by Claire Fogel
Smiling, I called the Pizza shop back and asked them to add another large pizza to my order.
Over our pizza lunch, I told my dad my idea for the Gallery. Much to Gavin’s delight, my father agreed wholeheartedly.
“Excellent, Jason. I’m afraid you’ll have to be patient, but I’m glad we’ve finally found work that will make you happy.”
He stood, smiling at both of us. “I have to leave for my camp now. Thank you for the pizza, Cara. It was wonderful, as always.”
I grinned. “Well, thank you, Dad. You’re paying for it.”
One of his black eyebrows went up. “I am?”
“I put it on Mom’s credit card.”
He nodded with a rueful smile. “Yes, I guess I am. I’ll see you at dinner tonight, dear. Jason, are you staying for a while?”
“Yes, Uncle Brian. Cara and I have a few more things to talk about.”
After my father left, I looked at Jason. “What else do you want to talk about?”
He was quiet for a few seconds. “Cousin, it’s been over two years. You know what I’m talking about.” He wasn’t wearing his usual smile.
I looked him in the eye. “Is that why you were trying to get Sean and me closer together at the wedding?” I was seriously annoyed.
He nodded. “Cara, don’t you think it’s time to move on? I want to see you happy again.”
I snorted. “Well, that isn’t likely, Jason. And there doesn’t seem to be anything you or I can do about it.”
“You and Sean used to be close. That could always happen again. He loves you very much, you know.”
I shook my head decisively. “Jason, do you really think it’s fair of me to encourage Sean when I already know I can’t give him what he wants and deserves?”
“Cousin, does he know that?”
“Yes, he does. I’ve been completely honest with him. He knows about Adam.”
“Oh. Adam still has your heart.”
I nodded. “You of all people have to understand what that means. I can’t love anyone else, even if I wanted to. Although, to be honest, I’m becoming more and more angry with Adam every year that goes by.”
Jason shook his head. “I guess I can understand that. When he left, I really didn’t think he’d stay away so long. I thought he’d probably come back once you were out of high school.”
I looked at him. “Jason, I have to face the fact that he may not plan to come back at all. He may be making his life somewhere else. Maybe he met someone else, someone more his age.”
“I suppose that’s possible, although I would have bet against it a year ago.” He shook his head again, clearly sad for me.
I didn’t need any reminders.
My father accompanied me to the show at the Soho Gallery. As usual, he attracted as much attention as the artwork did! The film director from California was there along with a group of other tanned and beautiful people.
He spotted me and approached me with a big smile. “Cara Blackthorne, how nice to see you again. You know, I’ve spoken to several gallery owners in Los Angeles who would love to show your work. You really must make the trip one day soon.”
I thanked him, explaining that I was still in Art school and that I didn’t have the time to travel at present.
He handed me his card. “As soon as you can make the time, Cara, just give me a call and I’ll see that you receive invitations from the best art galleries in California.”
I thanked him again, and he left with a wave and rejoined his friends.
My father whispered in my ear. “How far is California?”
I whispered back, “About three thousand miles, Dad. I’d have to fly there.”
“Oh. I’ve never flown. Have you?”
“Nope. But I think I’ll have to eventually. Will you go with me?”
He looked unsure. “In a plane? How long would it take to fly to California?”
“Mmm. I think it takes about five hours, Dad.”
“Is that all? To go three thousand miles?”
I grinned. “Jet planes are very fast. You might enjoy it.”
He smiled. “I might at that. I do like speed.”
The Soho show was successful, Miss Galen was extremely happy, and my bank account was growing nicely. On the train ride home, my father and I talked about the proposed Thornewood Art Gallery until I could actually see it in my mind. I loved the entire concept, although the name I saw over the door was “The Blackthorne Gallery.”
I had finally gotten used to living alone at school, although it had taken a few months. The peace and quiet gave me ample time to paint at night. Miss Galen had scheduled me for another gallery showing in April. I got so involved in my painting, I often forgot about dinner. Paula and Lily began calling me the hermit!
One night I heard several forceful knocks on my apartment door, Ralph was barking, and it finally dawned on me there was someone out there. I’d been completely lost in my work.
I opened my door to find Joel standing there with a container that smelled suspiciously like spaghetti.
He smiled a bit uncertainly. “We were really beginning to be afraid you might starve to death, Cara. You’ve missed dinner three times this week.”
Looking me up and down quickly, he added, “You’re losing weight, you know.”
I looked at the clock in the living room. It was eight o’clock. I’d totally lost track of the time.
I smiled. “Come on in, Joel. I’m afraid I do lose track of time when I’m drawing or painting. It used to happen a lot back home. I’d be in the woods drawing, and my mother would stand on the back porch calling me until she was hoarse.”
I shrugged. “I’ve always missed a lot of meals.”
He nodded as though he had already known this. “Well, I come bearing spaghetti, so if you’re hungry, I’d suggest we sit down and eat it.”
“Okay, Mom. You can bring it into the kitchen. Do you want soda or water?”
He set the bowl of spaghetti down on the table in the nook and sat, grinning at me. “Water please. I don’t suppose you have any wine, do you?”
“No, afraid not. I have to be able to function after we’ve eaten. Wine would just put me to sleep.”
He looked curious. “You don’t eat much. Do you ever sleep? I can see how productive you are as an artist.” He pointed at the far wall, where several paintings were standing up, waiting to be framed.
“Of course I sleep. But my agent has been keeping me busy, booking me into art galleries all over New York State.”
I laughed. “What’s that saying? You snooze, you lose!”
He shook his head. “Every artist I know would like to be as busy as you are. I don’t mean to be crass, but what are you doing with all your money?”
“It’s all going into the bank. By next year, my father and I are planning on opening an art gallery right in my hometown. I want to feature local artists as well as my own work.”
“Wow. That’s quite a goal. But we’ve all been wondering why you’ve stayed at Barrett. You’re already a successful artist.”
I’d finished filling up on spaghetti, so I pushed myself away from the table slightly. “Someone else asked that same question, but I don’t feel like there’s nothing left to learn. You know?
“I haven’t done anything with acrylic paints yet, I haven’t attempted any photography so far, and I still have trouble understanding abstract art.”
He laughed. “You must be talking about my abstract paintings. To be honest, I don’t always understand it myself. It’s like an indescribable energy that just takes over when I’m in a particular mood.”
Shrugging, he said, “It’s probably not marketable, but it’s what I most love to do. Other than staring at beautiful girls, that is.” He grinned at me.
“I didn’t just come over to feed you, Cara. I wanted to ask if you’d like to visit the Syracuse Art Museum with me some weekend? There’s a lot to see there.”
“I’d really like to, Joel, but I go ho
me every weekend. I have a studio there and can get a lot of work done over the weekend.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Don’t you ever take some time off to just, I don’t know, have fun?”
I understood what he was asking, but I wanted to be perfectly clear.
“Joel, I don’t really date, if that’s what you’re getting at. I have long-time friends at home that I hang out with occasionally, but that’s the extent of my social life. Art is my life. That’s all I want to concentrate on right now.”
He shook his head as though he understood, but there was curiosity in his eyes. “Lily did say something about a guy in your life, someone you don’t see anymore. Is he the reason you don’t date?”
I liked Joel. I’d liked him since the day I’d met him at Barrett’s Book Store, when I’d been stuck here overnight two years ago. So I would be honest, more honest than usual.
“For the most part, yes. All I have to give anyone is friendship. That’s not what most guys are looking for. I’ve thrown myself into my work because there’s nothing else I can do.”
“And I haven’t been that honest with anyone else, Joel. Are we still friends?”
He smiled. “Of course we are. But I’ll be honest too. I’ve been looking at you across the dinner table in the Café for almost two years, and I’ve wanted to ask you out before, but something always stopped me. I think I knew what you’d say.”
Ralph had been circling my feet for a while and finally started whining pitifully.
I slapped myself in the head. “Oh, crap. I completely forgot to take Ralph out for his walk. It’s kind of late, but would you be willing to keep us company tonight? I usually walk him before it gets dark.”
“Sure, no problem. It’ll give us more time to talk.” He grinned at me.
I put Ralph’s leash on, and we left, walking down Birch Street. Joel was fun to talk with—he was interested in so many things, and he had a good sense of humor. He’d had the same kind of problem with our first year Oil Painting instructor, Miss Alvarez. His solution was to simply ignore her and do his own thing with oils.
I explained where I’d found the best help, and his mouth dropped open.
“Does Mr. Sullivan teach any classes?”
“No, I’m afraid not. He’s a bit of a recluse, but he’s a good friend of my father’s.”
“Oh. So that’s why he was willing to help you. Cara, you are lucky in more ways than one.” He shook his head. “I think I’m jealous.”
I agreed with him. “Yes, I am lucky. And I know it. Francis Sullivan has been my mentor for a couple of years. He introduced me to his agent, and the rest is history. Nothing more than dumb luck, Joel.”
He looked at me and chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far. I’ve seen your work. It’s top notch. I might even call your pen and ink drawings magical.”
I took a quick glance at him, to see if he meant anything by that last statement, but it appeared to be wholly innocent.
On our way back, I saw that green van again as it turned off Birch Street. “I keep seeing that van, but I’ve never seen the driver. He did me a favor once and I’ve never had an opportunity to thank him.”
Joel said, “Oh, I’ve seen him. He does gardening over on campus most weekends. But I think he has another job during the week.”
“So that’s why the landscaping on campus looks so much better this year.”
He nodded. “Yeah. And I think he’s done some gardening all around this neighborhood.” He chuckled. “The guy obviously has a green thumb.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“No. He just waves when he sees me. Quiet kind of guy. I’ve never heard him speak. I guess he might be an illegal, doesn’t speak much English. Who knows?”
We’d reached my house, and I turned to thank Joel for keeping me company.
“No problem, Cara. Feel free to call me whenever you need a dog-walking companion.” He laughed. “I’m always available.”
The look in his eyes told me he was a bit more than just “available.”
We said good night and I took Ralph inside. Thanks to the long walk and the spaghetti dinner, I was actually tired enough to go to bed. I took one last look at the canvas on my easel, decided it needed more white paint, brushed my teeth, pulled off my clothes and climbed into my bed.
I guess I’d been too tired to dream these past few weeks, but tonight was a different story. It was more than just his dark blue eyes that haunted my dreams that night. I again saw him leaning against a tree at the edge of the woods, watching me, his face hard to read. When I tried to approach him, he held out one arm, as if warning me not to come too close. I heard his soft voice say, “Not yet, love. Not yet.”
In my dream I was frustrated, crying out, “Why?”
There was no answer as he gradually faded away.
I didn’t wake up in tears this time. I woke up punching my pillow, angry because I didn’t understand why he’d decided we couldn’t be together.
I promised myself there would be no more tears. I gave my pillow one more angry punch. I was through crying over Adam Wolfe.
The rest of my second year at Barrett went smoothly. I enjoyed all of my classes, even learning that a simple bowl of fruit could be beautiful on canvas.
Having dinner in the Café with my small group of friends was a relaxing way to end each day, as long as I remembered when it was time for dinner. I always lost track of time when I was painting or drawing. Either Joel or Paula would sometimes bring dinner over to my apartment, or Aidan Fox would surprise me with a pizza. One way or another, I rarely went hungry.
I continued to drive home every weekend, always anxious to get into my roomy studio with its wide windows and bright skylights. I felt I was doing my best work there.
As the weather became warmer, I began spending time on the flagstone patio behind my studio, enjoying a cup of tea as the sun went down. I knew there were Elves in the woods at the rear of my property, and I occasionally had the feeling I was being watched. But it felt “friendly” and no one ever came out of the woods to join me.
Before I knew it, it was time for Barrett’s Yearly Art Show, and I had to decide what I wanted to put on display. I already had a few watercolors and some pen and ink drawings set aside for the next art exhibit I’d been invited to, so I wasn’t forced to come up with something new.
Paula came over to my apartment after school one afternoon to help me decide what to display. She fell in love with my “Elf drawings,” ones that Ian had modeled for months ago. She helped me decide they were the ones I should display at the Art Show.
“Cara, the children hiding in these drawings look like faeries! Don’t tell me they’re real children.”
I laughed. “No, purely imaginary.”
She added, “They’re like a little secret, carefully hidden in the trees. I love them!”
Looking sideways at me, she asked, “Are you sure they’re not real?”
“No, they’re not. The woods where I do a lot of my drawing have a rather magical atmosphere, and I think that’s what inspired these particular drawings.”
I hoped that explanation would satisfy her.
Thanks to warm, sunny weather on the day of Barrett’s Art Show, we had a record crowd in attendance. There were even art lovers from neighboring states who had come to enjoy the artwork on display.
My parents drove up for the day, my father, as usual, drawing as much attention as my artwork did! I walked them over to Paula’s display so she could meet them. After being introduced to my father, she was definitely starry-eyed for a little while. My friends usually were.
Mom was laughing out loud at Paula’s irreverent political cartoons. My father had no interest at all in human politics, so he didn’t really understand them, although he told Paula she was very talented. We left her beaming.
We walked around the campus, enjoying the beautiful weather as well as all the beautiful artwork. We stopped at Joel’s display, an intensely colorful abstract
oil painting. When I introduced my parents to Joel, my father said, “You’ve used extremely aggressive colors, Joel. May I ask what you were thinking when you painted this?”
I closed my eyes in embarrassment, but Joel grinned. “Actually, Mr. Blackthorne, I was feeling extremely aggressive when I painted it! I’d had a disagreement with one of my instructors. It was either hit him or paint something like this. I guess you can see what I chose.”
My father chuckled and patted Joel’s shoulder. “Good choice, son.”
My mother smiled at my friend. “I understand we have you to thank for not allowing Cara to go hungry too often. We’re grateful, Joel.”
Joel’s face reddened slightly, but he smiled at Mom. “It’s been my pleasure.”
I took my parents to lunch at the Café where several kinds of salads were on the menu. Mom chose a veggie salad while Dad and I enjoyed a pasta salad listed as “Antipasto Pasta Salad.” My father had already discovered pepperoni and was delighted to find it in his salad, along with salami, ham, olives, and provolone.
We had a leisurely lunch before I walked them back to Mom’s car. When Dad walked to the driver’s side door, I stopped short, suitably wide-eyed. I looked at my mother, who was showing distinct signs of stress.
“Your father has his driver’s license, dear.” She didn’t sound happy about it, but my father was wearing a huge smile.
“I’m trying to convince your mother that we need a larger car. Much larger. Today was the first time I drove on the highway coming up here. We’re allowed to drive at a much higher speed on highways,” he added happily.
I looked at my mother. Her eyes were closed.
“Well, congratulations on getting your license, Dad. Please take it easy on your way home, okay? You don’t want to frazzle Mom’s nerves.”
Mom looked at me and mouthed, “Thank you.”
I hugged them both. I was relieved to see my father pulling away from the curb slowly, his arm waving at me out the window. I sincerely hoped he wouldn’t start collecting speeding tickets. That was a legitimate worry because I knew my father loved speed.
