Authors: Ann Warner
“Are you ready to move on?” he asked.
Clen closed the sketchbook and lifted a hand to encompass the pool, trees, and waterfall. “You have my full confidence in deciding where we go next.”
He counted her acquiescence a victory in what he viewed as a personal challenge to get this woman to smile more often and to bend those arms that kept everyone at a distance.
Back in the main channel, the jet boat skimmed the opaque surface of the river, making short work of the rapid current. As he watched for debris, he thought about what to suggest if there were visitors at the hot springs. They’d become a popular destination since the forest service built a soaking tub, and often, particularly on weekends, the tub filled with guys who didn’t bring swimsuits but did bring an ample supply of six-packs. Whenever he found a boat tied to the small dock, he tended to give the place a pass, but today his luck held. No boats, no people.
After a leisurely lunch, he suggested a soak in the hot water. Clen looked around at the arrangement of deck, tub, and changing cubicles before agreeing. That agreement was especially pleasing, since he’d fully expected her to say she’d forgotten her suit or didn’t have one. Another small victory in a day filled with them, if one were keeping score—which, it seemed, he was.
Clen came out of the cubicle wrapped in a towel. She set it aside as she slid into the tub, giving him only a brief glimpse of the figure she’d been hiding with bulky sweaters and chef coats. Her swimsuit was a navy one piece, utilitarian rather than provocative, but Clen looked good in it. More substantial than a girl but still long-legged, slim-hipped, and sleek as a seal.
“So tell me,” she said. “Before you moved to Wrangell, where did you live and what did you do?”
He was beginning to suspect she asked questions not out of true curiosity but rather to maintain her distance. This time, he wasn’t letting her get away with it.
“I was an attorney. In Seattle.” He anticipated her next question, which he could almost see forming on her lips. “I left because I was bored. So what did you do, before Wrangell?”
A brief shadow of something, possibly annoyance, crossed her face. “Financial analyst, Atlanta.”
“That’s quite a leap. From financial analyst to cook.”
“So’s attorney to fishing guide.”
“Good point. What’s your story?” he said.
“Oh, the usual, I suppose.”
When he remained silent, she glanced at him. He raised his eyebrows in inquiry.
After a moment, she shrugged. “I don’t know. Tired of being in a rut, I guess. I decided to do some of the things I dreamed about when I was younger.”
“You dreamed of working as a cook?”
She snorted softly. “Hardly. But I wanted to go somewhere new and not just visit, but be part of the community.”
“Where did you learn to cook?”
“The basics from my mother. Then I met this elderly woman who shared some of her secrets.” A smile played on Clen’s lips. “The sort of meals we serve at the lodge aren’t fancy. The biggest challenge is figuring out quantities, and John helps with that.”
Her gaze drifted to the meadow, and he grabbed the opportunity to examine her. Like the woman in the portrait, her eyes seemed sad. She lifted a hand out of the water and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, leaving droplets on her cheek that looked like tears. He tried to memorize it all so he could write it down later. The pale glimmer of water on skin, the way her mouth curved when she was silent, the dark feathering of hair framing her face, the faint lines beginning to form in the corners of mouth and eyes. If he painted, he’d call it
Portrait of a Woman at the Threshold
.
“Why did you pick Wrangell?” he asked.
She shook her head, as if gathering her thoughts from a distance. “I don’t know if I can explain.”
He waited, watching her hands. She had long fingers and she moved them unconsciously and gracefully in the water.
“Awhile back, I came for a visit,” she said, looking away from him. “Took the ferry, stopped in Juneau, Petersburg, Ketchikan, Haines. You know, the whole loop. It’s all beautiful, but there was something about Wrangell. I don’t know. It just felt...comfortable, I guess. Like a pair of jeans you’ve worn for years until they’re soft as flannel. I never forgot it. That feeling.” Her gaze remained unfocused for a beat then she blinked and glanced at him. “Why did you choose Wrangell?”
He pictured the skeins of morning fog floating along the narrow length of Petersburg’s harbor, the wooden walkways suspended over a Ketchikan slough, the quiet pace of the evening in Skagway after the tours had collected their passengers and departed. Then he’d arrived in Wrangell, and seeing the fishing boats tucked into the curve of Wrangell’s tiny inner harbor, he had simply known.
“Roughly the same reason, I guess.”
“And now it’s home.”
“Yes.”
Clen swirled her hands in the water, watching the pattern of ripples. “Do you ever miss the other? The big city, the hustle and bustle, having a professional career?”
The question felt more personal than her others, and so he framed his answer carefully. “Sometimes I do. The further I move away from it, the easier it is to focus on the good and forget the not so good. I think the trick is to remember both.”
She listened with a frown, staring at the patterns she was forming in the water.
“How about you?” he asked. “Do you miss Atlanta, your career?”
She gave her head a quick shake. “Good Lord, no.”
Her sharp response puzzled him because her question about his past had sounded pensive, as if she were missing something, or someone.
“What about Wrangell?” he said, determined to keep her talking. “Is it what you expected?”
“Not exactly. But most things turn out not to be what we expect.”
“Yet we continue to be surprised by that. So what surprised you the most about Wrangell?”
Her expression went from a frown to a rueful look. “I guess I expected people to be friendly. Just not so...” Her hands stilled their restless movements.
“I think the word you’re looking for is attentive?” Although he suspected she was more likely thinking “pushy” or “nosy.”
“More than. It’s taken a bit of getting used to. A big city is so...impersonal.”
He wanted to ask her about her marriage and the abbey then, to find out where they fit in, but he feared it might sever the tentative lines of communication they’d managed to string between them.
They continued to soak and chat, but he didn’t learn anything more about her, unless he counted the fact she said so little about herself. He looked toward the meadow to see a moose emerge from the woods at the far end.
He pointed it out to Clen, and they watched until the animal turned and sauntered back into the trees. He got another smile for that.
A good day.
Hailey left word with Marian that another of Clen’s pictures had sold, and Clen stopped by ZimoviArt to see which one.
“The one of Rolf Peterson’s boat,” Hailey said. “A young couple from Seattle bought it.”
“Two down, two to go.” Clen felt good about that, although the loss of Thomasina’s portrait was still a sore point.
“I really owe you that lunch,” Hailey said.
“That’s okay. I won’t hold you to it.”
“Really, I’d like to. Thursday? And why don’t you go ahead and frame another couple of harbor scenes. If you bring your portfolio by, I’ll let you know the ones I prefer.” Hailey fiddled with her checkbook. “Did you enjoy your day with Gerrum?”
Being expert at offhand questions, Clen could recognize one, and she suddenly felt like she was treading on eggshells. “It was a pleasant day. I ended up with a lot of sketches.”
“You sketched?” Hailey looked up, apparently surprised.
“Sure. That was the whole idea.” And given the sketches, she didn’t regret taking the trip, despite the increased teasing that followed. Gerrum had proven to be an easy companion, one who could be silent without fidgeting, and when he spoke, his comments were thoughtful and intelligent—a combination she’d always found appealing. Given different circumstances, they might easily become friends.
“That’s good to know. Since I want more of your work to sell.” Hailey handed Clen the check she’d written out. “Until Thursday, then.”
When Clen walked out of ZimoviArt she found Elmer Cantrell loitering by the display window. Kody had shifted to the other side of the doorway, away from Elmer.
“There’s something you oughta know about that there Gerrum Kirsey,” Elmer said, his lips lifting enough to show off a ragged row of brown teeth. “He’s a half-breed.”
Clen was angling to pass Elmer but, at those words, she paused and turned to face him. Good grief, did people still use that term? And look who was talking. “Half-breed?” she murmured, giving Elmer a cool stare and moving her eyes up and down the entire pudgy, unattractive length of him. In his case, a different genetic makeup could only be an improvement.
“Yeah. He’s part Tlingit.” Elmer spat out the word as if it tasted bad. “Best you don’t mess with him. You can’t trust them kind.”
“Your concern for my welfare is touching.” She felt her lip curling in disgust, but Elmer looked like she’d complimented him. So not only was the man repulsive, he was dumb as zucchini, not to speak ill of zucchini. “But you need to take the subject up with Gerrum.” Who, she hoped, would knock every one of those nasty-looking stubs down Elmer’s ugly throat.
“Hell, don’t do no good. Nothing gets to that man. Acts like you ain’t said or did nothing.”
Something she’d already witnessed and, actually, it did have a certain elegance her tooth-removal plan lacked. Deciding, she walked away. Kody scrambled to join her.
“Hey, lady,” Elmer yelled. “I’m doing you a good turn. So’s you know what you’re dealing with. Ain’t like you’re the only woman he’s stringing along.”
Kody turned and growled at Elmer’s aggressive tone.
Clen bent and touched the dog’s head. “It’s okay, boy.”
Kody licked her hand as if to reassure her he’d be happy to bite Elmer if she wanted him to, but she was now committed to Gerrum’s nonviolent solution. She continued walking, tapping her thigh to encourage Kody to follow.
Elmer’s odious comments had raised her hackles as well as Kody’s, and her first impulse was to find Gerrum and invite him to a very public lunch. But while that might send the right message to Elmer Cantrell and his ilk, it might send the wrong message to Gerrum—something she didn’t want to do.
She picked up her pace, leaving Elmer and his insinuations behind. Kody trotted at her side, whining to remind her to slow down. When they reached the lodge, she told Kody to stay and lengthened her stride to a jog as she followed the road leading out of town.