by Laura Crum
Stepping even closer, I felt as if I were entering the world of the painting, a tawny landscape as foreign as it was familiar. And yet, was it a landscape? I stepped back. Were these paintings abstract, impressionistic, surrealistic? I couldn't say. A unifying force seemed to bind them all, but neither it, nor they, could be easily defined.
Footsteps. I turned abruptly to see Nicole Devereaux enter the room from the other end. I felt shy, almost embarrassed. Had she meant me to see her work? Was I trespassing on her private space?
"You're an artist," I said, trying to fill the gap.
"That is true." Her expression was not unfriendly; she stood quietly in the middle of her room and watched me look around.
"I really like your work," I said.
"Thank you." She smiled, sudden and sweet, as she had when I commented on the rose.
"Is it for sale?" I asked.
"Some is. It is how I make my living."
"Oh." I took that in and was impressed. I knew people who painted, of course. But I had never known anyone who made a living as an artist.
Nicole Devereaux continued to regard me pleasantly enough, saying nothing, seeming content with the silence and my obvious appreciation of her art.
As for me, I could hardly tear my eyes away from the paintings. For the first time in what seemed like years, and was certainly months, something was speaking to me again. With their deep and brilliant colors, these disembodied semi-landscapes were saying something I could hear. Not that I understood it. But it was a voice I recognized.
Tantalized, I stared around the room, wanting to explore, to look at each painting carefully and slowly. I brought my eyes back to Nicole Devereaux's face. "I might like to buy one," I said.
She smiled again. "Of course. They are very expensive." She said it simply, a matter of fact.
"Oh," I said.
"I work very slowly. And there is some demand now. I have been painting a long time. Ever since I was a girl."
"Oh," I said again, aware that I was proving a lousy conversationalist.
She watched me quietly.
"I would like," I said slowly, "to look at your work, and if I could afford it, to purchase a piece for my home."
"Of course," she said. "Would you like to set up a time?"
Belatedly it occurred to me that she had called me out here to look at her horse, not her paintings, and that she was, perhaps, busy with other things at the moment. She came toward me, then past me, into her kitchen. Reluctantly, I turned my back on the paintings and followed her.
Sitting at the kitchen table, she wrote me a check and consulted a calendar. "I have time in the evening next week," she said. "Most evenings."
"How about Monday, then?"
She made a note on the calendar. "At seven?"
"That would be great. Thank you." I put the check in my pocket.
A tortoiseshell cat jumped onto the chair beside Nicole and she stroked its head with a hand that was as finely boned as her face. "Yes, Ruth," she said to the cat. "What is it?"
The cat mewed, in that questioning, plaintive tone cats so easily assume.
"Yes, you can be fed," Nicole responded.
I stared at the woman, fascinated by the shape of her face and the cadence of her voice. This was the creator of those strangely symbolic paintings, those paintings that had seemed to reflect my own inner landscape. Vivid colors and the play of light and shadow on empty hills-something, something that was me.
And so, I wondered, gazing at Nicole, who was this?
Her angular face gave no clues. Dark brown hair pulled back in a knot, dark eyes, jeans and a faded shirt, sandals on her feet. A slender hand stroking a cat. Plenty of lines around the eyes. That was it.
I put my hand on the door latch. "Thank you," I said again. "And be careful."
"I will be. Thank you, also." A smile with a note of finality.
And then I was out the door and walking across the small garden to the wooden gate, in something of a daze. I found my way to my truck, wondering the whole time what had come over me. I'd never been particularly moved by a piece of art before. I'd admired, been repulsed, been intrigued. But never swept away, never inclined to spend major money. My little house was decorated with the few bits and pieces I'd either inherited or acquired, somewhat by chance. I was in no sense an art connoisseur.
Still, I was aware that I truly longed for the paintings in Nicole Devereaux's studio. Desire is a trap, I told myself. But what registered more was that I had felt desire at all. It had been so long, or so it seemed, since I had felt much of anything but weariness.
Pulling out of Nicole's driveway, I took a last glance over my shoulder. The adobe house was mostly hidden from the road by a big and untidy hedge of what looked like the rambling rose called Mermaid. I could see the black mare, munching hay in her corral under the apple tree.
The sight of the horse recalled the reason for my visit. Damn. Now that was a strange thing. In my half dozen years as a practicing veterinarian, I had never come across anything like that. I tried to imagine someone who would sneak into a barn in the middle of the night in order to have sex with a horse. Creepy. Nothing came to mind but adolescent boys, playing a prank. I hoped that was all it was.
I was on Harkins Valley Road now, driving through a particularly wet, dense fog. Despite the lack of visibility, I knew exactly where I was and what was around me. I had a lot of clients who lived in Harkins Valley; it was familiar turf.
In many ways, it was an odd area. A fertile little valley in the hills south of Santa Cruz, it had been settled by dairymen and farmers, and the terrain was still dotted with their fairly humble dwellings. At a guess, Nicole's house had been one of these.
However, in the last thirty years the inviting arable land had been bought up bit-by-bit by the increasingly wealthy folks who had begun to populate Santa Cruz County. Some had come when the university moved in, others had arrived when the once quiet, rural Santa Clara Valley, only a half hour away, had evolved into the heavily industrialized Silicon Valley. And a lot of these people wanted "a place in the country."
Harkins Valley was ideal for small horse properties, and it was now crowded with them. Ranging from remodeled farmhouses like Nicole's with an acre or so, to forty-acre white-board-fenced estates with five-thousand-square-foot pseudo-mansions plunked down on them-not to mention everything in between. And everybody had a horse.
Not surprisingly, the place was full of odd contrasts between new and old, shacks and spec houses. Even the landscape seemed to lend itself to this. The valley couldn't make up its mind whether to be open and sunny, or steep and shady. It wavered in and out along its length, billowing into wide, level meadows with oaks dotted decoratively here and there, and narrowing in places to shadowy canyons thick with redwoods.
It was in one of these redwood filled passages that I braked and pulled my truck into a driveway. My friend Kris Griffith lived here, in a house that she had purchased about the time I bought my own property.
Like Nicole, Kris was in the low-rent district of Harkins Valley. These sections of shady canyon were not nearly as popular, or as valuable, as the meadow ground. Although Kris had three acres here, barely an acre was usable; the rest was almost vertical hillside. And though the sun could slant invitingly through the trees on warm summer afternoons, on cold, foggy mornings like this, or long, wet winter days, life in a redwood grove was pretty dark and dank.
Still, I smiled as I always did when I saw Kris's house. A narrow little box of a place, sided only in weathered plywood and stripping, it still managed to look inviting. Maybe it was the smoke rising gently from the chimney pipe, or the old-fashioned French doors leading out to a deck overhung with jasmine. Or the border of foxgloves and ferns around a tiny lawn, with the redwoods towering up all around it. Who knew what alchemy caused some houses to work and others not? One thing was apparent: money couldn't buy it.
I knocked on Kris's door, thinking how pleasant it was to have at least
one friend I could drop in on without notice. Kris and I had known each other for many years; since her divorce our relationship had evolved into what I, an only child, could imagine was a sisterly one.
It took awhile for Kris to open her door. Well, after all, it was Saturday morning. She had no doubt been out last night. Although it had taken her a year or so to recover from her divorce, at this point Kris was relishing her status as a divorcee and frequently regaled me with sagas of nights spent out at the bars and clubs.
Sure enough, her bleary expression when she finally opened the door was a definite tip-off.
"Gail, it's early," she said.
"Kris, it's after nine o'clock," I responded. "Were you asleep?" I added innocently.
"Of course I was asleep." Kris grinned. "I was out until two-thirty. Unlike you, who were probably snoring by nine o'clock. You should've come with me."
"Right," I said. "Then what would I have done when the answering service paged me at seven?"
Kris shrugged. Her blond hair, which reached her shoulders, fell in what I understood to be a stylish curtain around her face. Her slim body was covered-barely-by a close-fitting sheath of a black nightgown. It struck me that I never saw Kris lately when she wasn't wearing some sort of snug garment.
She had a good figure, no doubt about it. For a woman of forty, or a woman of any age. But when I had first met her, six years ago, near the start of my veterinary career, she had seemed relatively unconcerned with looks and clothes, interested solely in her family, her horse, and the competitive sport of endurance racing.
The Kris Griffith I had become friends with cropped her hair short, wore eyeglasses, didn't bother with makeup. Though she always looked neat and attractive enough, it was clear she didn't worry about impressing anyone.
No longer. In the last year, Kris had undergone quite the transformation. Although her face was scrubbed clean at the moment, I knew from previous occasions what she would've looked like yesterday evening. Foundation to hide all wrinkles, much color on lips and cheeks, much blackness around the eyes. Not to mention the inevitable short, tight black skirt, skimpy top, and high heels. Kris had become very predictable.
"How'd it go?" I asked her.
"Oh, all right." Kris yawned and led me into her living room. "I didn't get lucky, though."
"Too bad." I was less than impressed with Kris's current mission in life, getting laid by as many attractive younger men as possible. Not to mention that my standards on "attractive" were pretty damn different from hers.
"We ended up at a bar called Moe's Alley, dancing to a great blues band. You would have liked it. You should have come," she said again.
"Uh-huh."
Kris was always trying to get me to go out with her and her other single girlfriends. She bemoaned my lack of interest in the dating scene and had told me, more than once, that I was wasting my best years.
Well, maybe she was right. I was thirty-six, no longer young. I'd never been married. The relationship with Lonny that had just ended was the only serious one I'd ever been in. And somehow or other, I just didn't have a flair for flirting with strangers.
Kris was heating water for coffee. She watched me over the open bar that divided her kitchen from an airy living area. "You need to get out more," she said.
"Why?"
"I don't know. You've seemed so down lately."
I said nothing to this.
"Gail, you're an attractive woman. Lots of guys would like to go out with you if you'd give them a chance. You don't have to mourn Lonny forever."
"I've got a date tonight," I offered.
"Who with? Clay?"
"Yeah."
"Jeez, Gail, don't sound so enthusiastic," Kris said sarcastically. "I'd love to be going out with Clay Bishop. The guy's good-looking, has some money, seems like he's real nice. What more do you want?"
"I like Clay," I said.
Kris shook her head and poured hot water over the coffee in the filter. "You still don't sound very enthusiastic."
I looked out through her French doors at the foggy landscape. "I know," I said. "But it's not Clay. He is nice. It's just me."
Handing me a cup of coffee, Kris sat down on her futon couch, next to the armchair I was sitting in. "So what's going on with you?"
"I don't know," I said.
"You're depressed," Kris said firmly. "I know, I was depressed for almost a year. Right after the divorce. It's not something you can shake off, or talk yourself out of. It's like having the flu. You actually feel physically shitty-all the time. And tired and like nothing interests you. Right?"
"You're right," I said, surprised that Kris had pegged my emotional state so exactly.
"I know," she said. "I went through it. You don't like to admit it to anyone, but sometimes you feel so helpless, maybe being dead would be easier. You start to realize just how it is people commit suicide. Am I right?"
"Yeah," I said slowly. "Though I'm not there, yet."
"No," Kris said. "But you let the thought cross your mind. I know; I did. And the worst part is, you know perfectly well there's no real reason for it. I knew I didn't want to be back with Rick. I knew my life was basically okay. I was depressed-clinically depressed. It's a disease, Gail."
"I know that."
"So you need to do something about it."
"See a shrink?" I rolled my eyes upward.
"Yes." Kris was emphatic. "That's exactly what you should do. You of all people should understand. This is a medical condition; your brain isn't making enough serotonin, or whatever they call it. Medication can help."
"I know, I know." I looked at her wearily. These were the very things I'd been thinking myself. But I couldn't seem to summon enough motivation to overcome my distaste for the idea of consulting a psychiatrist.
Kris looked at me sympathetically "It's not so bad, Gail. I'll give you the number of the guy I went to. He was very good. I'll bet he could help you."
"All right," I agreed, partly to get her off the subject.
"So where's Clay taking you tonight?" she asked, seeming to sense my discomfort.
"Some place downtown called Clouds," I said.
"Oh, Clouds is nice. What are you going to wear?"
"I don't know." Once again, I felt overwhelmed with inertia.
Kris was still gazing at me with a worried look in her eyes. "If you're not so excited about Clay Bishop," she said, "what about that guy you met last summer? You seemed to like him."
"Blue," I said. "Blue Winter. I guess nothing is going to come of that."
"Why not?"
"I don't know," I said again. It was beginning to sound like my mantra. "I went out to visit him once. He just didn't seem too interested."
"Did you tell him you'd broken up with Lonny?" Kris demanded.
"No. I wasn't exactly sure how to work it into the conversation."
"Jeez, Gail, you are lame. If he's a nice guy he's not going to ask you out if he thinks you have a boyfriend. Particularly if he knows the boyfriend. You've got to be a little more direct. Why don't you ask him out to dinner?"
"I could, I guess."
"Why not?" Once again, Kris was emphatic.
"I don't know why not," I said. "I'd just don't seem to have the energy or the interest."
"That's depression," Kris said. "Maybe Clay's the right guy for you and you just don't recognize it because you're depressed. Like I said, I wish I was going out with him."
"Give it a try," I told her. "I don't mind."
Kris laughed. "You're his type; I'm not. Clay's a nice guy; he wants to get married. I'm not into that; I'm into having fun. At least for now."
"You figure I'm the marrying type?" I asked her.
"You're the type that wants to get serious." Kris smiled. "Clay lived with his last girlfriend ten years. He's the serious type, too."
"Uh-huh." I knew this, more or less, as did all the rest of the local horse community. Clay Bishop lived in Harkins Valley, too, and his family owned the Bi
shop Ranch Boarding Stable. Clay and his brother, Bart, both good-looking single men, were the subject of much talk in horsey circles.
"Well, I like Clay just fine," I said firmly, "but I'm not sure I want to get serious about anyone."
"What? You mean you want to start going out with me and Trina?" Kris grinned.
"No." I laughed-sort of. "Oh hell, Kris, I don't know what I want."
"You need to see my shrink." Kris got out a piece of paper and a pencil, found her address book, and began copying. I let my gaze drift around the room.
Kris's house was two stories high-in the living room. This created a tall open area, which made the small room seem much bigger. A loft bedroom and bathroom over the kitchen completed the space. There was a spare bedroom over the garage that was used by Kris's teenage daughter, Jo, during the periods when she stayed with her mother. A simple house, but pleasant.
I liked this room. A collection of rugs from different lands covered the pine floor-all faded, all patterned. Dusty rose, burnt orange, plum-the soft old colors vibrant against the worn wood. An equally eclectic selection of art decorated the white walls-Japanese woodblock prints, a pen and ink by Heinrich Kley, an aboriginal painting, one of Maxfield Parrish's romantic landscapes. Staring at this last, I thought of Nicole.
"Do you know a woman named Nicole Devereaux?" I asked Kris. "She lives down the road about a mile, going toward Watsonville. In a little adobe house on the right that you can't really see from the road."
Kris shook her head. "I don't think so. In Lushmeadows?"
