Authors: Ann Warner
As they whirled, Clen, who was seated near the bow, turned and smiled, and it was as if another woman peeked at him from behind that sober facade. She already intrigued him with her restraint and obvious self-assurance. That smile added layers to his interest.
Back at the dock, she graced him with another smile before reverting to her usual solemnity. He watched her walk away, tall, straight, and self-contained, wishing he could get her to stay longer and smile again.
“Did you enjoy your jet boat ride?” Marian asked that afternoon as Clen finished dinner preparations.
“How did you know about that?”
“Honey, everybody in Wrangell knows.”
“Big mistake, huh?”
“Not necessarily. You just need to brace yourself for the commentary.”
Commentary was a pleasant, unassuming word that clearly had no relationship to the thorough ribbing Clen endured over the next several days. It seemed like every man who’d invited her onto his boat, along with a few who hadn’t, made it a point to come to dinner, sometimes in groups.
“Hey, heard you liked that there jet boat. Kind of makes it hard to appreciate the scenery, don’t it?” Rog Remington said. “Now my boat, she’s a bit on the slow side, but she gives a real comfortable ride.”
“How nice for you.” Clen turned away as he and the other locals shared a chuckle. It was enough to immunize her against speaking to any Wrangell male ever again.
Gerrum was walking by the lodge when John Jeffers stepped out. “Hey, Gerr. Glad I spotted you. Marian’s off to a church meeting and the Mariners are playing, if you’re interested.”
“You found a good cook this year,” Gerrum said, after he followed John upstairs and the two of them settled with beers in front of the television.
“Yep. We’re nearing capacity most nights, what with all the local traffic she’s pulling in. Not sure if it’s the cooking or the cook.” He gave Gerrum a questioning look.
“You’ll have to give her a bonus.”
“It keeps up, you may be right.”
With John settled into a comfortable back and forth, Gerrum judged it time to try more probing questions. “How’d you happen to find her?”
“Didn’t. She found us. Wrote out of the clear blue, asking about the job. Claimed a friend mentioned it to her. But after she got here, I recognized her. Came a few years back, right after we opened. Had a husband with her. Wouldn’t remember him, wasn’t for her, though. He was one of those executive types, always asking about his messages and going off to call the office.” John’s lip curled in distaste. “She’s not an easy woman to forget, though.”
Gerrum agreed, although her being unforgettable was odd given Clen presented herself in such a simple, unadorned way. Not to mention, she never took part in conversations unless forced to. Usually a person who did that was easy to overlook. Instead, he found himself more intrigued by her unexpressed thoughts than by anything others said aloud.
“Did you mention her being here before?”
“Nope. Figured she’d a said something if she wanted to talk about it.”
The sound of a sharp crack as a Boston hitter connected with a pitch pulled their attention back to the game. The camera followed the arc of the ball, which floated through the lights and then right into the glove of the Mariner left fielder. Side out.
John sat back with a sigh of relief. “The funny thing is, she wrote about the job from an abbey. It’s the main reason we hired her, matter a fact. From her letter, Marian figured she was an ex-nun taking a first step back into the world.”
Gerrum’s imagination leapt into high gear. He could easily picture Clen in an abbey. Much more difficult to imagine her married, especially to a business tycoon. Although, given the abbey and the fact she didn’t wear a wedding ring, it seemed likely the tycoon was out of the picture. Either ex or dead, and Gerrum’s money was on ex since Clen’s attitude toward the bachelors of Wrangell had more misanthropy about it than grief.
“Do abbeys take someone who’s been married?” he asked John.
“Damned if I know. You’ll have to ask Marian. You ready for another beer?”
When Clen returned to ZimoviArt with a check to pay for the quilt square, she brought her portfolio along. “I hoped you might be willing to tell me what you think of these.”
Hailey accepted the check and raised her eyebrows in a questioning look.
“You have a good eye.” Clen gestured at the paintings on the gallery walls. “I just thought you might be willing to offer me...I don’t know. Suggestions, maybe?”
“Sure. I can do that.”
While Hailey looked through the pictures, Clen wandered around the gallery. For several minutes, the only sound was of pages turning.
“Your portraits convey a distinct sense of personality,” Hailey said.
Clen gave up trying to pretend she was examining the carving of a bear and walked over to the counter.
“However, to make them more commercial you need to consider adding touches more evocative of the area. You know, maybe frame a face with a fur parka or place an evergreen or the outline of a mountain in the background?”
Hailey divided the pictures into three piles. One pile contained the sketch Clen had made of the black girl in Ethel Green and the one of Mag’s apple tree swing. Hailey gestured toward the two. “I like these very much, but I already have enough non-Alaskan pictures. These, though,” her hand floated over the pile of sketches and paintings Clen had done of Wrangell, “they should do very well. The harbor scenes, in particular. You’ve managed a sort of dreamy quality that pulls me beneath the surface realism of the scene. I can definitely sell them for you.”
“Oh, I don’t want to sell anything.”
“Why not?”
“You really think you can sell them?”
Hailey glanced at Clen, then went through the Wrangell pictures a second time. She picked out three harbor scenes. “If you get these framed, I’ll be happy to put them on display.” Then she looked at the third pile, a collection of portraits. “I’d even be willing to hang one of these. This one I think.” She pulled out the portrait Clen had done of Thomasina. “The Wrangell Picture Gallery can do the framing for you.”
“Bet you’ll never guess what John’s cook does in her spare time,” Hailey said the next time she and Gerrum had morning coffee together.
“Maude has been uncharacteristically silent on the subject.”
“She’s an artist. She brought in some work to ask my opinion.”
“And?” Gerrum prompted.
“I’m going to hang several of her paintings as soon as she gets them framed.” Hailey fiddled with the multiple rings on her fingers, her gaze focused somewhere in the middle distance. “Did you know she wrote the Jeffers about the job from an abbey? Although, personally, I find that hard to believe. She doesn’t strike me as the ex-nun type. What do you think?”
“Can’t say I’m acquainted with any nuns. Makes me a poor judge.”
“Well, I have known a few, and I think Clen would send a mother superior into fits in no time flat.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, can you imagine her casting her eyes down in humility? And if someone told her to do something she thought was stupid, I think she’d tell them to go fry ice.”
As would Hailey, for that matter. The thought brought a smile to Gerrum’s face.
It took a week for Clen to get the framed pictures back. As soon as she did, she carried them into ZimoviArt. Hailey propped the unwrapped harbor scenes against the wall and stood back. “See? I knew these would look good.”
The framing made the pictures look more polished but also more foreign. “They don’t feel like they’re mine anymore.”
“Well, that is the plan, after all. By the end of the summer, a number of these better belong to someone else, or several someone elses, or I need to find another calling.”
“I’m not exactly sure I’m ready to part with this one.” Clen’s hands moved to rest on Thomasina’s portrait, still lying on the counter.
“She looks like a nun.”
Clen looked down at the picture. She’d drawn Thomasina’s face emerging from dark shadows, rather like the veil of a traditional habit. “You must have a nun or two in your background to spot that.”
“I’m the only person I know who’s lived in a convent but wasn’t a nun and never had any intention of being one.”
“Oh, I’m quite sure you have company.” Herself for instance, although Clen had no plans to be that open with anyone in Wrangell.
“We need to talk about your bottom line,” Hailey said. “I can price these where they’ll sell easily, or I can price them for the more discriminating shopper. I’d like to know your thoughts, so you won’t be disappointed.” Hailey slid the portrait of Thomasina out from under Clen’s hands and walked over to hang it next to the unicorn painting.
“Definitely price them for the discriminating shopper,” Clen said, still debating whether to let Hailey have Thomasina’s portrait. “Actually, I have no idea what would be reasonable. I’d like my framing costs covered, of course. Beyond that, you’re the expert. Why don’t you price them and see how it goes, and we’ll talk again if you manage to sell one.”
“Oh, I’ll manage. If I get anyone in here who knows art from shinola.”
“Isn’t the expression something else from shinola?”
Hailey grinned. “Umm. Tell you what, when the first one sells, I’ll take you to lunch to celebrate.”
Clen left the portrait of Thomasina behind, still uncertain it was the right thing to do, but otherwise the visit with Hailey had left her with a pleasant feeling of possibility.
Gerrum was at the Visitors’ Center checking with Doreen on his bookings, when she mentioned seeing Clen enter ZimoviArt that morning carrying a large package.
When he finished with Doreen, he walked next door. “Are Clen’s paintings hung yet?”
Hailey pointed, and he moved slowly from picture to picture. The harbor scenes were good, but it was the portrait that snagged his attention. The woman in the portrait had an air of serene melancholy that was only slightly leavened by the promise of humor in the shape of the mouth.
He lifted it off the wall and brought it over to the counter. “I think this one is priced too low. I’d say it’s worth at least two hundred.”
“Are you interested in buying it, or do you just want to criticize my pricing?” Hailey said.
“I want to buy it. I’d never try to tell you how to conduct your business.”
“What a relief.” Her lips curved into a totally fake smile. “It would surely be a pain if I had to answer to a grubby Alaskan fisherman every time I did something.”