuse for the weekend, but we both used the time as productively as possible. Gavin curled up on the couch with one of our Art History textbooks—he was a huge fan of the Renaissance artists—and I worked on more pen and ink drawings for the Manhattan Art Show. And it kept on snowing.

  We’d be fine as long as we didn’t run out of coffee.

  We had snow every weekend until Christmas. There was no choice but to stay in Syracuse.

  Gavin and I both got a lot of reading completed. He was now almost an expert on Renaissance artists, and I was becoming addicted to the Impressionists.

  I’d completed ten pen and ink drawings, some small, some larger, and I was sure Miss Galen would be pleased. It was time to return to watercolors, although finding something pleasing to paint in our almost pure white landscape would be a challenge. And I hadn’t yet found the key to painting with oils.

  I was definitely ready for Christmas break.

  We drove to Thornewood after our last class a few days before Christmas, more than ready to leave Syracuse. Being away from home for a week wasn’t a problem, but being away from home for the past month had made me homesick. Gavin confessed he’d begun feeling like a prisoner.

  Mom and Dad greeted us as though we’d been away for a year. My mother had been cooking and baking, preparing for Christmas. And, like last year, the house was fully decorated with the things she’d collected for years. Candles smelling of pine and cinnamon were everywhere.

  I had grown up enough to realize that these memories of my parents and our home during the holidays would be memories I’d treasure for the rest of my life.

  After a welcome-home dinner, Gavin returned to the forest to spend a few days with Conor and Arlynn. He promised to return for Christmas dinner and would bring Conor with him. In return, I promised him I’d call Amy and arrange to get the two of them together, which put a big smile on his face.

  Ralph was, of course, beside himself with joy, running circles around Mom and Dad, obviously thrilled to be home with his favorite people. He followed me upstairs to my room, planting himself on the foot of my bed while I called Amy. She was delighted we’d finally made it home. She’d be over sometime on Christmas to deliver gifts and meet Gavin. She sounded as excited as he had.

  Next I called Kevin, hoping he’d be home. But when he answered his phone, he was still at school finishing up a project he’d been assigned.

  “Kevin, don’t tell me you’re not coming home for Christmas.”

  “Calm down, short stuff, I’ll be home by Christmas Eve. You and your mom are expecting me, right?”

  “Of course, Kev.” We always had Christmas Eve together. I was relieved this year would be no exception.

  “I’ll be coming home on the train. Can you pick me up at the station?”

  “Absolutely. Just call me and let me know what time the train will get in.”

  He said he would, but he needed to get back to work so he’d be able to come home with a clear head.

  As soon as I hung up, my phone rang. I answered it and heard, “Hi, Beautiful! Are you home yet?”

  Laughing, I told Sean I was and invited him over. My Christmas holiday was shaping up to be fun. Everyone I loved would be home.

  With one exception I was trying hard not to think about.

  Two weeks later, I had to admit it had been a great Christmas. Mom and Dad were both in excellent spirits. With an affectionate smile, my father admitted my being home might have something to do with it.

  On Christmas Eve, Kevin and his father, Kelly O’Rourke, joined us for dinner. Kevin had lost weight and had circles under his eyes. It was obvious he’d been working too hard at school. He admitted he’d underestimated how difficult college would be and had over-estimated how many classes he could handle. We all insisted he take an easier schedule for his second semester. He tiredly agreed. I hated seeing my best friend so worn out. College was turning out to be more of a challenge than Kevin had anticipated.

  Amy arrived on Christmas day, loaded with gifts for everyone, including Gavin, which made him blush bright red. They stood in the kitchen staring at each other until Amy grinned and gave him an unexpected hug. I never knew a face could get that red.

  They sat together over coffee and talked quietly until Amy invited him to take a ride with her. Dinner was a few hours away so they left together, both smiling, obviously happy.

  Laughing, Mom asked, “When did you become a matchmaker, dear?”

  “When I had an unhappy best friend and a lonely roommate. It seemed like the perfect solution, Mom.” I grinned, delighted with my meddling.

  “And what about you, Cara? Are you happier now?”

  I hesitated, unsure how to answer her question.

  “Well, I’m okay. I love school, as long as I can get home most weekends. I love my friends, I love spending Christmas with you and Dad. I’m not sure I would describe myself as happy, but I’m doing what I always dreamed of doing, Mom.”

  She nodded, but she wasn’t smiling. “But something’s missing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I think I’m as content as I can be under the circumstances.”

  She looked down, frowning.

  “Please don’t worry about me. I’m good.”

  There was nothing else I could say. We both knew exactly what was missing.

  Sean and I spent less time together than I’d expected. He and his dad went skiing for several days, which was probably a good thing. I didn’t want Sean to expect too much from me. I was really trying to be fair to him. We were good friends, but that was all. Spending so much time apart while we were both at school had clarified that fact for me.

  I used to wish I could be in love with Sean, but I now knew that could never be. I didn’t want him to think it was a possibility. I would always care about him and miss him, but he needed to move on.

  By the end of our Christmas break, I think he knew it too.

  Near the end of my time at home, the snow finally stopped long enough for my father to ride to Elvenwood with me. He didn’t want me to go by myself because more snow was forecast.

  I desperately needed some guidance from Francis Sullivan about my oil painting. I also wanted to show him the pen and ink drawings I’d completed for the February art show.

  Surprised that I was having so much trouble with oil painting, my father went to Francis’ studio with me.

  When my father knocked on Francis’ studio door, we heard, “Come right in, Brian.” I had to smile. Francis obviously recognized my dad’s knock. It was a lot louder than mine.

  We walked in and Francis smiled when he saw me. “What a nice surprise, Cara. I wondered when I’d see you again. Nice to see you too, Brian.”

  My father said, “Cara needs your help, Francis. If you have time, I’m hoping you can solve some problems she’s having.”

  I put my portfolio on his table and drew out the pen and ink drawings I’d done for the February show. “I wanted to show these to you first. What do you think? Should I show them?”

  He examined each one carefully, nodding and smiling. “Cara, these are excellent. They will sell quickly. The mood you set in these drawings is nostalgic, very appealing. Now tell me, what is it you’re having trouble with?”

  I explained how I’d been struggling with oil painting, always unhappy with the results. Francis smiled, nodding.

  “Cara, I think you’re expecting your oil painting to look a great deal like your watercolors. They won’t. It’s a completely different medium.”

  He
led me to a blank canvas already set up on one of his easels and showed me how to prepare the canvas, explaining as he worked on it.

  Over the next half hour, he showed me so many things my instructor at Barrett hadn’t taught at all.

  “Perhaps your instructor assumed you already knew the basics of painting with oils, mainly because you’re already so proficient in the other media. You’d never touched oil paints before, had you?”

  “No, I didn’t have a clue. I was just dabbing paints on the canvas, trying to get the same look I get with watercolors, and it wasn’t working.”

  He chuckled, then showed me all the various tools he used to create the effects and the textures on his own paintings. It had never occurred to me to scrape off paint that went on the canvas too thick, which by itself could create an interesting effect. He explained his own technique and suggested I could adapt it for my own landscape paintings.

  Over the next half hour, he demonstrated many different techniques, telling me to play with all of them until I began to get an effect I liked. “No two artists paint the same way, Cara. With experience, you’ll find your own methods. Don’t get discouraged. Oil painting may never be your favorite medium, but I would encourage you to work with it until it begins to feel as comfortable as your pen and ink drawing and your watercolor painting.

  “Your artwork is delicate, feminine, and quite detailed. I find painting with oils to be a bit more abstract. I don’t think I could create pen and ink drawings nearly as beautiful as yours. However, in time you may find the key to your own oil paintings and surprise yourself. You have so much potential, my dear, and so much natural talent.”

  He gave me a paint knife before we left, which I couldn’t wait to use on my own canvas at school. Overly thick paint in spots was one of my problems. In a half hour, Francis taught me more than my instructor had in the past four months.

  My father thanked Francis for giving me so much help and so much of his time.

  I couldn’t resist hugging him, much to his surprise. “Francis, I can’t thank you enough.”

  He chuckled and hugged me back. “Glad I could help, Cara. Please remember I’m here whenever you need me.” He glanced back at my pen and ink drawings. “And you can leave these drawings with me for framing. Are you going to exhibit any watercolors at the next show?”

  I had to laugh. “Well, the landscape has been nothing but white for the past month, so I haven’t been sure how to make a painting interesting without more color.”

  He smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. “I think you can find color if you simply look for it. If you do come up with a watercolor or two before the February show, I’d like to see them.”

  We thanked Francis again and walked back to my father’s cottage. I felt as though many of the windows in my brain had been opened, and bright light was pouring in. I couldn’t wait to get back to the oil painting I’d left on my easel at school.

  After sharing tea at my father’s cottage, we got our greys from the stable and rode home. My father looked as pleased as I did after our productive trip to Elvenwood.

  I’d left things kind of up in the air with Sean, simply promising to keep in touch. Neither of us said anything about getting together during spring break.

  New Year’s Eve he’d invited a few friends to his house for an informal get-together, which was fun. Later in the evening he asked me if I still thought I was in love with my former bodyguard. When I said yes, he simply nodded, as though he’d expected that answer. He’d kissed me at midnight, but it was the kiss of a friend, not a boyfriend.

  Gavin and Amy had happily spent a lot of time together and were looking forward to seeing more of each other whenever we got home for weekends.

  The next day we packed our baskets of clean laundry into the trunk of my car, secured Ralph in the back seat, and drove back to Syracuse. The sky was gray, and it was very cold. I knew what that meant.

  By the time I parked my car on Birch Street, it was snowing again.

  Not long after we were back in classes, signs went up announcing the Barrett Art Institute’s Yearly Spring Art Show. I’d been Lily’s model last year, but this year she asked Gavin if he would agree to be her model for another photographic montage. He said yes, much to Lily’s obvious delight. I was quite sure she would be doing more than just photographing him. Lily was nothing if not tenacious.

  Armed with so many new ideas about painting with oils, I began to enjoy those classes, almost as much as I’d disliked them a few months earlier. I was taking Francis’ advice and trying all the various techniques he’d shown me. The paint knife he’d given me was getting a lot of use as I played with it. He’d also shown me how to use tissue paper on larger areas to remove excess paint, which created a gauzy effect. Even my instructor looked impressed with the effects I was getting. I couldn’t help wondering why she hadn’t shown the class these same techniques.

  I also remembered Francis’ advice to look for the colors that would brighten up a snowy landscape. In our back yard, I saw vivid red cardinals, the green branches of pine trees peeking out from beneath their snowy coats, occasional patches of blue in the cloudy skies, the golden rays of the sun as it sank into the western sky. There were small bursts of color everywhere, and I captured all of them on canvas.

  I still hated winter, but I’d finally made peace with it.

  Between snowstorms, Gavin and I made it back to Thornewood for weekends as often as possible. He and Amy were spending every Friday and Saturday night together. I’d never seen Gavin so happy. The once serious young man smiled all the time, which made him even more handsome.

  Poor Lily. She didn’t stand a chance.

  When it was time for the February Art show in Manhattan, my father again wanted to accompany me, insisting that New York City was not a safe place for me.

  I simply smiled and agreed. I loved going places with my dad. His reactions to the human world always made me smile. Of course, the human world’s reaction to my father was always interesting too.

  We took the train into the city, as we had the last time, and a taxi to the Manhattan Gallery. Miss Galen greeted us happily, clearly pleased to see my handsome father again.

  After she was able to drag her eyes away from my father, she said, “Cara, I’m in love with your pen and ink drawings. I predict every one of them will sell quickly. And the two watercolors of winter scenes are charming. I’m raising the selling prices on all of your work.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “I don’t know if you saw the New York Times review of the last show you exhibited here.” I shook my head. “Well, the Times Art reviewer hailed you as, and I’m quoting, ‘an exciting and gifted young newcomer to the Art world.’

  “That review is worth big money, Cara. And the Jourdan Gallery in Albany has actually requested another showing of your work in the spring! Mr. Jourdan tells me that a few of his best customers have asked for more of your work.”

  She beamed at my father. “Mr. Blackthorne, your daughter is really on her way in the Art world!”

  My father simply nodded and smiled.

  Miss Galen led us to the area where my work had been hung. When I saw my pen and ink drawings and the two watercolors framed and under the gallery’s lights, my mouth dropped open.

  She smiled. “And since you gave us a dozen pieces of your work this time, they decided to give your art the premier wall. Cara, being your agent is pure pleasure, believe me.” She looked back at the front door. “You and your father should circulate. Your public is arriving.”

  She left us to speak to a few people she knew, and my father and I walked away to check out the art being displayed on the other white walls. Within minutes, a young man handed my father a glass of champagne, and handed me what I assumed was ginger ale.

  I took a sip and felt my eyebrows rise. It wasn’t ginger ale, but some kind of sparkling white wine. It was delicious.

  My father laughed and said, “Maybe you should give that to me, dear.”

  I lo
oked up at him and grinned. “I don’t think so, Dad. I like this. One glass won’t kill me, right?”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Well, just one, Cara. Make it last.”

  I giggled and took another sip.

  During the next few hours, Miss Galen introduced us to a lot of very well-dressed people, as well as a youngish-looking, well-tanned man she introduced as an Oscar-winning director from California.

  Taking my hand, he confessed he was buying both of my winter watercolors. “May I call you Cara? I fell in love with those two paintings the moment I saw them.” He chuckled. “After all, that’s as close to snow as we get in Beverly Hills.”

  I smiled. “If you really miss snow, you should spend some time in upstate New York.”

  He laughed. “Seeing your paintings on my wall will be close enough, Cara. You should really show your work on the West Coast some day. You’d gain a lot of new fans.”

  I thanked him and Miss Galen led him away to talk to someone else.

  A few hours later, my father whispered, “Cara, I can see ‘Sold’ stickers on most of your work already.”

  He grinned. “I’d say today has been a success. Let’s find Miss Galen. I think it’s time to go home.”

  After saying goodbye to Miss Galen, we caught a cab back to the train station.

  By the time we found our seats on the train, I realized how tired I was and had to admit that the glass of wine was probably responsible.

  My father chuckled and put one arm around me. “Why don’t you take a nap. I’ll wake you when we’re almost home.”

  I leaned against my father’s broad chest and closed my eyes. The next thing I knew, he was helping me up and leading me off the train. Mom’s car was in the parking lot flashing its lights at us.

  On the way home, Mom asked me how much of my art had sold.

  With a laugh, my dad said, “All of it. Miss Galen slipped me a piece of paper as we were leaving. Cara made almost $15,000 today.” Smiling, he added, “She’ll be able to support us soon, Alicia.”