by Lynda Trent
The next gallery was located in a small shopping center, sand between a shoe store and a craft shop. This time, Clare took her paintings inside with her.
“Hello. What can I do for you today?” a plump woman with rosy cheeks asked.
“Are you the owner of the gallery?” Clare asked uncertainly. The woman looked as if she would be more at home in a kitchen baking brownies.
“Yep. I’m Bessie Chaimbridge. What have you got there?”
“I’m Clare Marshall. I’d like to sell some of my work and I thought perhaps Tyler would be a good place to start.” Wrong, Clare cringed at her words. All wrong.
“Sure! The more the merrier, I always say.” Bessie waved her round arm vaguely. “Just put them up on that wall over there. Wherever there’s room. I charge fifteen percent and I’ll call you when they sell. Price ‘em low so we can keep a good turnover. Better to sell two at thirty dollars than one at forty-five, I always say. She turned and was waddling away. “Just write your name and phone number in that notebook on the desk back there.” She chuckled. “I’m so bad at names I’d forget my own if somebody didn’t remind me now and again. I have to get back to my glue now. Just make yourself at home.”
“Glue?” Clare asked uncertainly.
“I’m gluing sequins on a Christmas tree skirt for my craft shop next door. Come in sometime. I’ll give you a discount.” With a wave, she bustled through a narrow doorway.
Clare groaned but wrote her name on the school tablet. There weren’t many spaces available on the wall, but Clare added her three paintings to the collection and tried not to notice that the oil next to hers looked more than a little dusty. Stepping back, she surveyed the effect. Next to the pink and blue clowns and various still lifes of apples, her pictures looked very professional. She cut a blank recipe card from the desk into thirds, wrote seventy-five dollars on each, and slipped them into the corners of the frames. Better to sell one at seventy-five than to sell two at thirty, she decided.
As she drove the short distance toward home, Clare recalled that Ryan had told her one of the two deep wells being drilled in the area was located just off the Tyler Highway
. Clare slowed somewhat and searched the treetops for the derrick. Soon she saw it towering above the tops of the trees. She turned off the highway and onto the newly constructed red dirt road that led back through the tall pines. The road, deeply rutted from much use and rain, was now bone-dry and as hard as concrete. Despite her car’s excellent suspension, Clare felt jostled by the time she reached the clearing. As the settling dust changed the pristine whiteness of her car to rose, Clare got out.
The clearing was a hive of activity. Roughnecks were going from the geologist’s long silver trailer to the rig, calling unintelligible directions to each other as they walked. On the platform at the base of the rig, two men were tightening pipe lengths together with a large chain and a tool that resembled a giant wrench, while another man worked a series of long levers that controlled the machinery. At precisely the same moment as the two stepped back, the engine growled as the chain twisted the upper pipe into the one already in the hole. Some ninety feet above them on the narrow monkey board, a man pulled another section of pipe from the rack and waited for the pulley to return to the top so that he could attach the new section. The precise coordination of the crew went beyond mere teamwork. Clare found great pleasure in watching the men. But this type of activity was an accustomed sight to Clare, who had grown up near oil fields. What was unusual was the size of the rig. This silver-gray derrick stretched to a height of one hundred seventy-five feet, much taller than any she had seen before. The most impressive thought was that the hole they were drilling would be not hundreds of feet deep, but almost four miles in depth. Clare watched a few moments more, until a man wearing a yellow hard hat and carrying a roll of charts climbed down from the platform and walked toward the trailer. Clare hurried across the rutted ground to intercept him.
“Wait! Could I talk to you a minute?”
The man stopped and looked at her.
Taking this to be a sign of agreement, she said, “I’m Clare Marshall. I own some land northeast of here that has been leased for a deep well. Could you tell me something about them?”
He looked at her silently for a long time. “Yep,” he finally admitted. “They’s just like any other well, but deeper.”
Clare waited for him to continue, but the man was quiet. “Well, are the chances good of hitting oil that deep and around here?”
“Yep.” He spit a brown stream of chewing tobacco juice at a clump of bitterweed.
“Are you the geologist?” she asked uncertainly.
“Yep.”
Clare prompted, “And you really think there’s oil still in this area?”
“Yep. If my company didn’t, they’d be damn fools to sink a million dollars on a well.” The dialogue seemed to tire him and he chewed his tobacco cud more slowly.
Clare sighed. It was clear that she would learn nothing from this man. “Thank you. I’m sorry I interrupted your work.”
“Any time.” He nodded his head and briefly tugged on his metal hat brim.
Clare got back into her car and sat for a few minutes watching the drilling. Soon this would be happening on her own land. As she backed up to turn around, Clare thought, This must be the way for me to go. An oil well, a really good producer, would eliminate all my problems. I’d have no trouble paying off the mortgage with even one good well. She made a mental note to call Huntly Oil to ask when they intended to start work.
Clare was able to get home, change clothes and eat a salad for lunch before her students were due to arrive for their first class. She had hurried to be through, and consequently had more than enough time to prepare.
She readjusted an easel for the fourth time, and again ran over her mental notes. She wondered if she could really make it as an artist. Although she was new to the professional end of the business, she had no rosy illusions that it would be easy to break into the art world. On the contrary. For the hundredth time in the last two weeks, she wished she had pursued her higher education in a more practical field, or certainly a more profitable one. But then, maybe they’ll find oil, she mused. She pushed her wishful thinking aside for the reality of the moment.
The first student, a square-built, middle-aged woman, arrived in a flourish of smocks, paint rags, a folding canvas stool, a collapsible easel and a hugh fishing-tackle box smudged with all colors of oil paints. “Hello!” she greeted as loudly as if Clare were standing on the far side of a large field.
“Hello. I’m Clare Marshall. I see you’ve come prepared. Just pick out a spot and set up.” Clare motioned toward the portico. “As you can see, you’re the first to arrive.”
“I’m Hildy Barnett,” the woman announced, “and I believe in being early.” She laughed and nudged Clare. “I’ll probably be the last to leave, too. I believe in getting my money’s worth.”
“That’s nice. You sound very eager to learn.”
“Shoot. I was taking art classes before you were born, I’ll bet. I just love to paint. It’s my hobby. Why don’t I take this place here?” Hildy unloaded her paraphernalia with a crash and, as she hummed off key, began to dig out her paints.
“I beg your pardon,” a soft voice said behind Clare. “Is this where I come for art classes?”
Clare turned to the newcomer. She was a tall, angular woman in her early twenties, who slumped deprecatingly. Her limp hair was flaxen-colored and her small, close-set eyes were pale blue. The rest of her face seemed to be hiding behind her rather prominent nose. When she had spoken, she had avoided making eye-contact with Clare, and appeared ready to run at any moment.
“Yes, come in,” Clare said cheerfully. “I’m Clare Marshall. Just put your things anywhere.”
“I’m Sarah May Beinhard.” She shifted her material, all of which still bore price tags. “I… I don’t know where I should be.”
“Why not right here?” Clare suggest
ed, patting a chair’s back. “Is this all right?”
“Anywhere,” Sarah May whispered as she eased herself onto the edge of the chair.
Hildy was humming more loudly and mumbling words to some unrecognizable song; Sarah May glanced at her nervously; Clare wondered if she had indeed taken on more than she could handle. Later, an older woman named Lorena, who moved like a tiny gray bird, and her teenage daughter, Delia, who had a perpetual sniff and looked as though she might be a fullback in her spare time, joined them.
Clare began her class with the simple instruction to sketch onto the canvas one of the prepared still-life subjects at either end of the room. She launched into a detailed dissertation on the values of the underpainting method, in which the entire oil painting is done in black and white or brown and white and glazed later with the desired colors.
Hildy disregarded Clare’s instructions as being “newfangled nonsense,” though she said it cheerfully, and sketched off a likeness of the lagoon-shaped pool and the willows beyond the window. Lorena turned out to be Hildy’s best friend. They hummed and chatted, and Lorena occasionally even worked on the canvas she had brought. Clare noticed that every time she spoke to any of her students, Sarah May would stop work, lay down her brush and wait patiently for her to finish. Delia had holed up at the farthest end of the room and had erected a barricade of paint box, easel and sketch pads between herself and the others.
By the time the two-hour lesson was over, Clare had learned more than she cared to about Hildy’s friends and family, had encouraged Lorena until she felt as if she were nagging and had “helped” Sarah May to the extent of doing most of the work for her. Delia had glared at her canvas and answered in grunts whenever she was spoken to. As they were putting their paintings on the drying racks, Clare was astonished to see Delia’s carefully guarded picture. The girl showed real promise. Clare tried to compliment her, but Delia only snorted and stalked away.
When the last student, Hildy, was finally bustled away, Clare poured herself a tall glass of iced tea and sank thankfully down into the softness of her couch. Tentatively, she sipped the cooling liquid and tried to relax her tense muscles.
She was exhausted from trying to draw out the talent from such an incongruous potpourri of students, and she closed her eyes tiredly. But she smiled.
Chapter Seven
Clare walked past the pair of large and improbable stone lions that guarded Marla’s front steps and into the cool shade of the porch, which stretched across the right two thirds of the front of the house. The semi-enclosed porch was bordered by a waist-high wall of rough-textured yellow brick. The area between the three brick columns, which rose from the top of the wall to support the roof, was arched so that from a distance the house appeared fronted with two gaping mouths. The heavy shade and concrete floor kept the porch perpetually cool.
“Clare! I’m so glad you could come,” Marla exclaimed, as if it were a rare treat to find her best friend on her doorstep. “Come in. Everyone is in the living room. I love your dress. Where did you get it?”
Clare’s dress was a white silk shirtwaist with navy piping and a gathered skirt that flowed softly around her silken legs. It wasn’t new, but it had a simple style that was classically fashionable. Clare smiled. “This? Oh, Marla, you must have seen it before.”
“No, I’m sure I would’ve remembered.”
“I love your hair. Are you going to someone new?”
“Yes. It’s not cut too short, is it?”
“No, it’s perfect.”
Moments later, Clare was following Marla into the living room.
The Thursday Garden Club was in fact a misnomer. In the first place, Thursdays had proved inconvenient for many of the women, so it now met on Wednesday. In the second place, the gardening exchanges consisted solely of each admiring the other’s yards and perhaps, on rare occasion, a debate as to whether pansies or vinca would look better against a rock wall or a tree. The actual physical work was done by hired gardeners and most of the club members didn’t care, or even wonder, about the value of the various fertilizers or mulches. But to belong to the Thursday Garden Club of Kilgore was an honor not afforded to everyone. Only Kilgore’s elite was admitted, and more than one social aspirant longed to join its ranks.
Clare sat down on an ice-blue satin wing chair and took an hors d’oeuvre from the offered tray. There was no need to tell the maid that she preferred cream and sugar in her coffee; the maid had long since memorized all the ladies’ preferences. At times, Clare to with the idea of learning to drink her coffee black, just to see what ripples it would cause.
“Why, hello, Clare,” a husky voice said just as she took a bite of the gooey tidbit.
Clare glanced up and tried to swallow gracefully. “Hello, Regina.”
Regina had been an established member of the garden club long before Clare had been invited to join, and was the only sour note in the gathering as far as Clare was concerned. None of the others seemed to care much for Regina, eithershe had no close women friendsbut no one would dream of having a social gathering without her. She was a caustic woman who had managed to attach herself to the group by aggression and monetary prestige. Regina was the sole heir of the only family in Kilgore who was wealthy before the Great Oil Boom. Whatever Regina wanted, Regina got; one way or another.
The animosity between Claw and Regina had begun with Elliot’s introduction of his new bride to his former girlfriend. Regina’s jealousy was clearly obvious in the way she had offhandedly dismissed Clare as insignificant, and possessively alluded to her former intimacy with Elliot. Clare had hoped that Reginas attitude would soften with time, but the hope was vain.
“I see you’re already out of mourning,” Regina commented. “So sensible, really.” She sipped coffee from die thin porcelain cup.
“No one wears black forever anymore. That went out with Queen Victoria,” Clare said.
Regina raised her pale, thinly arched eyebrows. “I’ve always liked that dress. It’s so logical of you to buy fashions that last.” Before Clare could retort, Regina moved away to speak to another woman.
Putting aside her empty cup, Clare went to the large, plate-glass window and gazed out at Marla’s backyard. It was large and well-landscaped, and Marla looked after it with impeccable taste. Long double rows of huge sycamore trees dappled the St. Augustine grass with shade, tall hedges of azaleas and gardenias formed backdrops for the roses. Everywhere there were roses. From the tiny, old-fashioned Seven Sisters that formed an archway over a stone bench, to Mirandys and Tropicanas that bloomed profusely beside the gravel walk. Somehow Marla had magically harmonized what might have been a gargantuan jumble of plants into a symphony of color. Clare realized that Marla was probably the only one in the club who was seriously interested in gardening.
Behind her, Clare could hear the usual polite glissando of conversation, now rising, now failing, but always within an acceptable range. She realized she should make an effort to join in, but she had no interest in Katie Hamner’s vegetable soup recipe nor the scholastic progress of Dyna Carrington’s twins. In fact, Clare had considered not coming at all. She only had because they were to meet at Maria’s. This was time Clare badly needed to finish up her tourist paintings. Marla thought Clare was out of her mind to waste her efforts turning out twenty-five-dollar paintings when she was capable of three-hundred-dollar ones. Clare wondered if Marla might be right. There was so much she didn’t know!
“I was just chatting with Mabel and she said you’ve started teaching art! Surely she must be mistaken,” Regina said, interrupting Clare’s thoughts.
“No, she was absolutely correct,” Clare replied. “I’m also
exhibiting some of my paintings here and there,” she added vaguely.
“Goodness! Whatever would Elliot have said? A Marshall working?”
“Exhibiting off paintings is hardly manual labor, Regina, and I enjoy it. It’s really no different from Maria’s garage sale or your class in flower arrangeme
nt.”
“How can you say that? My class was only a six-week affair and the proceeds went to charity.”
“And my art classes alleviate my boredom.” Clare shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll donate the money to charity, too. Surely you’re not suggesting that I’m doing it for the money?”
Regina looked shocked and placed her long, thin hand on the diamond pendant at her neck. “Why, I never meant to suggest that! I only wondered why you’d tie yourself down like that. Dear me, you can hardly have a moment to call your own, with students traipsing through at all hours of the day and night.”
Clare relaxed and smiled. “It’s not quite that bleak. All my classes are on Tuesdays and Thursdays, for two hours twice a day. The rest of the time, I can do as I please.”
Regina shrugged. Already the subject was tedious to her, as she saw no way of turning it to herself. “It’s certainly nothing I would care to do. I’d be bored silly in two weeks.”
“It’s quite interesting, really. Although Elliot and I had our own interests, the house does seem too quiet at times now that he’s gone. I suppose it’s always like that when a woman loses a husband.” Clam smiled innocently, but took pleasure in the flash of jealousy she saw in Regina’s cold blue eyes. So she had been having an affair with Elliot!
Marla, as president, called the meeting to order. For the next half hour, they listened to Dyna Carrington’s discourse on the comparative value of larkspur versus gladioli. The tedium was ended by a unanimous vote for adjournment.
The other women left, but Clare stayed to help Marla finish off the pot of coffee. They eagerly retreated from the rigid formality of the blue and crystal living room to the den, the true heart of Marla’s house. Here, all was wood, tweed and soft leathers. The walls were lined with readable books, the furniture was comfortable rather than classic and the colors were warm and inviting. Clare kicked off her high heels and curled up in an oversized armchair. “I can’t stay long. I have some canvases that need help.”
