by Mara Purl
Pressing her lips together in the darkened room, she considered how little her personal relationship with Jack seemed to be affecting his life. Does he take me seriously? She thought about the addition onto her restaurant—the one he always promised to build. If he ever does build it he’ll pro’bly love the new buildin’ more than he loves me. That surely was a sad thing to have to admit. But what might be worse, was he might not even keep his promise to build it. That man keeps promises like a politician.
Knowing by now it must be five a.m., she slipped out from under the worn comforter. She padded quietly around the end of the bed, pausing at the bureau to stare at the dusty box. Wish I could open it. She glanced at Jack, who still snored undisturbed. Her fingers touched the edge of the box’s hinged top, and she began to lift it carefully.
The sudden, explosive sound of Jack’s cough ripped through the quiet. Startled, Sally jerked her hand away from the box, allowing its top to fall. Heart beating fast, she took a step to the edge of the bed and reached for the robe lost in the folds of the comforter.
“Ooww!” she yelped. While her attention was focused on retrieving the robe, Jack had slipped his hand out from under the covers to slap her on the behind. He flipped the light on to get a better look at her.
“Ja-a-ck,” she wailed, pronouncing his name as though it had three syllables. She scowled at him and smoothed her tousled hair. Twisting the belt tighter around his enormous robe, she turned and marched down the hall.
Jack Sawyer lay there listening to water running in the sink. A few moments later, he heard the back door close. The woman is diligent about getting the restaurant open on time.
When he gave her bottom those ritual morning slaps, Jack never knew whether he did it to wake himself from the pleasant stupor of love, or to teach her not to get used to kindness.
Either way, it brought him back to reality—the reality of Jack Sawyer, who needed no one.
Chapter 7
Pre-dawn wind rose off still-dark water, scudded across waves, lifted over bluffs and rustled through trees, carrying the scent of ocean and pine into Miranda’s bedroom. Settled under her light comforter, she clasped her pillow and inhaled the aromas that blended with her drowsy reverie.
There it is again—that mental picture. A canopy of stars sparkles overhead through a perfect circle of tall, sheltering branches. Where am I? A high, protected place, perfect stillness arcing overhead, waves lapping below. A safe place that welcomes and understands.
Yes, this place is familiar.
Long ago—as long ago as childhood—she’d written the words: where mountains meet ocean, where art meets science, where heart meets heart. Later in her teenage diary, she’d drawn three pictures: a mountain at the edge of a sea; two overlapping hearts; a constellation reflected in a well. Even then, she’d known someday the drawings would become paintings.
Where are those drawings now? Oh! She threw back the covers and sat up, using her feet to feel in the dark for her slippers. Moving carefully up the stairs, she stepped into her studio and shielded her eyes while she turned on one of the angle-armed desk lamps. Spotting the boxes she’d seen earlier, she pulled one out from under her desk, then sat cross-legged on the floor. Here they are! Lifting a string-tied portfolio, she opened it carefully. The drawings had yellowed at the edges but were otherwise just as she remembered.
Here was the first—and it’d become the first painting—a mountain-ocean image: earth contours rising to a sculpted ridge then plunging into the sea; tall pines spearing up from the bluff; boulders anchored off shore.
It’s amazing how closely it resembles this very area. I’ll have to include it in my new journal. Maybe I’ll call it my “Journey Home” journal. She thought back to the day she’d taken that spontaneous drive from the Bay Area. She’d headed south on the 101, then—wanting to visit a piece of the coast she’d never driven—she’d taken the 46 west till she connected with Highway 1. From there, her favorite part of the drive had begun. Why is it I always feel better driving north? Mountains to the right, ocean to the left, road winding ahead… it just felt right.
She’d seen the distinct coastal profile from her car window. Happening upon a real place that so closely mirrored what she’d envisioned, she’d pulled off the road to investigate. The first time I saw the coastline of Milford-Haven…. The place chose me as much as I chose it… drawing me to my new home.
Within months, she’d moved. No one else in her life had liked the idea. Her parents objected. “What kind of social life will you have?” Her colleagues advised against it. “If you want to be an artist, go to New York, not to some out-of-the-way place where no one will ever discover you.” Her sister couldn’t imagine being away from the city. “But I’ll come visit.” And Zelda threatened to drop her as a client. “Now that I’ve made you a hot up-and-coming San Francisco artist, you want to move?”
What they said would’ve made sense—if she still wanted to look at life from the head perspective. But her heart knew something else, and was sending her signals. Its messages came mostly as pictures. Of course! I’m a visual person; I make pictures. In a sense, she’d “imaged” her new home into existence, seen it so clearly, it had emerged from the infinite beyond and taken tangible form.
Now that she’d satisfied herself these early drawings were safe and that she knew where they were, she decided she could look through the rest of them in the daylight.
Replacing the box, she stood, turned off the light and clung to the banister as she descended the stairs to her still-dark bedroom. The cool sheets soothed as her head touched the pillow. She pulled the comforter over her shoulder and closed her eyes.
Sleep tugged at her now, as though she were standing knee-deep in a warm ocean, a gentle current lapping at her legs and pulling against her ankles. She felt herself let go and slide into the silken sea.
That image again … this high, windswept place. It holds a familiarity, but it’s new. This is an introduction, then, a flight forward in time or space.
Wind caressed her cheek, riffled her hair. And then, she found herself in someone’s embrace. I thought I was alone here. A moment of disorientation, surprise. Of course, this would be a shared place. Soul answered soul, acquainting itself with what was already familiar.
A shiver followed the trace of his cool palm up her spine, under her arm, around to the warmth between her breasts. He whispered her name, his lips tickling her ear. Eucalyptus and pine shimmered in a gentle breeze, and underfoot, the long needles made a soft bed. She sank back against a hummock, cushioned by the downy young ferns curling in the shadows.
She smiled in the dark, inhaled the scent of pine that clung to his skin. Long legs slipped between hers, the muscles of his arms lowering him slowly till his weight began to press, chest to chest, a steady thrumming, heart to heart… two overlapping hearts.
His voice spoke her name: “Miranda!” Insistent, it demanded recognition. Heat flushed over her skin, sang in her womb.
Then it was his heat, his mouth taking hers and her responding, her heart moving in her chest as he pressed himself to her, hers the depth that captured the brilliance of his heat, burning like a bright star… the constellation reflected in a well.
Light crashed against her eyes, and they flew open to blink against dazzling sunshine spilling over the windowsill. I was dreaming something … but what? Whatever it was, it’s gone now.
Suddenly aware of weight pressing on her chest, she was startled to realize it was her guest-cat.
“Tab?”
The gray tabby stared.
“I bet you’re hungry. Do you want some food?”
He seemed to recognize this word, and nudged her hand with his head.
The folks at the shelter had noticed the cat was accomplished at finding his own food and, accordingly, given him the name “Tab Hunter.”
Stroking his fur, she said, “You’re a tabby and I guess you like to hunt, do you?”
The cat began to purr.
>
“Well, while you’re a guest at my house, you can do me a favor and dig in the garden, but you won’t have to go hunting.”
Miranda stared into the green eyes of the cat and contemplated the wilder feline she would soon be painting.
An hour later, Miranda sat in her studio poring over the album with pictures taken at Wild Animal Park.
A month earlier, she’d visited to take photographs, spending two days with special access to behind-the-scenes areas and interaction not observable by the public.
That’d been the start of her San Diego Zoo commission. They hired her to do a painting of one of their captive cheetahs: the original art piece would be auctioned at their annual fund-raiser—with hopes of netting a high figure—and reproductions would be available to raise still more money. Quite an honor. And a responsibility… that the animal I chose and my painting of her will be this year’s signature.
Back in 1992, the Zoo community had celebrated when, on May 6, a resident cheetah had given birth to five cubs, each more adorable than the last: three males named Uzima, Askari, Nakili and two females, Lia and Safiri.
Offered the job of painting the now-mature Lia, Miranda had accepted immediately and, before her visit to San Diego, had done some research on the magnificent creatures.
The fastest land animal, a natural-born sprinter, the cheetah wasn’t built for marathons. But it could accelerate in three seconds—faster than most super-charged cars. Enlarged nostrils brought in more oxygen, and enlarged hearts pumped it efficiently through the body. Almost an unfair advantage. With all that speed, it needed a rudder—which was exactly how they used their tails to make fast turns. Handy during the chase. Though not good climbers, they got good traction from semi-retractable claws whose tips always remained visible. Protruding just the right length … as though the cat had snowtire studs. I’ll want to show that feature in the painting.
Now Miranda examined her photos under a magnifying lens. Do I have an image that shows those claws? Finding one, she marked it with a sticky-note. But as she continued through the album, she came to her favorite picture. This is the one.
During her stay at Wild Animal Park she’d been accompanied by zoo keepers who rode with her on the small elevated train that wound through the park, pointing out likely spots where cheetahs might be lounging in trees, napping in the shade, or prowling the savannah. She remembered clearly that second day when, as they slowed to wind around a bend, she saw Lia sitting calmly observing the train. Almost as if she were waiting for me. The cat had looked expectantly up toward Miranda, then locked eyes, giving her a brief, but direct, stare.
As the guide paused the train, Miranda remembered lifting the camera to her face slowly, to avoid startling the animal, snapping the shutter just in time before the cat looked away. I captured it on film. Now, can I capture it on the canvas?
Fortunately, the light this morning was especially beautiful—more golden than usual—closely matching the bright, clear tones that’d illuminated Wild Animal Park that day. Miranda focused on her canvas and slipped into a state of intense concentration, focusing her mind on the visit. That’s what I want to paint… that specific moment. Now caught in the flow of her work, she lost all sensation of when the paintbrush was touching the canvas, and when it was not. Even if she hadn’t turned off the ringer on her phone, she wouldn’t have heard it.
Miranda paused and rotated her shoulders, having no idea how long she’d been standing in one position. She did a Tai Chi brush-knee movement and shifted her weight. After two more rotations, she rinsed her paintbrush in a jar of water, squeezed it in a towel, then upended it in its drying jar.
I do love the easy water-cleanup. She’d made the switch from oils to acrylic paints during her Artist Co-op days in San Francisco. Since she and her colleagues had shared a large workspace with a smaller gallery at one end, they’d needed to create a pleasant environment—free of noxious fumes—not only for themselves, but also for the guests who attended their monthly exhibitions.
Researching the issue, Miranda’d discovered that cadmium pigments could be toxic no matter which medium delivered them. The media themselves did have different degrees of toxicity. Acrylics—with their pigment suspended in a polymer gel—were less toxic to the human body that those bound in the more traditional plant-based oils like linseed.
Oil paint contained natural compounds but in dense, caustic concentrations requiring clean-up rags that could self-combust in polluting smoke. Even though these elements would break down to their organic components over a long period of time, they could cause burns, allergies and rashes before diluting. Not only were acrylics easier to clean up with water; gradually bacteria and mold would break them all the way down.
In terms of technique, the switch to acrylics had presented her with a whole new series of challenges. The new paint wasn’t as forgiving, as it dried much faster. To counteract the problem, she’d begun keeping a spray bottle of water handy, moistening the canvas while she worked.
The colors tended to be brighter, and she’d had to adjust her eye for the new intensity. The medium appeared more modern than oils—an aspect that suited Miranda’s contemporary style. She gazed at her canvas, reviewing leaves and grasses, clouds and sky. One thing I love is the translucency I can get with the acrylics…just by adding more gel.
Staring absently out the window for a moment, she caught, from the corner of her eye, the light blinking on her answering machine and registered that someone had called. She pressed Play and listened, recognizing her friend’s voice. “Miranda, it’s Sam. I know you’re in your studio painting. Listen, I uh, I’d really like to talk. If you can take a break for a few minutes, just meet me at Sally’s at ten or give me a call about a better time.”
Listening to the message, Miranda felt torn. The painting still pulled at her, as it had for weeks. But so did the slight edge of urgency in Sam’s voice. She glanced at her wall clock. If I leave right now I can just meet her in time.
Hurrying down to the bedroom, she dragged on her bike pants and windbreaker, then drew a brush through her hair. I wouldn’t quit work for too many people. Shows how close Sam and I have become, despite our age difference.
Miranda climbed the stairs and headed for her garage. She never locked her bicycle to anything, and seldom closed the garage door. One of the things I love about living in Milford-Haven—that I don’t have to.
She glanced toward her front door, where the box of calla lilly bulbs she’d bought at the local nursery still waited. I’ve got to get those planted. October’s the perfect time. Need to buy some more mulch. Better load up on some trick-or-treat goodies while I’m out, too.
She picked up her helmet. I should put it on. It’s the law. Instead, she fastened it to her handlebars, mounted the bike and rolled out the driveway.
As she started down the winding hill toward Sally’s, the wind caught her hair. She grinned gleefully, enjoying, as always, the effortless cruise to the bottom. Here’s something else I’ll have to add to my new journal. And I won’t even mind the long pump back up the hill later.
Chapter 8
Sally O’Mally surveyed her restaurant, which bustled as it did every morning. Even as she stood there, the hum of conversations at individual tables grew louder. Sounds like a hive of bees gettin’ busy with their day’s work.
She took a brief inventory of the decor, liking the seasonal touches she’d added: the orange button-mums in small vases on the tables, the tiny windowsill pumpkins, and, of course, “Mr. Hay” sitting at the counter.
Somethin’s missin’, though. The curtains seemed outdated, and she wondered if she could find a prettier print. Maybe not flowers, but leaves, or clouds, or waves, or…, She pictured the magazines she loved to look through, the ones with gardens and houses. I know what I really want is a picture to cover that one blank wall at the far end… somethin’ that looks so real folks’ll think it’s another window.
With a sudden flash, she thought of Mirand
a. Would she make somethin’ for me like that? I bet she could! But what kinda image might she paint for me that’d work all year? I s’ppose if I had her paint the whole wall, then put a shelf along it, I could put seasonal things on the shelf to sorta change the image. Oh! That’s where those little punkins could be, insteada on the windowsills.
The trill of a high-pitched laugh brought Sally out of her reverie, and she glanced around at her customers. She recognized all the locals and noticed a table of four well-dressed tourists, babbling excitedly and louder than her regulars.
The only person who seemed out of place was the stranger sitting on a stool drumming his fingers. Slipping behind the counter, she asked, “Can I get you one of those?”
“One of what?” The man snapped at her.
This guy’s a mite nervous. “Well, I see you’ve been staring right at the pastry case. These here’re my fabulous-gooey-cinnamon-sticky-buns. They’re famous, you know. You can have one while you’re waitin’.”
“Waiting?” The man was all suspicion and no charm. Sally poured him some coffee.
“Young lady’s got you a little bit jumpy.”
The man seemed stunned by her presumption.
Sally smiled. “What’s her name? Maybe I know her.”
His fingers stopped tapping the counter top. “Christine Christian,” he clipped.
“Christine Christian …. Nope. Not one o’ my regulars. Was she s’pposed to meet ya here?”
“Uh, we were supposed to meet earlier. She’s mentioned your place, so I thought I might find her here.”
“Well, that’s mighty nice o’ you to say.” Sally looked over the man’s shoulder just in time to see Samantha walk in the restaurant’s front door. Well, get away. That’s a pinched-up face if I ever did see one. Sally glanced down at the man’s coffee cup. “You let me know when you’re ready t’ order, ‘kay?”
