by Maura Weiler
“It was hard at first, but I trained myself not to care. I didn’t know if I was any good, but I was sure that if I was talented, I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t want my life to turn out like Dad’s.”
“You made sure of that when you became a nun,” I pointed out.
“Yeah,” Catherine nodded. “I wanted to be as unlike him as possible. He craved the spotlight, so I wanted to hide in the convent. When I got here, I kept recycling canvases even though I didn’t have to anymore. I was afraid to let the images matter to me. The sisters thought my reuse of finished canvases was a little odd at first but accepted it when I said I did it to save money. They also liked that I dedicated the process to our Lord. I figured He’d remember the images He created through me whether I painted over them or not.”
“I’m sure He does,” I said, further confirming my hunches about Catherine’s artistic choices.
“I hope so.” A light shone in Catherine’s eyes. She blinked it away. “But it’s different now that I know we need to sell the artwork. As soon as I try to paint things meant to last, God drops the brush. Maybe He’s punishing me for trying to create art for self-glorification rather than His own.”
“You said yourself that this show isn’t about you,” I said. “If it were, you would have sold your paintings a long time ago.”
“Maybe it wasn’t always, but I’m starting to make it about me. And now I’m wondering if I can replace them.” Catherine scanned the walls crowded with artwork. “I’ve never worried about that before.”
“Don’t psyche yourself out. Selling paintings you’d only intended for prayer is assuming some control, but you’re also giving away control by inspiring other people to glorify God in their own way.”
“Maybe.” Catherine set the brush down. “I used to love coming in here.”
“I used to love writing in this.” I tossed my notebook on the table. It fell with a clunk. A long silence followed before I spoke again.
“You don’t have to do this, you know. It’s not too late to cancel,” I said, meaning it. Trish hadn’t sold my Wagner yet, but she’d assured me there was interest and it would sell soon. “I have some other ideas on how to come up with the money.”
“Yes, I do, and so do you.” Catherine handed my notebook back to me and picked up her brush again, swirling it in a blob of pigment. “I just pray that God will meet us on the other side.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
As December arrived and the sisters lit the first Advent candles in preparation for the birth of Christ, Catherine turned in fourteen capable, though less spirited, paintings, and I turned in a series of informative, yet guarded, articles. Invitations were mailed, caterers hired, and advertisements appeared in newspapers and on public radio. Trish and I rushed around making preparations. Once the paintings were shipped, Catherine had very little to do except pray.
Pray she did, along with the rest of the convent. On the day of the opening, the sisters offered special intentions for the success of the show during morning Mass. When it was time to leave, everyone lined up at the cloister entrance to send Catherine and Mother Benedicta off with a blessing.
“We always travel in pairs.” Mother slipped into a pair of clogs for the journey. “Like shoes.” She winked.
“Glad to have you,” I said as we exited the building.
When Mother and I crossed into the public garden, Catherine hung back in the doorway.
“I, um, hate to skip any more of my cloister duties,” she stalled.
“At the moment, attending the opening is your cloister duty.” Mother turned to her. “You started this, and you need to see it through.”
Catherine hesitated to leave the safety of the enclosure. Mother went over and took her hand.
“Don’t worry, Sister,” the prioress reassured her. “Just pretend we’re taking our annual trip to the dentist.”
Catherine frowned and touched her mouth.
“Right. Bad example, given your bridge work last year.” Mother considered. “I know. Let’s ask God to widen the cloister walls today to encompass the whole state of California.”
Catherine put on a brave face and slid awkwardly into her borrowed clogs. She stepped outside and the three of us walked to the parking lot together.
I chose the scenic route along the Pacific in hopes that the soothing blue vastness would help calm my sister’s last-minute nerves. Except for the sound of chewing our dinner bread, cheese, and apricots, and our recitation of the Divine Office, we were silent on the drive down. Catherine and Mother Benedicta stared out at a world they rarely saw. It was only when I turned onto Olympic Boulevard and neared the Bergamot Station gallery complex that I offered some coaching.
“There may be a couple of reporters at the opening,” I warned as we waited at a stoplight. “Just try to relax, don’t let the press rattle you. They’ll take your picture and ask a few questions, but you don’t have to respond to anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
I turned down the access road leading to the converted trolley station’s entrance and found a line of two dozen cars ahead of us.
“Wow,” I said, surprised and pleased by an even better turnout than I’d expected. “This looks promising.”
We inched toward the cluster of galleries housed in corrugated metal buildings.
“That’s quite a crowd.” Mother scanned the people milling around in the full parking lot. “Are there any other events going on?”
“No, just Catherine’s.”
I heard my sister’s breath quicken behind me.
“I’ll have to park across the street.” I signaled and pulled over to the curb. “I can let you off here if you want.”
“That sounds fine.” Mother opened her door.
Catherine froze in the back seat.
“Or maybe we’ll just stay with you until you park.” Mother stayed in the car and slammed her door harder than was necessary.
I found a spot at the palm-lined Ralph’s Supermarket parking lot nearby. The prioress and I got out of the car. Catherine made no move to join us.
“Ready, Sister?” Mother opened the back door so my twin could exit.
Catherine shook her head and kept her eyes on the floor mat. Mother pursed her lips, threw up her hands, and looked skyward. “Help me out here?”
I was about to respond when I realized the prioress was talking to God rather than me. Mother Benedicta clutched her stomach and took a few deep breaths, and then leaned down beside the car to face Catherine again.
“I’m afraid I must insist, Sister.” There was an edge to Benedicta’s voice I’d never heard before. “We all do our penance sometime, even if it’s just insurance for sins we haven’t committed yet.”
I looked at the throng across the street and then back at my twin. I took Mother’s arm and pulled her aside.
“She doesn’t have to come in if she doesn’t want to. I’d rather have her in her own time and on her own terms than force her into this mob before she’s ready,” I said.
“Sister Catherine is never ready for small crowds, much less large mobs.”
“Well, then it’s better if she stays in the car.” I pointed to the winding line of patrons and press waiting to enter the gallery. “If she’s in the wrong frame of mind, she could do more harm than good.”
“Very well.” Mother took a bottle of Mylanta from her pocket and chugged it directly from the container. “You know more about these things than I do.”
“Not by much, but thanks for trusting me.”
The prioress shook off her frustration as we walked back toward the car.
“Join us later if you feel like it, Catherine,” I said. “Just don’t go hot-rodding in my car in the meantime.”
Catherine’s shoulders relaxed as she settled in to wait. We left the car and the artist behind and headed for the gallery complex.
“Are you sure about this?” Mother peered back over her shoulder. “We didn’t come all this way to...”
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“She’ll be there.” I pressed the button for the crosswalk. “She’s got to be curious about how her work looks in a professional space.”
“That’s true.” The prioress took another swig of Mylanta before pocketing it, and then closed her eyes and touched her cross. It seemed to calm her down. “Everything will be fine.”
Drivers waiting at the light stared at Mother Benedicta’s habit as we crossed the street before them. Their gazes shocked me into recognition of a nagging fear of my own. I’d been so preoccupied with putting the sisters at ease that I hadn’t dwelt on the fact that my humble, holy friends from Big Sur were about to bump up against my brazen, stylish friends in Los Angeles. Would they get along? I wasn’t sure the simple black dress I’d chosen to wear could successfully bridge the gap between the two worlds, much less the rest of me.
I didn’t have time to dwell on it. The moment Mother Benedicta and I arrived on the other side of the street, photographers and news reporters made a beeline for the prioress.
“How many years have you been in the cloister?”
“Where did you get your artistic training?”
“Is this your first time out in public since you joined the convent?”
“I’m not the nun you want.” Mother held up her hand, but this crowd didn’t quiet down.
“Where’s Sister Catherine?” a ball-capped cameraman called out above the din.
“She may arrive later.” I kept walking.
“How much later?” a coifed reporter asked. “We want this for the soft feature on the seven o’clock news.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t be any more specific than that.” I tried to push through the multitude toward the gray gallery stairs.
Mother Benedicta stepped in front of me and the sea of humanity miraculously parted for the nun.
“I should get out more often.” Mother went inside with me right behind her.
Entering the gallery, I scanned the space for Graciela or Trish to no avail. Wall-to-wall people dressed in the art industry’s requisite black crammed the room. Noisy conversation, classical music, and the wet, woolen smell of too many bodies in too little space filled the air. The wait staff had given up trying to move champagne and hors d’oeuvres through the crush and waited on the sidelines for hungry and thirsty people to come to them. The members of the string quartet played with their elbows pinned to their sides to avoid poking passersby with their bows.
It was impossible to see one’s own feet, much less get a clear view of the paintings on display. The dizzying swirl of black-clad humanity mingled with white walls and glimpses of colored canvas made the paintings come alive with a vibrant, pulsating presence. The room seemed to pitch and roll, yet buoy me up, leaving me feeling seasick and exhilarated all at once.
Mother and I were able to move through the crush and search for Trish, but only after the prioress had the wherewithal to hold up a scribbled cocktail napkin that read “I am not the artist,” thus ensuring the respect her habit commanded without the pesky interest that accompanied genius. Late afternoon rays of sun shone through the center skylight, spotlighting those people caught in the beams in a dazzling square of what looked like heaven amid the chaos. Was God in attendance? I hoped so.
We found Trish introducing Rod to the petite photography editor of Art World magazine.
“Megan Brown, meet Ray Mallory.” Trish gave Rod a motherly nudge to shake Megan’s hand.
“It’s Rod,” Rod corrected.
“Right, right.” Trish put an arm around the intern. “I discovered Rob slaving away in the bowels of The Comet’s darkroom and rescued him.”
“Nice job, Rod.” Megan examined the promotional tri-fold. “Your shots really capture the essence of the paintings.”
“Uh, thanks. But it’s easy when the subject matter is so—”
“There you are.” Trish drowned out Rod when she noticed Mother Benedicta and me. She left the editor and the intern in her wake and hugged us. “Where’s our Sister Catherine?”
“Not ready to meet this mess.” I shook my head.
“No matter. We’re doing great without her.” Trish waved to passing patrons. “I’ve sold three paintings and there’s interest in several others. People are offering above the list price to outbid other buyers.”
“Is that ethical?” I asked.
“Well, it’s not typical, but anything for the nuns, I say.” Trish giggled and looked around. “Which reminds me, the reps from the Getty Trust wanted to discuss a couple of pieces. I hope they’re still here.”
She flitted off, insofar as it was possible to flit in a packed crowd.
“I’m going outside to get some air and some quiet if there’s any to be had.” Benedicta fanned herself with her cocktail signage.
“I’ll join you in a minute.” I spied the rest of the Comet crowd: Graciela, Phil, and Phil’s peroxided wife, Melissa, in a knot by the bar. I was about to make my way over to them when someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to find Matt standing there. I tried and failed to hide my surprise.
“Hi, Dorie.” Matt looked far more composed than I felt.
“Hey, Matt.” A nervous shiver ran through me.
“You remember Evan Cole.” Matt indicated the man radiating movie star presence beside him.
“Of course.” I offered my left hand to the actor who I’d met while visiting Matt on the Obsessed film set a few months before, glad I didn’t get star struck. Keeping my composure around Matt was hard enough. “Hello.”
“Nice to see you again, Dorie.” Evan grasped my hand in both of his between flashing grins for passing photographers. The actor was clearly practiced at granting picture requests before he was asked so photographers wouldn’t interrupt his conversation. He nodded toward the paintings. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t exactly take credit for them,” I said.
“But you wrote about them.” Evan signed an autograph for a weak- kneed teenager. “And your words made this show possible.”
“That’s what I told her,” Matt chimed in. “Though neither of us were sure it was a good idea at the time.”
“I’m still not sure.” I looked at the packed crowd. “It’s been tough on my sister. But with all the repairs their monastery needs, it was this or move out of their home.”
“They won’t have to worry about money anymore.” Evan spoke with the authority of someone who could make such statements. “I plan to buy up as many of these paintings as I can.”
I gulped. “You don’t have to do any favors for—”
“Believe me, they’re doing me a favor. I’ve got a new house in Mexico to decorate, and this stuff is tight.”
I stifled a laugh at the thought of what Catherine would think of a twenty-something movie star calling her paintings “tight.”
“Her use of light and spatial relations is inspired.” The star ignored a fawning photographer in his enthusiasm. “I majored in art history and I’ve studied a lot of paintings. It’s rare to be able to say so much with so little paint. And the brushwork...” Evan shook his head. “I’ve never seen such texture.”
“She’s an original.” I was sobered and pleased to realize that Evan knew what he was talking about. “I’m sure Catherine will be glad to hear that some of her work will be going to someone who enjoys it so much.”
“Some of it? I’m buying the whole collection.” The actor held out his arms expansively. “Whatever I don’t hang in the house I’ll give as Christmas gifts.”
Matt and I shared a look in quiet observation of the vast chasm that separated the very rich from the getting-by in Los Angeles.
“Well, then you’d better hurry, because the dealer’s already sold at least three.” I indicated a painting with a small red sticker on the wall beside it.
“Point the way,” Evan said, suddenly agitated.
“That’s her over there with the red hair and the black-rimmed glasses.” I indicated my friend with a n
od of my head. “Her name’s Trish Reed.”
“I know.” Evan’s eyes squinted in recognition. “I’m a big fan of your father’s work, too. When I heard Trish repped Rene Wagner’s daughter, I called her hoping she might have some leads on your dad’s stuff, but she didn’t.”
“Really.” My blood burned. Trish had more than a lead on a Wagner—she had mine to sell. That same blood rimed over with frost when it hit me that selling the painting meant giving it up. I shook off the chill.
“Yeah. It’s a drag,” Evan said. “I’ve been trying to add a Wagner to my collection for years, but they’re rarely up for sale. Hey, if you hear of anything...”
“Will do,” I said, afraid to mention my painting to him before finding out why Trish hadn’t. Maybe there was a good reason she didn’t want to tell him about it, though I couldn’t think of one. “Matt’s got your number, right?”
“Yeah. Thanks,” Evan said. “Guess I’d better talk to Trish before I miss out on another Wagner’s stuff. You take care, Dorie.”
“Bye,” I managed as the actor hurried off in Trish’s direction.
“I wasn’t sure if I should tell him about yours or not,” Matt said after Evan was out of earshot. “Since I don’t know what you’ve decided to do with it.”
“I’m going to sell it,” I said.
“You are? Then why didn’t you—”
“I probably will, but today is about Catherine,” I said, stifling my fury at Trish lest I take it out on Matt. I changed the subject. “Evan’s a nice guy.”
“He is.” Matt nodded. “He offered me a job as his personal assistant after we wrapped in North Carolina.”
“Well, if a movie star has to monopolize your life, I’m glad it’s him.”
“I turned it down. I’ve been working on my short for the last month.”
“No way!”
“Way.” Matt grinned. “I finished shooting last week and I start editing tomorrow.”
“That’s great!” I hugged him as much as the crush of bodies would allow. “It’s so good to see you. Thanks for coming tonight, not to mention bringing Mr. Moneybags with you.”
“You brought Mr. Moneybags,” Matt replied. “Evan read your articles and suggested coming, then I reminded him you and I were friends.”
