by Lynda Trent
“Take me home,” Clare hissed from between white lips. Her skin was pasty with anger and all her muscles felt rigid.
Wordlessly, Ryan walked her to the car and drove her home. At the front steps, he braked sharply but made no effort to get out and open her door. Angrily, Clare fumbled with the door handle, but he put out his hand and restrained her.
“Clare, look. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say those things.”
“Did you mean them?” she demanded stonily.
For a while, he was silent. At last, he replied, ‘Whenever the subject of that well comes up, you’re… obsessive. I can’t understand it. It’s as if you’re dependent on it for your entire livelihood. Of course, that’s ridiculous,” he said, motioning at the grandeur of her house and grounds. “And it’s almost as bad when I ask you anything about your past. Can’t you explain it to me?”
“No. If you’ve figured out I don’t want to discuss my previous life, why do you continue to plague me with questions?” Clare’s protective mask of ice was locked firmly in place.
Ryan sighed and made a helpless gesture. “All right. I give up. I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight with you.”
Clare studied his face in the pale moonlight. “I don’t want to fight, either. But I also don’t want to play Twenty Questions!” she cautioned quickly.
“Will you come back to my apartment and finish your drink?”
“No. I’m really pretty tired. Maybe I’d better just go inside.”
Reluctantly, Ryan got out and came around to open her door. “Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked as they slowly climbed the steps.
She nodded. “Let go on another picnic. There’s a place down the road that looks out over a small valley. We’ll have to climb a fence but the land belongs to a friend of mine. Marla won’t care if we picnic there.” She glanced at the still, starry sky. “Tomorrow may be the last chance of the year. I feel something in the air.”
“I don’t feel anything different,” Ryan said. “If anything, it’s gotten warmer.”
Clare nodded. “I know. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.”
Ryan contented himself with a long kiss, then left with hopes of further patching up their quarrel the next day.
Clare and Ryan drove up the gentle incline to the north of Kilgore. “Here we are,” she said confidently parking the car on a shallow dirt turnout. “I’ve got the wine and the quilt. You carry that basket. Betty cooked fried chicken especially for this picnic, and if we know what’s good for us, we’ll eat it all.”
Ryan lifted the basket out of the backseat and raised his eyebrows. “This weighs a ton! We’re going to be here a week!”
Clare laughed. “Betty likes you. She’s told me a dozen times that her cooking led Eldon down the path of matrimony. Maybe she’s after you, too!”
“If this tastes half as good as it smells, I may just give Eldon a run for his money.”
Clare was waiting for him at the fence, lifting the top strand of barbed wire while she pushed the middle strand down with her foot. “Climb through, then hold it for me,” she instructed.
Although he wondered where a rich woman had learned the art of crossing barbed wire fences, Ryan made no comment.
The view from the top of the hill was magnificent. A long hay meadow offered an unobstructed view of the wide sweep of land to the valley below. In the far distance, Gladewater could be glimpsed among the trees; a sliver of highway threaded in and out of the woods below them.
Clare spread the quilt and glanced at the clear blue sky. “It sure is stuffy today. There isn’t a breeze blowing at all.”
Ryan shrugged. “At least we won’t have to worry about rain.”
As they ate, they watched the tiny cars in the distance, now and then disappearing behind a particularly colorful group of sweetgum or persimmon. With the meal consumed, they lay back on the quilt.
“I’m too fun to move,” Ryan groaned.
“Maybe that’s what Betty had in mind,” Clare suggested, her eyes closed.
In the far distance, the brilliant sky was darkening just above the tops of the farthest trees. In the woods behind them, the birds fluttered nervously and searched for sheltered limbs.
“I’m so full I’m going to have to lay here until I die,” Ryan complained.
“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Clare observed amiably.
The rim of dark sky was wider now, and looked bruised and angry.
Ryan brushed away a thin trickle of sweat from his brow. What did you do Thanksgiving?”
Without opening her eyes, Clare replied, “I ate with Marla and Tom. What did you do?”
“I went out with some friends. My family is all gone now. I wanted to get up here to see you, but I was trying to hire the crew.”
“Will you be here for Christmas?”
“Sure. Everything I’m interested in is here in Kilgore.”
Clare had the feeling he was looking at her, but she didn’t open her eyes. “I’m not accustomed to asking for dates, but will you have Christmas dinner with me? I don’t have any family, either, and I don’t want to be alone.”
“Is that the only reason?” he asked softly.
“No, I want to be with you.” She opened her eyes to kiss him, but looked beyond his head and froze.
The sky was a dark, flat navy blue from almost above their heads to the far horizon, where it was nearly black. Below, the trees were gradually, steadily, almost miraculously turning to silver.
At her indrawn breath, Ryan turned and started. “What”
“A blue norther. And a really bad one.” Clare jumped up and began stuffing the remnants of their meal into the picnic basket. “We have to get off the hill. Fast.”
Puzzled, Ryan shook the leaves from the blanket and folded it. “Are you afraid you’ll get wet?”
Clare shook her head. “Look at the trees. That’s an ice storm.”
By the time they reached the fence, the blue-black sky was directly overhead and the temperature had dropped thirty degrees. As they got into the car, the first pellets of ice were stinging their skin and both were shivering. Clare had no objections when Ryan got in behind the wheel, and by the time he started the engine and turned around, the wind was gusting wildly.
As the trees whipped in the gale, eddies of brilliantly colored leaves raced through the air. The highway was already dangerously slick.
When they reached town, a film of ice sheathed every mailbox, fence and tree in sight. Ryan was amazed at the suddenness of the onslaught; Clare was stoical.
“It’s the worst one I’ve ever seen,” she said. “But this hot, still weather should have given me a clue. I’ve seen enough blue northers not to be surprised.”
I’ve heard of them,” Ryan admitted, “but I never realized how fast they happen.”
She nodded. “The farmers will lose some cattle tonight, I’m afraid. I’ve never seen it so bad.”
Ryan went by his apartment to get a heavy coat, then took Clare home. She wanted to take him back to the oil rig, but he refused to let her risk driving in the storm. Instead, he called one of the roughnecks on the afternoon shift to come by and pick him up at her house.
“You stay inside where it’s warm,” he instructed her when the man drove up out front and honked. “I don’t want to worry about you driving and sliding off into a ditch. Okay?”
“Okay,” she agreed passively. “And remember. You’re coming here for Christmas dinner. Don’t forget.”
He kissed her lightly. “I won’t. I’ll call you tonight.”
Clare closed the front door behind him and leaned against it with a smile. She could learn to like having someone take care of her.
The insistent ring of the telephone dragged Clare from her painting. Clutching her palette and an array of brushes in one hand, she lifted the receiver as she tossed her hair back from one car with an impatient jerk of her head.
Hello?”
”Hello. Is this the Clare Marshall residence?”
“Yes.” It was probably only a pesky salesman and she was already forming her negative reply to whatever he was selling.
“My name is Cliff Anderson. I own the Anderson Gallery in Dallas. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
She hadn’t. “Yes, of course, Mr. Anderson.”
“I’m in town for the day and I hoped I might be able to see some of your work. I realize this is terribly short notice, but I hope it won’t inconvenience you too much.”
Calming her voice, Clare replied, “No, of course not. I’d be delighted to show you what I have on hand.” She glanced around her studio. Like most artists, she rarely cleaned her workroom, and for the past few weeks it had been doubling as a storage space and a winter nursery for her plants. “When can you come by?”
“Oh, say, in an hour? Would that be suitable?”
“Yes,” she lied. “That’ll be fine.” She gave him directions to her house and hung up.
“Betty!” she yelled. “Can you drop whatever you’re doing and straighten up in here? Don’t worry about the oils and canvases, but can you collect all the paint rags and put them out back to air?” She looked frantically at the masses of potted plants that had been brought indoors due to the freezing weather. “And I’ll help you find somewhere else for most of these plants. A gallery owner from Dallas is coming to see my art, and this room looks more like a greenhouse than a studio.”
As she talked, Clare tried to straighten a pile of sketch books she had stacked in one corner in lieu of shelves. A large box of summer clothing, presumably on its way to the attic, had somehow been left on the floor. The vacuum cleaner and a rack of TV trays were hiding behind a chest she’d hoped to refinish… someday.
“Miss Clare, you’re running around like a chicken with its head cut off. You get upstairs and change clothes while I take care of this.”
Clare looked down at her cut-off jeans that she normally painted in. “You’re right. And I’ve got to do something with my hair!”
She ran from the room and climbed the stairs two at a time. A gallery owner had searched her out! Where had he heard of her? Had he come to town specifically to see her? Thoughts
jumbled in her mind as she showered. What should she wear? The burgundy blazer? No, she looked like an accountant in that one. The red dress? No, it was at the cleaner’s.
She blew her hair dry and thanked heaven for the natural waves that made it unnecessary for her to fuss over it. What did a real professional artist wear at home? It had to be casual enough not to look as if she’d dressed as frantically as she indeed was doing, yet be striking enough for him to remember her easily. With trembling fingers, Clare applied eyeshadow and lip gloss. Over her shoulder, she could see the open closet door and mentally considered and discarded every garment in there.
“This is silly!” she chided herself. “He isn’t interested in me, only my paintings.” But she knew this wasn’t entirely true. An artist, like an actor, sold his charisma as much as his craft. How she presented herself could make a difference in whether or not her canvases hung in the Anderson Gallery.
Clare tried on one dress after another as the hands of the clock moved inescapably toward the hour. In exasperation, she pulled on a tunic top made of red silk and a pair of cream pants. Leaving the blouse unbuttoned lower than she’d normally wear it, she placed a thin gold belt around her waist. Not bad, Clare decided, glancing critically in the floor-length mirror. She put on gold earrings and two delicate gold chains of slightly different lengths at her throat. The hands of the clock stood at the hour. Quickly, she stepped into beige sandals and ran from the room. As Clare raced down the hall, she heard the doorbell sound. He was certainly prompt!
Skidding to a halt, she slowly walked down the stairs, feeling ridiculously like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard.
Betty had already opened the door, and a tall, silver-haired man was appreciatively watching her descent. Clare smiled dazzlingly.
“Hello, I’m Clare Marshall.” She held out her hand.
He took it and smiled. “I’m Cliff Anderson. I never expected you to be so young. Most of the artists I deal with are middle-aged, and few are as attractive as you. You’re a very welcome change.” His expression told her he meant every word.
The man was a natty dresser. The charcoal-gray, three-piece suit he wore was well-tailored, and his light blue tie was perfectly coordinated with his oyster-white shirt.
Wondering if Betty had had time to turn the erstwhile storeroom back into a studio, Clare murmured her thanks.
“Won’t you come in, Mr. Anderson? I have several canvases in the den and living room. Perhaps you’d like to see them first?”
He followed her into first one room, then the other, silently perusing the paintings. Clare tried to hide her nervousness, but her hands were trembling. Why didn’t he say anything? Were they that bad? From the corner of her eye, Clare saw Betty in the hall. The maid nodded her head, winked and made a mysterious gesture that Clare assumed meant that the studio was presentable.
“The majority of my work is in my studio,” Clare said confidently. “Will you follow me, please?”
Still silent, Cliff Anderson went with her. The studio adjoined the portico on the end opposite the morning room and had large windows facing both north and east. The pervading smell of linseed oil and turpentine lingered in the air, but the leafy odors and musty smell of the plants had gone away with the excess pots of foliage. Clare was relieved to find nothing remained in the room except her art equipment and paintings. Unfortunately, Betty preferred the tourist-priced New Orleans oils to the more classic ones, and several of these were prominently displayed. Clare quickly whisked away the small canvases with a mumbled comment about them being experiments and replaced them with her gallery pieces.
Anderson wandered around the studio, silently fingering his strong, square chin and occasionally making a low humming sound under his breath.
He hates them all, Clare thought. He’s trying to find a way to exit gracefully.
“They’re good,” he said abruptly. “Very good. I’d like to have these two, and the field scene over there, and the one of the pond as soon as possible. If you don’t have any exhibits lined up for early February, I’d also like for us to set up a private showing. Do you have the first week free?”
Clare’s knees felt as if they’d buckle at any moment. “Yes, I believe I’m free then. I’ll have to consult my calendar, of course, but I don’t recall a commitment at that time.” She went to a small desk calendar and held it so he couldn’t see the conspicuously blank squares. “The first week in February? Yes, I’m available then. How many canvases would you like?”
“My gallery can handle about a dozen paintings. Bring some extra ones, of course, to replace the ones that sell.”
“Of course,” Clare said coolly. Why hadn’t she thought of that?
He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting near dinner time. Why don’t we discuss the details over a steak?”
“I’d love to, Mr. Anderson.”
“Please, call me Cliff. I prefer to maintain a less formal and more sociable relationship with my artists. I find it’s more conducive to their creative flow.”
“All right, Cliff,” Clare smiled. “Just let me get my coat.”
The roads had cleared of ice, but the trees, still heavily laden with a silver sheath, groaned stiffly in the slightest wind. The grass blades had become tiny, frozen spears that crunched brittley underfoot, and the air was bitter cold.
Clare huddled into her coat as her breath made a cloud about her. “It feels as if there’s nothing between us and the North Pole but one strand of barbed wire fence,” she said as she slid into his car.
Cliff Anderson laughed, and she noticed for the first time that he was a handsome man. His well-tailored coat set off his snowy hair and blue eyes in a way that would be enticing to almost any woman. Clare wondered why it had taken her so long to notice.
The meal was pleasant enough, alth
ough Cliff lacked Ryan’s endearing humor. He was very interested in her art and, Clare suspected, in her as a woman. But she found no answering interest toward him as a man.
Strange, she thought. He’s really quite nice. Just not terribly exciting. She tried to pick up the thread of the story he was telling.
“Where did you happen to see my work?” she finally asked out of curiosity. “Was it in New Orleans?”
“No. Actually, I never saw anything you had done before today.”
Clare looked at him in confusion. “Then why are you here?”
“We have friends in common, Marla and Tom Gentry. She called me a few days ago and, in the course of the conversation, she mentioned your work. I was coming through Kilgore on my way to Shreveport and I told her I’d take a look at it.”
“Oh.” Clare felt deflated.
He caught her tone and added, “Of course, if I hadn’t liked what I saw, I would never have made you an offer. The Gentrys and I aren’t that close. I’m in the art business as a monetary profession, not a charity. You really are very good.”
Clare brightened. “Marla is really dear to help me make connections this way. I do appreciate it. But I needed to hear that you aren’t doing it only because she called you.”
“Absolutely not. Usually I ignore such calls, but I know Marla has a good eye for talent.”
“Why don’t we drop by there on the way home?” Clare suggested.
“Excellent idea. I haven’t seen them in months.” Cliff signaled the waiter for the check.
As they walked out of the restaurant, a black Trans-Am passed by. Its driver did a double take and almost ran into a parked car.
“Who’s that with Clare!” Ryan exploded as he steered back into the correct lane. The man wasn’t familiar to him, but he certainly seemed to be familiar to Clare. In the rearview mirror, he saw the man take Clare’s arm in an overly possessive manner and then he helped her over an icy puddle to a waiting Cadillac.
