Authors: Ann Warner
After a fast mile, she still hadn’t outpaced the restlessness released by the encounter with Elmer—a restlessness that intensified as the past swirled around her like one of Wrangell’s frequent rain squalls.
Racism. Bigotry. The reason she ended up married to Paul Douglas.
She turned onto a faint track leading to the water, found a rock to sit on, and let memory pull her under.
Paul had asked her to marry him, but she hadn’t yet given him an answer the night they went to the Segovia for dinner. The Segovia, as lily white as its tablecloths, was one of Atlanta’s most expensive and exclusive restaurants, the kind of place Paul liked. She’d considered it overpriced and pretentious.
After they ordered drinks, Paul excused himself to make a phone call. When he returned five minutes later, he was accompanied by an elegantly dressed young black couple. Behind them, the maitre d’ motioned frantically at one of the waiters.
“Clen, I’d like you to meet Tom and Candy Smithson,” Paul said. “I thought, if it’s okay with you, they might join us? The maitre d’ claims their reservation was lost, and he can’t seem to find another table for them, even though the restaurant is half empty.”
“It’s very okay.” Clen stood and held out her hand, first to Candy then Tom. “How lovely to meet you both.”
The maitre d’ hovered, wringing his hands and trying to get Paul’s attention. It was focused on seating the Smithsons. “Mr. Douglas, there’s been a mistake. I found the reservation. I can seat Mr. and Mrs. Smithson.”
“As you can see, they’re already seated.” When Paul used that tone, secretaries trembled. The maitre d’, despite his tuxedo, rose boutonniere, and highly polished shoes, was obviously a secretary at heart. He slunk away.
Candy turned a worried look toward Clen. “We don’t want to impose on you.”
“Nonsense,” Paul said. “If that man had his way, he’d seat you by the kitchen and ignore you. Much better to sit out here in the middle, where they can’t forget you.”
As if responding to Paul’s assessment, waiters appeared and, with a flurry, gave the Smithsons silverware and menus and took drink orders. When it arrived, the food was awful—the pasta mushy, the steaks tough.
Paul smiled at Tom and Candy. “In your honor, if I’m not mistaken.”
They ate bread and salads and picked at the entrees, taking their time, because eating was really beside the point. At first, Tom and Candy had been visibly nervous but they were also determined. They’d come to the restaurant, they told Clen and Paul, as their way of furthering the cause of civil rights.
By the time the evening ended, the four of them were chatting comfortably, as if sitting together in public, black and white, was the commonplace occurrence it now was, thanks to people like the Smithsons.
After that dinner, Clen, thinking Paul’s championing of the Smithson’s right to eat at the Segovia was a sign of a loving and generous heart, had finally agreed to marry him. Except...if she were totally honest, she’d have to admit it wasn’t the only reason. Perfect honesty required her to admit her mother also had something to do with it.
Her parents had come to Atlanta for Thanksgiving, and Paul joined them for dinner. Her mother was smitten. In the kitchen after dinner, she asked Clen avid questions about Paul.
“My, he’s attractive, Michelle.”
And Clen knew what else her mother was thinking, even though she didn’t say it:
A woman with your looks doesn’t usually attract a man as good-looking as this one.
“As a matter of fact, he asked me to marry him.”
“Oh my goodness, Michelle! How wonderful. When is the wedding?”
“I haven’t said yes.”
“Why ever not? He’s handsome, he’s charming, and he has a good job with excellent prospects. What more do you want?”
Love. She wanted love. But she couldn’t tell her mother she was no more sure of Paul’s feelings than she was of her own. “He’s been waiting a month. Another couple of weeks shouldn’t be a big deal.”
“A month? You mean he asked you to marry him a month ago, and you still haven’t given him an answer?”
“I gave him an answer. I said I’d think about it.”
“Good Lord, Michelle. I’ve never seen you as a
femme fatale
, I’ll admit it. But this is ridiculous. You’re playing with him like a cat with a mouse. It isn’t right for either one of you.”
Her mother was correct in saying it wasn’t a good situation, but only partly right in her cat and mouse analogy. She had that backwards. More like Paul was the cat and Clen the mouse.
She didn’t believe, any more than her mother, that he really wanted to marry her. She figured as soon as she said yes, he’d lose interest and move on, and she’d be left with the empty life she’d had before he entered it. “I just want to be sure.”
“Well, you need to work on that.”
Later, Clen walked Paul to the door, and as she returned to the living room, she could hear her parents talking.
“Well, I certainly never expected Michelle to end up with a man like that.” Her mother.
“Our daughter has grown into a beautiful, accomplished woman and she’s lucky to have met a man with the intelligence to recognize it.” Her father.
Was that it then? She’d married Paul because her mother thought he was too handsome for her gawky daughter, and the gawky daughter wanted to prove her mother wrong?
Maybe, although that didn’t explain why she’d stayed married to him after the loss of delight and the deepening of indifference. After cross words became more than occasional and silences accumulated.
Had she been hoping it would work out?
No. Hope was one of the first casualties.
More likely it had been inertia along with the belief her life wouldn’t be any better without Paul. So why go through the upheaval of leaving him. At least, that was her thinking before she discovered he was unfaithful.
The sudden blast from a boat horn jerked her back to the present. The waters of Zimovia Strait were gray today under a low overcast. Summer in Alaska, indeed. For sure, nothing like Atlanta.
A splat of rain hit her cheek and another tapped her shoulder. She zipped her jacket against the chill and pulled out the waterproof poncho she’d begun carrying after she discovered how much it rained in Wrangell. Then she sat watching the rain pock the surface of the water, forming infinite, interlocking circles.
Everything affected everything else. It was never enough to take one thing in isolation without considering all that came before...and after.
Paul, only the tip of her personal iceberg.
But at least she’d finally addressed one of the questions Sister Mary John insisted she answer. The rest would have to await its own time.
On Thursday, Hailey showed up for their lunch toting a grocery bag. “I thought it would be fun to have a picnic.”
They walked over to Shakes Island, where a half dozen visitors wandered in and out of the tribal house, and chose a spot outside, near the water.
Clen spread the blanket she’d borrowed from Marian, and Hailey pulled food out of the bag. “I wasn’t certain what you’d prefer, so I had them give me a selection of meats and cheeses. And I got éclairs for dessert, by the way, in case you like to plan.”
“If we eat all this, we’ll either need a nap or a long hike.”
“I guess I got carried away.”
“It all looks delicious.” Hoping to put Hailey at ease, Clen took one of the buns and added slices of ham and turkey. “Marian told me this is your second summer in Wrangell, and I’ve been wondering ever since, what made you decide to come here?”
Hailey, building her own sandwich, shrugged. “When I decided to open a summer gallery, Wrangell seemed like the best bet.”
“It’s a bit off the beaten path, though.”
“That’s why you like it, right?”
“You may be right.” Not that Clen intended to admit how close to home that comment was.
“How about the fall. What are your plans?” Hailey said. “You aren’t staying in Wrangell, are you?”
“No. I’ll leave once the lodge closes for the season. I just haven’t figured out where I’m going yet.”
“How about next year. Are you coming back?”
“The Jeffers asked me to, but I don’t know if I will.”
“Well, be sure you stay in touch. I’d like to continue handling your work.”
“Oh, I see. You’re asking out of professional interest.” Clen smiled at Hailey, who smiled back before taking a bite of her sandwich.
“So, why a summer gallery?” Among other things, Clen was wondering how someone so young managed to finance it.
“I worked in the personnel department of a greeting card company. Part of the job was recruiting artists. I finally decided I could put my eye for talent to much better use.”
“You’re lucky to have made a success of it so quickly.”
“Actually, I almost went under the first month.” Hailey had a wry look.
“What saved you?”
“Not so much what, as who. After three weeks here, I’d sold only a couple of Tess’s quilt squares, and I was feeling totally desperate. Then Bev Feeney showed up. She was carrying this huge purse with a major case of the uglies, and she pulled this thing out that looked like a small hairy dog. I thought, ‘What in the world?’ It was a fur parka, of course. After that, Dorothy Demetrioff came in and showed me these intricately knitted scarves that seem to float around your neck. ‘Them’s qiviut,’ she told me, ‘under wool of the musk ox.’ Which explained why I’d never heard of it. Then Dorothy and Bev spread the word, and some local carvers stopped by. I’ve been in the black ever since.”
“What do you do in the winter?”
“I spend it in Seattle. Last year I landed a job in a French restaurant. The tips were good, and it gave me the days free to scout out artists.”
“Does your family live in Seattle?”
“Nope. There’s just me. Well, I do have a brother, but I haven’t heard from him in years. I don’t even know if he’s alive.” Hailey spoke in an offhand way, but there was something—a sudden desolate look in her eyes—that indicated she wasn’t nearly as blasé as she pretended to be.
“I lost a brother.” The words formed and were said before Clen could remind herself it wasn’t a good idea to share too much of herself with anyone in Wrangell. “That is, he died.”
“Recently?”