Absence of Grace

by Ann Warner

  Chapter Sixteen

  On Thursday, Hailey showed up for their lunch toting a grocery bag. “I thought it would be fun to have a picnic.”

  They walked over to Shakes Island, where a half dozen visitors wandered in and out of the tribal house, and chose a spot outside, near the water.

  Clen spread the blanket she’d borrowed from Marian, and Hailey pulled food out of the bag. “I wasn’t certain what you’d prefer, so I had them give me a selection of meats and cheeses. And I got éclairs for dessert, by the way, in case you like to plan.”

  “If we eat all this, we’ll either need a nap or a long hike.”

  “I guess I got carried away.”

  “It all looks delicious.” Hoping to put Hailey at ease, Clen took one of the buns and added slices of ham and turkey. “Marian told me this is your second summer in Wrangell, and I’ve been wondering ever since, what made you decide to come here?”

  Hailey, building her own sandwich, shrugged. “When I decided to open a summer gallery, Wrangell seemed like the best bet.”

  “It’s a bit off the beaten path, though.”

  “That’s why you like it, right?”

  “You may be right.” Not that Clen intended to admit how close to home that comment was.

  “How about the fall. What are your plans?” Hailey said. “You aren’t staying in Wrangell, are you?”

  “No. I’ll leave once the lodge closes for the season. I just haven’t figured out where I’m going yet.”

  “How about next year. Are you coming back?”

  “The Jeffers asked me to, but I don’t know if I will.”

  “Well, be sure you stay in touch. I’d like to continue handling your work.”

  “Oh, I see. You’re asking out of professional interest.” Clen smiled at Hailey, who smiled back before taking a bite of her sandwich.

  “So, why a summer gallery?” Among other things, Clen was wondering how someone so young managed to finance it.

  “I worked in the personnel department of a greeting card company. Part of the job was recruiting artists. I finally decided I could put my eye for talent to much better use.”

  “You’re lucky to have made a success of it so quickly.”

  “Actually, I almost went under the first month.” Hailey had a wry look.

  “What saved you?”

  “Not so much what, as who. After three weeks here, I’d sold only a couple of Tess’s quilt squares, and I was feeling totally desperate. Then Bev Feeney showed up. She was carrying this huge purse with a major case of the uglies, and she pulled this thing out that looked like a small hairy dog. I thought, ‘What in the world?’ It was a fur parka, of course. After that, Dorothy Demetrioff came in and showed me these intricately knitted scarves that seem to float around your neck. ‘Them’s qiviut,’ she told me, ‘under wool of the musk ox.’ Which explained why I’d never heard of it. Then Dorothy and Bev spread the word, and some local carvers stopped by. I’ve been in the black ever since.”

  “What do you do in the winter?”

  “I spend it in Seattle. Last year I landed a job in a French restaurant. The tips were good, and it gave me the days free to scout out artists.”

  “Does your family live in Seattle?”

  “Nope. There’s just me. Well, I do have a brother, but I haven’t heard from him in years. I don’t even know if he’s alive.” Hailey spoke in an offhand way, but there was something—a sudden desolate look in her eyes—that indicated she wasn’t nearly as blasé as she pretended to be.

  “I lost a brother.” The words formed and were said before Clen could remind herself it wasn’t a good idea to share too much of herself with anyone in Wrangell. “That is, he died.”

  “Recently?”

  Clen shook her head. “When I was nineteen. He was eleven. He had leukemia.”

  “I bet you miss him. I haven’t seen my brother since I was thirteen, and I still miss him. One day he just went off. He left Grammie and me a note saying not to worry. We did, of course, but there wasn’t much else we could do.”

  “Your grandmother raised you?”

  Hailey nodded. “My mom died when I was ten. Dad couldn’t take care of us, so we went to Grammie’s. She lived in your basic log cabin on a small piece of land where she raised chickens and goats. She always said we were like chickens, scratching to get by.” Hailey smiled.

  “You must have done a lot of scratching. To own a gallery, I mean.”

  “I guess.” Hailey shrugged. “I left Edgington when I was fourteen, after I won a scholarship to a Catholic boarding school in Kansas City.”

  “That’s where you lived with the nuns?”

  “It was. When Grammie died, they let me stay with them in the summers. Then I went to Omaha for college. Another scholarship.”

  “You did all that on your own? And then you came to Wrangell, on your own, to open a shop. I’m impressed.”

  “Isn’t it what you’ve done? Come to Wrangell on your own.”

  “I’m nearly forty. That’s a big difference.”

  “I think you’re tougher than you look,” Hailey said.

  “Well, for sure you’re tougher than you look.” Clen smiled, looking at Hailey’s delicate features, silky bronze hair, and golden eyes.

  A boat went by and they watched it pass.

  “Have you ever been married?” Hailey asked.

  “I was. How about you?”

  “No. Not even close.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I went to a Catholic women’s college,” Hailey said.

  “So did I,” Clen said. “And we certainly didn’t lack male companionship.”

  Hailey’s lips twitched. “Male companionship, huh? If your companions were anything like the guys who showed up to our mixers...” She shook her head and shuddered.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “I developed a very dim view of the entire gender.” Hailey took another bite of her sandwich, then brushed away a persistent fly. “So, what do you think of Gerrum,” she asked.

  “Whoa. Where did that come from?”

  Hailey gestured from the nearby boats toward the tribal house. “I consider it a natural segue.”

  “He’s an interesting man.”

  “Oh, come on. You could say the same of Elmer Cantrell.”

  “Elmer isn’t interesting. He’s a disgusting racist.”

  “Of course he is, and I didn’t mean to divert you from the subject at hand, which is Gerrum, not Elmer.” She circled a finger at Clen. “Proceed.”

  “He’s intelligent. Pleasant. Very knowledgeable about the area.”

  Hailey frowned. “You could be describing a piece of furniture. Nice color, comfortable padding, fits the decor.”

  “How would you describe him?”

  Hailey took a bite and chewed with a thoughtful look on her face. “Well, he made me rethink my position on the male gender.”

  “Did he now? That sounds extremely serious.” Clen was teasing, but at the look that came over Hailey’s face, she decided that wasn’t the best idea.

  “Too bad he’s so much older,” Hailey said, sounding mournful.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “How old is Gerrum?”

  “Nearly forty.”

  “That’s only twelve years. Not so many if you care for him.”

  “He’s the perfect age for you.”

  “Me? No. Absolutely not. I did not come to Wrangell looking for a man.”

  “I think he likes you.”

  “I like him, too. Or at least I don’t dislike him.” Like she did Elmer.

  While they talked about Gerrum, Hailey pulled off pieces of bread and rolled them between her fingers before tossing them toward the water.

  “I’ve been wondering about something,” Hailey said. “Do you ever draw portraits from photographs?” The words were quick and light, and she kept her face averted.

  “Why do you ask?�
�

  “It’s just...the only picture I have of my mom is a photograph, and it’s getting tatty. I thought you could...”

  “Of course, I’d be happy to try. What about your dad?”

  “Oh. No. I mean. I don’t have any pictures of him.” Hailey had that desolate look, again, so Clen didn’t push.

  Gerrum encountered Clen downtown and extended the dinner invitation he’d been debating for over a week.

  “I really don’t think—”

  “Don’t think. Say yes.” Although he’d given it a lot of thought himself, now he’d taken the step, he was all in.

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “This is a small town. People talk. Having dinner with you, well it just isn’t—”

  Disappointed, he finished it for her. “A good idea.”

  She nodded, looking relieved.

  “That working for you? Letting what others might think or say shape how you live?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Prove it. Come to dinner with me.”

  “What about Hailey?”

  It caught him off guard, as if he’d patted Kody and the dog snapped at him.

  He blew out a breath. “What about her?”

  “I’ve heard the gossip about the two of you.”

  Damn and blast the old biddies who ran around town sticking their beaks into everyone else’s business. “You should have figured out by now Wrangell gossips blow things out of proportion.”

  Clen stood waiting, as if he hadn’t yet spoken.

  He sighed. “Hailey and I are friends.” The truth, as far as it went. Lately, though, he’d seen little of her, and when they did meet, they seemed to have less and less to say to each other. He missed the ease they’d once shared and the opportunities to converse about something other than weather or fish.

  It was also what he enjoyed about Clen, the conversation. “Sometimes dinner is just dinner.”

  She examined him for another moment. “Where were you thinking we might have this dinner?”

  Given her lukewarm response so far, he figured he might as well go for broke. “My place. I’m a good cook.”

  Her head began to shake.

  “Haven’t I given ample proof I’m harmless?”

  Her lips twitched, and it gave him hope for another attempt. “You can bring your sketchbook.”

  She examined him for a time, then firmed her lips. “What time?”

  “How about six thirty?” He waited until she nodded in agreement, then he turned and walked quickly away, not wanting to give her any opportunity to change her mind.

  Thursday evening, Gerrum opened the door to find both Clen and Kody on his porch.

  “You’ve surely won that dog’s heart. And Kody’s pretty picky.”

  Kody gave the minuscule porch a sniff before flopping down. Clen smiled at the already dozing husky. “I’m a soft touch for treats.”

  Gerrum ushered her inside the small house he rented near the harbor and seated her at his kitchen table. She said yes to a glass of wine then, between sips, she sketched while he prepared the meal. At first he was self-conscious, knowing she was watching his every move, but as he put together a salad, warmed the bread, and washed a filet from the salmon he’d caught that day, he relaxed. When everything was done but the final cooking, he sat across from Clen while she continued to draw.

  Eventually, he grilled the fish, and when Clen took her first bite she smiled. “Hey, you are a good cook. This is delicious.”

  “One of my least appreciated talents.”

  They finished eating and she helped clear the table. Then she asked if he’d be willing to let her finish an earlier sketch. He poured another half glass of wine and, taking occasional sips, watched her draw.

  “So, tell me about the winter,” she said, as her glance moved between him and her sketch pad. “There aren’t any tourists to take fishing or on Stikine trips, right?”

  “No. No tourists. No fishermen.”

  She continued to draw. “So what’s it like?”

  “Similar to Seattle, except we get more snow and a bit less daylight.”

  “I wasn’t asking for a weather report. I just wondered what you do.”

  “Come on, let me show you.”

  He led the way from the kitchen to the room he’d turned into his writing space. A computer, a recent addition that was having a positive impact on his productivity, occupied the table in front of the window, and a side wall was lined with bookcases. The books weren’t in order but he knew what was there. Everything from politics and biography to cosmology and fiction. Good companions during the long winter.

  Multiple copies of his own book sat on the top shelf between a set of polished granite bookends his sister gave him when the book came out. Clen wandered over to the bookcase. She tipped her head to read titles, and he leaned against the doorjamb watching her.

  “You wrote this?” She sounded surprised. It meant she didn’t know he was a writer. He’d wondered if she knew.

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s a mystery.”

  “Well, if the author has no idea, who does?” She threw him a quick glance.

  It was the second time he’d caught a hint of a puckish humor, and he grinned in response. “It’s a private investigator story.”

  Instead of reaching for a copy, she stood like a child who’d been told not to touch, her hands in her pockets.

  “I read a lot of mysteries, but I’ve never come across yours.”

  “Thousands of books out there. Some are bound to escape notice.”

  She turned from the shelves to face him. “Oh.” Her eyes widened.

  “What is it?” But he knew, of course. When she turned, she’d seen the portrait hanging on the wall next to him.

  “I didn’t realize...” Her posture stiffened and her voice had a toneless quality. “I thought Hailey sold that to a tourist.”

  “I call her my melancholy lady. I’ve been meaning to ask you her name.”

  “Thomasina.” Clen continued to look like someone recovering from a shock.

  He cast around for something to keep the conversation going. “Was she a friend?”

  “More a beloved enemy.”

  He raised his eyebrows in question.

  “In college. She was the dean of students. We fought over stupid things like dress codes and demerit systems.” Her words were quick and jerky.

  “And now?”

  “We lost touch.” She turned away, back to his books.

  If it upset her that much, he’d drop it, although he would like to know more about his melancholy lady.

  “Will you let me borrow your book, Gerrum?”

  “Sure.” He walked over, pulled out a copy, and handed it to her, realizing, as he did so, the last time he’d felt this uncertain was as a teenager working up the nerve to ask out some now-forgotten girl. It was discouraging to feel so tentative after thinking he’d reached a balance in his life. A place where the mistakes he’d made in the past no longer burdened him with regret. A place where he was...comfortable.

  They returned to the kitchen, but Clen had reverted to the woman who kept everyone, including him, at arm’s length.

  “I have enough for now,” she said.

  “May I see?”

  She tore a sheet out of the book and laid it on top of the other sketches, then picked them up and tapped them into an orderly pile. “They’re pretty rough.” She sounded reluctant, but she handed them over.

  He looked through them. One sketch was of his hands, large and blunt-fingered, with only an indication of an arm and torso. Several were quick studies of his face from different angles. It was interesting, seeing himself through her eyes. As in the Stikine sketch, she’d used firm lines for nose and jaw, given his mouth a humorous tilt, and made his eyes look deep-set and calm. For the first time, he could see the Scandinavian as well as the Tlingit contributions to his appearance.

  He
pulled out the sketch that showed his resemblance to his father most clearly. “I wonder if I might have this one when you’re finished with them. My mother would like it.”