He turned around to face her. His expression was still impossible to read, but if anything he looked slightly frightened.
“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping closer.
He nodded and took a deep breath. “You really want my opinion, Claire? Despite what you said earlier about critics?”
She considered this, then nodded. “Yes. Tell me the truth.”
“These are brilliant.” He rubbed his goatee thoughtfully. “I can’t even think of the right words to describe them—and I’m a writer—inspired, holy, powerful, inspirational, amazing . . . that’s just for starters.”
She felt her knees growing weak and eased herself down into the easy chair, placing her head in her hands as she sobbed in pure relief. She felt both of them near her, their hands resting on her shoulders as they waited for this moment to pass. Finally, she looked up at them and asked, “Are you guys telling me the truth? For real?”
They both nodded.
“I have to take these with me, Claire. Henri must see them at once. If it’s at all possible, we have to get a show scheduled before Christmas, even if that means moving some things around. Do you think you’ll have any more done by then?”
“I–I don’t know. It’s like they come to me—like Leo said—in inspiration. Like God is actually guiding my hand.”
“I believe that,” said Leo.
Jeannie nodded. “Well, whatever it takes, if you can do more, it’ll help the show.”
“Are you sure, Jeannie? I mean, like Leo said, angels aren’t really in vogue right now. And what if Henri doesn’t—”
“You let me figure this out.”
“But you really think anyone would want to buy them?”
Jeannie pressed her lips together. “Well, you can just never tell about these things. I’ve seen work that I thought was amazing and brilliant before, but the public just didn’t seem to get it. I suppose that could happen.”
Leo nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I’ve seen it too. I’ve given artists the best reviews and then watched them sink into oblivion.”
Claire looked down at her lap. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“But we’ve got to give it a try,” said Jeannie. She glanced at her watch. “And we should probably be on our way now, Claire.”
Claire stood and took Jeannie’s hand. “Thanks so much for everything.”
“I’ll load up the pictures,” said Leo. “Do you have any spare blankets to wrap them in?”
“There are some in that closet by the bathroom,” instructed Jeannie.
“The one on the easel . . .” Claire began with hesitation.
“Yes?” Jeannie nodded.
“I don’t really want to sell that one.”
“I didn’t think you would.” Jeannie put her hand on Claire’s shoulder. “But can you let it be in the show?”
Claire glanced over at the painting, knowing she would miss it but also knowing it might be better to have it away from her, for now. “Yes. You can take it.”
“Good.”
After the paintings were loaded, Jeannie turned to Claire. “About those footprints in the woods?”
“Yes?”
“Well, maybe they are something more. I mean, you never know.”
Claire smiled. “Or maybe you’re just saying that because you like the inspiration they provided.”
Jeannie grinned. “Maybe.”
“So you like representing a mad artist, now, do you?”
Jeannie shook her head. “No. I like representing you. I definitely do not want you to go mad. And if necessary, I recommend you search out those footprints if only to prove to yourself they belong to a couple of perfectly normal human beings just out enjoying nature the same as you.”
“Yes, I may do that.”
“I just want you to stay healthy, kiddo.” Then Jeannie leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You take care of yourself now. And don’t you quit believing in angels!”
“That’s right,” called Leo. “I can’t wait to tell my mom about you!”
For the next two weeks, Claire divided her time between painting and walking and daily chores, all this with Michael by her side. Painting came more easily to her now; it almost seemed that something new had been unleashed or maybe broken when Claire heard the approval of two art professionals. And it wasn’t that her art was dependent on the opinions of others, but under the circumstances, she appreciated it.
She had suspected she wouldn’t be able to keep up the frenzied, somewhat crazed pace of her original angel pieces. But she’d known even then that it was slightly fanatical, almost over the edge. Now she was thankful to simply continue. Plus she noticed that a quiet peace seemed to accompany her as she worked. And to Jeannie’s great pleasure, Claire managed to create four more paintings for the show. She could hardly contain herself as she told Jeannie the good news on the phone.
“I can’t wait to see them,” exclaimed Jeannie. “I’ll send a courier to pick them up. If I get right on it, he could be there by late this afternoon.”
“They’re a lot like the earliest ones,” explained Claire as she studied her latest painting. “Mostly shades of white on white and snow-covered trees with angels here and there. Sometimes I worry that the angels are too subtle; I’m afraid the viewer could almost miss them.”
“Yeah, but once they see them, they’d wonder how they ever missed them in the first place.”
“I hope you’re right.” Claire said, washing out a dirty brush.
“Of course, I’m right. Everything’s all set too. The show will begin this weekend. Did I tell you that Henri actually postponed an Andrew Banks show until after the New Year—can you believe it? Just so he could squeeze your show in before Christmas. He’s such a doll. And he plans to run it for three weeks—it’s his best-selling season of the year, you know. Can you believe our luck with this timing?”
Claire bit into her lip. “I just hope he’s not disappointed.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it could be a total flop.”
“Well, you let us worry about that, kiddo. You just keep on chasing those amazing angels.”
Claire sighed. “That’s got me worried.”
“What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“Well, I’ve been having those old dreams again. And I can’t quit thinking about those—those footprints in the snow. I know it sounds crazy, Jeannie, and I don’t really believe it right now, but sometimes in the middle of the night, I feel just certain that they belong to Scott and Jeremy.”
“Claire, you know it can’t really be—”
“Oh, I know, I know—at least my head knows, most of the time anyway. But it’s this whole angel thing that’s got me going. And strange things have happened to other people. Lucy at the store was telling me just yesterday that a friend of hers is certain he saw Big Foot a few years ago. So how can I be so certain that it isn’t them? What if it is?”
Jeannie exhaled loudly. “Well, as your rep, I shouldn’t even say this—it’s like shooting myself in the foot—or telling you to kill off your muse . . . but as your friend I know I have to speak up.” She cleared her throat. “Claire, it’s like I said before, I think it’s time you followed those footprints—to their final conclusion, I mean. Then, and only then, you will see that they belong to a pair of perfectly ordinary human beings—flesh and blood . . . not feathers and angel dust. Come to think of it, it could be the old couple that has a place down the road a ways. They used to walk pretty regularly as I recall. I think their name was Henson or Henderson. And she was a real tiny lady; I’ll bet she could have child-sized feet.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Claire considered an older couple walking through the snowy woods. Yes, it could happen. “I’ve tried to follow the footprints before, but for one reason or another, I always turned back. Lately I’ve been thinking about following them again, but. . . .” She paused, uncertain.
“The illusion would be over.”
> Claire swallowed. “Yeah. That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Well, maybe it’s time to end this thing—to really move on, you know? I realize that life dealt you a really low blow in losing Scott and Jeremy. But you’ve got a bright future, kiddo. And there are all kinds of good things in store for you, but you need to be ready for them. And even if this means it’s the end of your—uh—angel era, I’m sure you’ll still be inspired to paint something else equally wonderful, in time. Talent like yours doesn’t come along every day.”
Claire was ready for this conversation to end. “I hope you’re right, Jeannie; I want to believe you.”
“Trust me, sweetie, it’s not healthy for you to live in a fantasy world.” She paused, then laughed. “And as greedy as I am to have you producing more of those lovely angel paintings, I’m not willing to see you sacrifice your emotional well-being for them.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your honesty.”
“And, don’t forget, I want you here for the opening of the show.”
“What day is that again?”
“This Friday night. Come at seven for the preview showing. I have some people I want you to meet. Shall I send someone for you?”
“No. I can drive. I’m just not sure what to do about Michael.”
“Michael?”
“My dog.”
“Oh, yeah. Why not bring him along?”
“I would, except the landlord doesn’t allow pets in my apartment.”
“Oh.” She could hear Jeannie tapping her pencil on the phone now, her sign that it was time to hang up. “Well, you know I’m not crazy about dogs, but I suppose he could stay at my place.”
“Thanks, Jeannie. I might have to take you up on that.”
“See you on Friday then.
After another restless night, haunted by the same old dream, Claire decided that Jeannie was right. It was time to follow those footprints and just get it over with. And, after all, why shouldn’t she become acquainted with her neighbors, the Hendersons, or whoever they were. If they were real neighbors, that is.
“Ready for a nice long walk?” she asked Michael after putting away the last of the breakfast dishes.
He wagged his tail in response and waited by the door as she slowly bundled up. Several inches of fresh snow had fallen the night before, and the temperature had dropped since yesterday. She took a few minutes to stack more firewood on the porch, then the two of them set out. As she walked, she wondered if she shouldn’t just pack things up this week. Hadn’t she accomplished what she’d set out to do? To break the bond that had kept her from painting? What other reason was there to stay? She looked at Michael happily running ahead of her. That “no dog” policy at her loft apartment did present a bit of a problem, but perhaps she could sublet it and find a new place. But where?
She shook her head, as if to dispose of these troubling thoughts. Why not just enjoy the day, the walk, the snow? After all, if she decided to stay in San Francisco after the opening, it could be her last chance to be here and to do this. She took in a deep breath and looked up at the sky. She hadn’t noticed earlier that it had that heavy look again—that dull gray density that could possibly mean more snow. Hopefully it would hold off until later that afternoon. By then she’d have met the old couple and be safely back at her cabin, probably packing up to leave. She’d have to remember to take some time to stop by and say good-bye to old Lucy. Lucy had been a real godsend, especially when it came to securing the deal with Michael. Claire smiled to herself as she recalled Lucy’s surprised face when she’d gone in to settle up Rick’s bill for the dog. Claire had painted a small angel picture for her on an old piece of board she’d found in the shed. Nothing really special, but Lucy had been deeply touched.
“I’ll hang it right here by the cash register,” she’d promised. “Why, it’s my first piece of honest to goodness art—and from a real live artist too!”
Claire and Michael trekked through the woods until they reached the dead tree. And there, to her surprise, were two sets of fresh tracks, clearly visible, as if they’d just been made. This was more than she’d hoped for! She’d expected to at least discover some old tracks that were still discernable, but nothing as plain as these. She looked up the trail, half expecting to see an old couple slowly walking along. But there was no one. Still, she should have no problem following these footprints to their “final conclusion,” as Jeannie had put it. And if she hurried she might actually catch up with them.
She walked fast. Pausing at the footbridge to catch her breath, she glanced up at the sky with slight apprehension. The clouds seemed a little lower now, but no flakes were falling as yet. Still she could never be sure. “Okay, boy, ready to go?”
Michael turned around as if to head back toward home as usual. “No, we’re going this way today, Michael,” Claire said.
He looked at her curiously, then joined her, tail wagging eagerly.
“Yes, we’re going to meet our neighbors,” she announced as they continued on, her heart beating a little faster in anticipation.
After about ten minutes of fast walking, Claire noticed it had begun to snow. Nothing threatening, just a few random flakes. But the farther she got from the turning point of the footbridge, the more her heart began to pound. What in the world was she doing? And why? Tracking footprints that belonged to a couple of old-timers? What did she really hope to prove by this anyway? And what if the footprints simply went on and on—traveling off into nowhere? What if she and Michael were to become lost out here, all alone in the wilderness with no one for miles around? Who would ever think to check on them or go out to look? She stopped and glanced nervously at the trail behind her. Should she turn back? It wasn’t too late to stop and retrace her steps. And yet something beyond herself, something deep within, seemed to drive and compel her forward. And so she continued, praying silently as she went.
The footprints continued up over a slight hill, then curved off to the right. The snow was falling harder as she and Michael descended the hill, and she could feel it blowing around her in little flurries. And visibility began to decrease.
“It can’t be too far ahead,” she said aloud, to assure herself as much as Michael. She noticed that the footprints were becoming less distinct; they were slowly being devoured by the quickly falling snow. “We’ve got to hurry, Michael!”
Claire began to jog, keeping her eyes focused on the ground ahead of her, afraid if she made one wrong turn, she and Michael might be lost out here forever. She paused once to look behind her. At least her freshly made footprints were still fairly clear; she ought to be able to follow them home if weather forced them to turn back. She tried to envision the older couple out walking in the snow. But somehow it just didn’t fit. And then she remembered the pair of snow angels—one big, one small. Surely an elderly couple wouldn’t lie down on the snow and make snow angels—would they? And if the rapidly fading footprints in front of her didn’t belong to that elderly couple, whom did they belong to? Could it be?
She continued jogging, a tight feeling wrapping itself around her chest with each step. The snow was falling even faster now, and the trail was a blur. She couldn’t even be sure she was still following the footprints. Perhaps she had stumbled onto a deer trail. She knew how they crisscrossed the National Forest. A person could become lost for weeks following such a trail.
“Oh, dear God,” she cried out breathlessly as she continued pressing on. “Help me!”
Finally, she stopped running and bent over, her chest heaving up and down from the exertion. She wasn’t even sure how long she’d been traveling, but a knifelike pain stabbed into her right side, and her lungs burned like fire. She knew she could run no farther. Her legs felt like lead, and her heart was consumed with fear. She knew she was lost. And all around her was white and swirling snow, thick and opaque, like a living blanket that wanted to suffocate her. She looked all around, unable to see her dog.
“Michael!” she screamed. But her voice sounde
d dull, hushed by the deadening acoustics of the snow and the wind. “Michael!” she cried again, turning around in a circle. “Please, come here, boy!”
Claire never knew for sure how she got there. Perhaps it was like in her angel dream, with a pair of invisible celestial beings lifting her up and carrying her along, high above the storm. Or maybe it was Michael, her angel dog, who had led her to safety. She could only imagine. But somehow, both she and her faithful companion emerged half frozen from the snowy woods. And seeing a faint golden light up ahead, she stumbled stubbornly toward it, forcing one icy foot in front of the other until she collapsed on the porch of a cabin not much larger than her own.
And even then she couldn’t remember anyone coming to the door, or opening it up and saying, “Hello, and what have we here?” In fact, she later learned she had never even made it to the door. It was Michael’s persistent scratching and loud barks that had finally aroused the attention of the tenants. The first thing Claire remembered was sitting in front of the big river rock fireplace, her bare feet wrapped in a soft woolen throw, and a young girl, about age ten, Claire guessed, holding a thick mug of hot tea before her.
“Can you drink this?” asked the girl in a quiet voice.
“Thank you.” Claire believed she said those words, although she couldn’t be sure. But she did recall taking the warm mug into her hands and eagerly wrapping her cold fingers around its exterior, then slowly drinking the hot contents.
“My dad’s calling for help,” said the girl.
Claire felt her eyes open more widely. “Help?”
“For you. He thinks you have hyperthermia.”
Claire thought she may have smiled at that. “You mean hypothermia?”
The girl solemnly nodded. “You looked frozen.”
“My dog?” Suddenly Claire remembered being unable to see Michael in the snow. The girl pointed to her left and, curled right next to Claire’s bundled feet, Michael rested by the warmth of the fire.
“He’s okay.” The girl ran her hand along Michael’s still damp coat. “He’s a good dog, isn’t he?”
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