“Thank you, dear.” The woman pointed to one of Claire’s earliest angel paintings. “And what inspired you to paint that?”
Claire swallowed. “It’s hard to describe where inspiration comes from exactly . . .” she struggled for words. “I could say it’s from some hidden place deep within me, and that wouldn’t be untrue, but sometimes there seem to be other forces at work too.” She smiled, but not too big.
“I see.” Mrs. Campbell nodded as if she understood. Odd, since even Claire didn’t completely understand herself. “Very nice, dear,” said the older woman, as if talking to a preschooler about a finger painting.
Claire couldn’t remember when the evening started to become fuzzy and hazy to her, and maybe it was the champagne, although she’d only had a few polite sips. But it was a blessing of sorts, like a form of protective insulation wrapping itself around her. And it helped to get her through all the varied and sometimes thoughtless comments that casual observers often make.
But finally, about midway through the show, and long after most of the serious art world had gone their way, to dinner reservations or some Christmas party or the comfort of their own homes, she slipped into the back room and sank into Henri’s deep mohair sofa, leaning her head back with a loud sigh. She closed her eyes and tried to get everything she’d heard the last few hours to slide off her—like water off a duck’s back, as her father would say. She’d talked him into coming on another night, when it wasn’t so busy. But suddenly, she wished she’d begged him to make it tonight.
It would help to have someone else in her court right now. Someone unrelated and uninvolved in the precarious and unpredictable world of art. He could hold her hand and reassure her that it would be okay. No matter, if everyone here hated her work, if no one bought a single piece, if Henri quietly cancelled the remaining three weeks of the showing. Her father would put his arm around her and tell her that he loved her anyway. At least, that’s the way she imagined it tonight. In reality, he might say something stupid like, “Maybe you should go back to teaching.” He did that sometimes. Oh, she supposed it was only his practical side. But it always deflated her. Yes, perhaps it was better that he wasn’t here to see her flop tonight.
“Claire?” Glenda, the woman in the sleek black dress, was standing in the doorway. “Someone here would like to meet you.”
“Yes, of course.” Claire stood and smoothed her dress. “I was just taking a break.”
Glenda nodded without speaking. Claire wondered if she just thought she was being lazy, a slacker, like she didn’t really care about the outcome of the showing. Claire followed this graceful woman in silence, wondering who could possibly be interested in the creator of these strange works that really wouldn’t look good on anyone’s wall.
And then she saw them. She blinked at first, thinking she must be imagining things. But there they were, Garret and Anna, both smiling at her as if she were a long-lost friend.
“What are you two doing here?” she exclaimed, taking each of them by a hand.
“We wanted to surprise you,” said Anna.
Garret cleared his throat. “Actually, I’d promised Anna some Christmas shopping and—”
“I made him bring me here.” Anna nodded victoriously.
“She didn’t make me.” Garret smiled. “I wanted to come.”
“Claire, these paintings are—” Anna paused as if looking for the perfect word—“they’re awesome.”
“Thank you, Anna.” Claire glanced around then spoke quietly. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said tonight.”
Anna frowned. “You mean they don’t like them?”
Claire shrugged then forced a smile. “It’s hard to say.”
“Then these people are all crazy.”
“Anna.” Garret spoke in a hushed but stern voice.
“Sorry.” Anna looked up at Claire, then spoke in a quiet voice. “That one over there.” She pointed toward the entrance. “Is that—?”
Claire grinned. “Yep. You recognize yourself?”
Garret was shaking his head in what seemed amazement. “But I don’t get it, Claire. I mean how on earth did you manage—”
“I relied on memory.” Claire guided them over to the painting of Anna. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” Garret stared at the painting.
“I love it,” said Anna. “And the bird is just perfect. I can’t even explain why; it just is.”
Claire sighed. “I hadn’t planned on the bird at first, but he just came.”
“But it’s sold,” said Anna, the disappointment plain in her voice.
Garret laughed. “We couldn’t have afforded it anyway, sweetheart.”
“Excuse me,” interrupted Henri. “Can I borrow the artist from you, for just a moment, please?”
“Of course,” said Garret. “We didn’t mean to monopolize her.”
The next instant, Claire was whisked off to meet the Fontaines, a wealthy couple who were seriously considering the painting that was set in the evening.
“I just love the dusky feel to it,” said Mrs. Fontaine. “It reminds me of something. But I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“Do you like Van Gogh?” asked Claire.
“That’s it,” said Mr. Fontaine. “It’s like Starry Night.”
Claire smiled. “Yes, that’s what I thought when I finished it. I hadn’t really meant it to be. Although I must admit to adoring Van Gogh. But when it was finished, I could see it too.”
“Claire,” called Jeannie.
Claire turned to see Jeannie motioning to her. “Will you excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Fontaine,” she said.
“Of course.” Mrs. Fontaine smiled warmly. “It was so nice to meet you.”
For the next ten minutes, Claire was shuffled around from customer to potential customer like a pinball. But the whole while she tried to keep a discreet eye on Garret and Anna, afraid they would soon grow bored and leave. She couldn’t help but notice how handsome Garret looked with his hair combed and beard neatly trimmed. Not that he hadn’t looked handsome before. But tonight he looked more of a turn-your-head sort of handsome. Striking even. And she felt a slight flush climb into her cheeks as she accidentally caught his gaze upon occasion. She didn’t really think it was just her imagination, but he almost seemed to be keeping an attentive eye on her too. Now, more than ever, she was thankful she’d taken the time to dress carefully. And yet she was troubled too.
As pleasurable as Anna and Garret’s unexpected visit was, she still felt as if she’d been caught slightly off guard. And to experience such feelings of interest toward Garret was more than a little disturbing. She hadn’t felt this way since—well, since Scott. And in a way, she felt as if she were betraying him now—just by feeling this way. She knew it was probably ridiculous and unfounded. After all, Garret was little more than a casual acquaintance. And even if he turned out to be something more, Scott, of all people, would surely want her to get on with her life. But still she felt unsure and slightly off balance. Finally, there came a lull in her introductions, and she knew it was time to return to Garret and Anna. She could tell by Garret’s posture that he was moving toward the door. She knew it was time to say good-bye. And although it was something of a relief, it was a stinging disappointment as well.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she rejoined them. “It got so busy all of a sudden.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” asked Anna.
“I don’t know. But let’s hope so.” Claire glanced over her shoulder. “I’m so worried, mostly for Henri and Jeannie, that tonight’s going to be a failure.”
“But there are lots of people,” said Anna hopefully.
“Yes, but so far, no sales.” Claire sighed, then remembered Anna’s portrait. “Other than the one, that is. And it’s not for sure.”
Garret nodded then spoke quietly. “And that’s what pays the way, Anna. No matter how well we write or paint, we’re always dependent on the folks who are willin
g to plunk down their money for our work.”
He looked to Claire with what seemed compassion. “But it’s easier for me, I think. The price of a book is a mere pittance compared to,” he waved his hand, “all this.”
Claire nodded. “I guess that’s what makes me nervous.”
Garret reached over and laid his hand on her shoulder. “Well, really, you shouldn’t be.” He looked her straight in the eyes, and for the second time she wondered about the actual colors she saw there—such a pleasant mix. “You are a great artist, Claire. And these paintings are bound to be a huge success. Just take a deep breath and relax. Let it all just come to you.”
She felt almost as if he’d hypnotized her, and she just stood there for a full minute, just letting it soak in. Then she took a deep breath. “Thanks, Garret. I think I needed that.”
“It’s true,” chimed in Anna. “You are a great artist.”
Claire smiled—a big smile this time. “I’m so glad you two decided to drop in. I think I might actually be able to make it through the rest of the evening now.”
“But is it true, you’re not coming back to the cabin?” asked Garret.
“Yeah,” said Anna. “We just barely got to know you—then poof, you’re gone!”
Claire laughed. “Well, my work had been accomplished. Although I have to admit that I miss it already.”
“Claire,” called Jeannie again.
Claire nodded in her direction, then turned back to Garret. “I’m sorry—”
“No, we’re the ones who should be sorry.” He made another move toward the door. “We’ve been hogging all your time. Remember, you’re the star tonight, Claire. Now, you get out there and shine.”
She looked straight into his eyes for the briefest moment, mere seconds, although it felt like much more. Then she turned to Anna, afraid that actual tears now glistened in her own eyes, ready to betray feelings even she couldn’t begin to fully understand. She gently squeezed Anna’s hand, then glanced back to Garret. “Thank you, both, so much for coming.”
“Our pleasure,” said Garret.
“Bye, Claire,” called Anna in a sweet voice as father and daughter exited together.
Claire knew she was quieter than usual during the ride home, but she had no words left—nothing she wanted to express, nothing she could say with any real meaning. Her mind felt jumbled—too many people, too many feelings. Overloaded. Yes, that was it. She felt like too many circuits had been operating at once and now she was drained, melting down.
“You okay, kiddo?” Jeannie glanced her way.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“The show went pretty well, I think.” Jeannie sighed. “Well, no big sales as yet, but sometimes it takes time. People need to go home and think about it, look at their walls, and the next thing you know a painting is speaking to them—they wake up the next morning certain they can’t live without it.”
Claire nodded. “Hope you’re right.”
“You sure you’re okay?” Jeannie tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “You seem a little depressed or something.”
“Just overwhelmed, I think.” Claire swallowed. “You know, after being alone—in the quiet—all those weeks, well, I . . .”
“Oh, I get it. Culture shock. Kind of like when the hermit comes back into society for the first time. Yeah, I bet tonight was a little taxing for you. Personally, I love these openings, but I must admit I feel a little frazzled afterwards. Still, I wouldn’t give up this life for anything.”
Jeannie continued to talk with enthusiasm, mentioning names of wealthy or important people—names that went right over Claire’s head—people who might buy a painting or tell a friend or whatever. Claire wasn’t really listening. She felt incapable of soaking in one more word, one more thought.
“Thanks for everything,” she told Jeannie, climbing out of the car with weary relief. “Sorry I’m not much company.”
Jeannie waved her hand. “Don’t worry, kiddo. You did great tonight. That’s what really matters. Now get some rest. Sleep in until noon tomorrow. Take it easy.”
Claire nodded and closed the car door. As she slowly walked up the three flights of stairs, she remembered Michael. Hopefully, he’d been okay while she was gone. She hurried to unlock her door, suddenly worried that something might be wrong. But there he was, trotting happily toward her.
“Oh, you sweet thing!” she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around his neck. “How I missed you!”
Then she took him outside for a quick walk. The fog was thick tonight, not unusual for the Bay Area in December, but when she looked up at the streetlight now shrouded in heavy mist, she found herself missing the star-studded sky in the mountains—and the snow. She also found herself wondering where Garret and Anna were staying tonight. In the city? Or perhaps they had family or friends in a nearby suburb? Or did Garret have a house himself? She’d never thought to ask where they lived when not staying in the cabin. And once again she wondered if there was a wife, a mother, somewhere nearby. She turned and began walking quickly back to her apartment, irritated at herself for wondering on these things. What difference was it to her anyway? Garret and Anna were nice people, yes, and they had helped her in a time of dire need. But the relationship would surely go no further than this. Why on earth should it?
Back in the apartment, Claire realized she was pacing again. She went over to the bookshelf, which was still only half filled; boxes of books and various memorabilia were stacked nearby. She picked up a framed photo, just a candid shot that she’d managed to catch at Jeremy’s soccer game, not long before the boating accident. Father and son were both smiling as they celebrated the win with a victory hug. Jeremy’s hair curled around his forehead, damp with sweat, and his eyes shone, big and brown—the mirror image of his dad nearly twenty years earlier, or so his paternal grandma liked to brag. And Claire had no reason to doubt her. What a pair they were! And, as usual, she felt that old familiar pain in her chest when she gazed at the photo, only now it felt slightly different. As if the knifelike sharpness had left her or become dulled somehow, what with the passing of time and emotions poured out along the way. She knew it was right, and yet it felt totally wrong. Like a betrayal even. As if she had sneaked something behind their backs, or thrown away what was valuable, or simply run away.
“But you’re the ones who are gone,” she said aloud. “And you were the ones so bound and determined to go deep-sea fishing that day, even after I told you the forecast didn’t look good. You were the ones with all the confidence and bravado, ready to take on the weather and bring home your trophy fish to hang on the wall above the fireplace.” She set the photo down and sighed. She no longer felt angry at them, the way she used to during those rare moments when she allowed herself to remember that day and the way they so easily brushed off her warning.
She walked over to the window, the one that offered a view of the bay, on a clear day that is. Not tonight though. “I forgive you,” she whispered into the glass that reflected her own image, although it was them she was seeing. “And I realize it’s not your fault.” She felt her eyes filling, but not with tears of rage this time. “You never intended to go out there and die. And you never meant to leave me all alone like this. It’s just the way life happened.” She took in a deep breath. “And I release you both now. I release you to celebrate eternity—to fly with the angels!” She smiled, tears slipping down her cheeks as she imagined the two of them flying with the angels, just like she’d done in her dream. And in that same moment, it was as if a heavy coat of iron mail began sliding off her shoulders. And she lifted her arms like wings, and leaning her head back, with fingers splayed, she took in a slow deep breath, then exhaled. And it tasted just like mercy!
“Henri would love for you to make another appearance,” said Jeannie. “If you can manage it, that is. The weekend traffic was pretty good, and the ‘starry night’ painting sold, and we’ve had several promising bites on others too.”
“That’s great,�
�� said Claire. Cradling the phone between her head and shoulder, she returned to her work in progress and picked up a brush.
“I know you’re not that crazy about public appearances, but Henri really thinks it would help to keep this ball rolling.”
“Yeah, I’m not much into that whole meet the artist sort of thing, but I’m willing to do my part”—she daubed a little more blue in a corner—“if you really think it’ll help the showing.”
“Oh, you’re a darling. How about both Thursday and Friday nights? That’s when most of the traffic comes anyway, plus it’ll still give me time to run another ad in Wednesday’s paper.”
“Sure.” Claire twirled the paintbrush between her fingers. “And I might even have another painting for you.”
“You’re kidding! Oh, I can’t wait. What’s it like? Can you tell me?”
Claire studied the nearly completed work. “Well, as you can guess, it’s angels again. But this time it’s more of a seascape, more blues than whites; it’s hard to describe really.”
“Oh, it sounds wonderful. Let me know when to have it picked up.”
“And Jeannie,” Claire considered her words. “I think it might be my last.”
“Your last?” Jeannie gasped. “What? What are you saying? You’re not—I mean, I know you were depressed—”
Claire laughed. “I don’t mean my last painting—ever! I mean my last angel painting. I just have this feeling that I’ve reached the end of my angel era. I’m ready to move on now.”
“Oh.” The relief was audible. “Well, that’s okay, kiddo. To be honest, I’m not even sure how big this angel market really is, but, hey, we’re giving it our best shot. And so far, we’re not disappointed.”
“Good. I think you can probably send someone by to pick this one up by Wednesday.”
The week progressed slowly for Claire. She found herself missing the snow and the mountains and, to be perfectly honest, Garret and Anna. Although she kept telling herself this was completely ridiculous. Good grief, she barely knew them. Had only experienced two very brief and somewhat unusual encounters with them. But still, she missed them and wished for the chance to know them better. Not only that, she felt fairly certain that Michael was homesick too. He seemed to be lagging lately, and his tail didn’t wag nearly so often or so vigorously as before. The city was a poor place to keep a dog like him. She wondered if he might not even be happier in his old, albeit slightly neglectful home, penned up with the other dogs.
Angels in the Snow Page 10
