The Artist Colony

by Joanna FitzPatrick

  “Would you like to dance?” asked Robert.

  Moments later, he had her moving smoothly across the floor, guiding her with his hand pressed firmly on her back. Earlier she had noticed a slight limp when he walked, but it was unnoticeable on the dance floor.

  He had a fabulous two-step and he twirled her around until she felt like a professional ballroom dancer. He even knew the Charleston. After “Lady Luck Blues,” Sarah was laughing and fanning her flushed face with her hand.

  “I think we could use some air,” said Robert. He grabbed his jacket and her shawl from the bar and, taking her hand, led her back onto the terrace.

  The half-moon’s reflection was undulating on the rippling water. The brisk sea air made Sarah shiver. Robert draped his leather jacket over her shoulders. She felt cozy inside it, the fur collar warming her neck.

  Her boyfriend, Joe, had returned to New York wearing a similar jacket when he was on furlough. The last time she saw him alive. “Is this a commissioned naval jacket?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I was wearing it the night our ship was bombed and I caught a bullet in my right leg.”

  “I’m sorry you were wounded.”

  “Don’t be. I was lucky. It got me sent home. Many of my shipmates didn’t make it back.”

  A few hundred feet from shore a loud powerboat crossed in front of them in the moonlight.

  “I’d like to give you a ride in one of those. It’s wild fun. They go really fast.”

  Her fear was visible.

  “Hold on,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I wasn’t suggesting we go out now. But what about in the daylight?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Sarah. “I’d be too afraid.”

  “Why? You’d be safe with me and if you don’t know how to swim there are life jackets.”

  “That’s not the reason. I grew up swimming in Lake Michigan, but now the ocean frightens me because of what happened to my sister.”

  “Of course, how stupid of me not to realize,” said Robert. “After my brother died, I didn’t want to be anywhere near San Francisco.”

  Sarah turned to face him. “When was that?”

  Robert spoke softly, avoiding her eyes. “Just last year. Jake had failed his classes at Berkeley and started drinking and running with a bad crowd. I tried to get him to stop and go back to school, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He told me he didn’t care what I thought and to leave him alone. The day before his birthday I called him up to say I was in San Francisco and I’d like to take him out for dinner. He sounded much better, said he’d stopped drinking and had registered for fall classes. The last thing I expected when I got there was to find him hanging from a rafter in his apartment.”

  Sarah gasped. “How awful for you to find him like that.”

  “The worst part of it is I can never shake the feeling that it was somehow my fault. I should’ve done more to keep him safe.” He turned to her. “I don’t ever talk about it, but I thought you’d understand, because of what happened to your sister. Do you know why she killed herself?”

  “She didn’t,” said Sarah, pulling away from him.

  “But I understood from the newspapers and from Sirena—”

  “She’s wrong! They’re all very wrong!”

  Just then Sirena stepped into their circle of moonlight on the terrace and hooked her arm in Sarah’s. “It’s getting late. We should be getting back home.”

  Sarah handed Robert his jacket and said good night.

  “I’m not giving up on that powerboat ride,” he called out as the two girls walked away.

  Because there were no streetlights in Carmel they barely saw their feet or each other’s faces on their silent walk home.

  “Why don’t you like Robert?” asked Sarah when they reached the Sketch Box gate.

  “Who said I didn’t like him?”

  “You certainly don’t act like it. You were arguing with him when I came into the lounge and you kept throwing daggers at him all evening. He seems like such a nice guy. He’s been through so much, what with the war and his brother.”

  “Do you believe all that stuff?”

  “What do you mean by that? Robert has no reason to lie to me. Look, Sirena, if there is something going on between you two, please tell me, and if it upsets you I won’t see him again. I promise.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m just his model. That’s all.”

  “Then what were you arguing about?”

  “Money. What else? He’s loaded and he should pay me more for my hours.”

  “But you told me he did pay you well.”

  “That’s why we were arguing. He was backing off on his original offer.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Sarah, lifting the gate latch. “He didn’t seem tight with money.”

  Sirena stopped her from opening the gate. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take my anger with Robert out on you. Will you still come with me to the Jeffers’ party tomorrow?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t know, I thought you wouldn’t want to go with me now that you have Robert to take you around.”

  “Sirena, you can’t be serious. I hardly know him.”

  “Just be careful. Annie meant it when she said he was a ladies’ man.”

  Sirena took off across the road, her footsteps echoing in the night air.

  SUNDAY, JULY 27

  —14—

  Sarah woke in a sunny, warm bed and breathed in the gentle breeze coming through the open bay window. Ada would’ve been more than pleased that Sarah had moved into the upstairs bedroom that had been designed especially for her. And if things were the way they should be, Ada would be in the kitchen making coffee, she thought sadly.

  Her attention fell on the easel Ada had placed in front of the window knowing Sarah would want it there. The sudden impulse to paint made her sit up. She’d been in Carmel a whole week and, except for the two days in Champlin’s class, she hadn’t held a paintbrush.

  But how could she paint knowing the portraits were still missing and she wasn’t any closer to finding out who murdered Ada? She slapped her palms down on the quilt in frustration. Albert jumped up on the bed and rolled over, demanding his morning tummy rub. She obliged while her thoughts went once again to the missing portraits.

  Eric Crocker would have received her telegram. He’d be furious. She had to tell him something. But what? The truth was unbearable. A lie was far worse.

  She took a brisk walk with Albert and returned to the Sketch Box wondering what to do with herself until the Jeffers’s garden party. There was a row of poetry books on Ada’s living room bookshelf and she brought out Robinson Jeffers’s Tamar and Other Poems. Inside the cover was an inscription: Before there was any water there were tides of fire, both our tones flow from the older fountain. With admiration and affection, Robin.

  She brought the slim book, a pack of cigarettes, and a glass of lemonade onto the fenced-in back patio. Stretched out on a lounge chair, she read and slowly turned the pages, attracted and repulsed by the visceral scenes in Tamar, Jeffers’s epic poem. That Jeffers had published it himself was understandable. It would have been difficult to find a publisher willing to publish a story based without censure on the incestuous love affair between a brother and sister living in a mountain village in Big Sur.

  She must have fallen asleep because she was startled awake when Sirena called her name, her head popping over the backyard fence. “Wake up, Sarah. It’s two o’clock. We’re going to be late. You must hurry.”

  Slipping into her sundress in the upstairs bedroom, she realized she’d forgotten to purchase a wide-brimmed hat in Monterey to protect her eyes from the California sun’s glare, plus it wasn’t really acceptable to be hatless at a social event. She ran down to Ada’s bedroom remembering there was a wide-brimmed teal-blue straw hat hanging on the closet door. The quill of a big and colorful eye-of-the-peacock feather was pinned to its band. The feather�
�s oculus of bright and iridescent indigo, green and gold looked skyward.

  The eye-of-the-peacock seemed to be daring her to wear it. Oh why not? she thought as she tamped it down on her obstinate hair that she didn’t have time to press into submission.

  When she came into the living room, Sirena gaped at her like she did when Sarah had worn Ada’s bathrobe.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Sarah.

  “Sorry,” said Sirena, quickly recovering. “You look so like Ada. She always caused a stir when she wore that sun hat.”

  Sarah took it off. “Maybe I shouldn’t wear it. Mr. Jeffers might think I was being disrespectful to my sister’s memory.”

  “Not at all. He’d say it looks swell on you.” Sirena grinned and reached for it, “Or if you’re too uncomfortable, I’ll wear it.”

  Sarah laughed. “Oh no, you don’t. You look very vivant already with your string of red beads and carmine red lips. I’ll wear my sister’s hat.”

  “C’mon, we’re late,” Sirena said, hurrying out the door.

  As they walked down Camino Real, Sirena spoke of the famous writer, Mary Austin. Like Jack London, Austin was an original member of Carmel’s artist colony. She now lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and was a guest at the Jeffers home.

  “She was quite a firecracker in her day and I hear she still is,” laughed Sirena.

  Sarah asked if Mr. Champlin would be there.

  “Probably not. He’s not one to mingle with the locals. Friday was his last class and he’ll be leaving soon to go back to New York.”

  “I wish I was leaving too,” confided Sarah. “I’ll have to cancel my exhibition if I don’t get back soon.”

  “Oh no, Sarah, you shouldn’t do that! After Ada’s memorial, you should go. Rosie and I can take care of Albert and the cottage until you can come back and sort things out.”

  “Thanks, Sirena. But it’s not just the cottage and Albert that are keeping me here.”

  They walked on in silence until they reached the Jeffers’s stone cottage. TOR HOUSE was written on the gate.

  On the beach with Rosie, Sarah hadn’t had as clear a view. Now, from this angle, she immediately recognized the cottage perched on a wild, unprotected outcrop of boulders, its foundation a stronghold against the many squalls and blustery waves thrown up against it. The hues of yellows, oranges, whites, and blues against the gray granite walls of the cottage were as breathtaking as when Ada had painted it.

  The guests were sitting on limestone benches on the stone patio or milling about in the garden of herbs and bushes, weeds and wildflowers. Sirena urged her forward through the gate, but Sarah told her to go on ahead. She wanted to take a few moments to enjoy the beauty surrounding her. She was wondering where Ada’s painting of Tor House might be, when pounding steps on the stone walkway approached her from behind.

  “Where have you been, Miss Cunningham?” said Paul deVrais with a menacing voice. “My lawyer has been trying to reach you, but Ada’s telephone is disconnected. As I told you, I’m very worried about Ada’s paintings. And as you don’t seem to realize their value, they must be removed from the cottage immediately and placed in my vault.”

  Sarah looked straight into his eyes. There was something less intimidating about a man who was her exact height. “I told you yesterday, Mr. deVrais, you no longer have any rights to Ada Davenport’s artwork.”

  “You’re not taking me seriously, Miss Cunningham. That’s a mistake. Be forewarned. Ada’s paintings are legally mine, including the portraits. My lawyer, Mr. L.G. Hubbard, will track you down and make that clear.” He flung open the gate and stomped inside.

  “He’s two hoops and a holler,” said Sirena, returning. “What was that all about?”

  “He wants me to believe he has power over me, but he doesn’t. I won’t cower to his threats.”

  Sarah tilted Ada’s wide-brimmed hat down to shade her eyes. The ever-watchful eye-of-the-peacock looked straight ahead. “Do I look all right?”

  “Sensational,” Sirena said, hooking her arm through Sarah’s. “Shall we make our grand entrance?”

  Sarah heard a few murmurs as she approached the guests and then a buzzing of whispers like hummingbird wings, making her wish she’d left Ada’s hat at home. Nothing to be done about it now. She tossed her shawl over one shoulder, raised her chin and stepped onto the flagstone patio.

  An attractive woman with lustrous auburn hair loosely pinned back off a robust Irish face, with round cheeks and wide, intelligent eyes, came over and gave her a hearty handshake. “Hello. I’m Una Jeffers. We were hoping you would come.” Before Sarah could respond, “You needn’t introduce yourself. I know Ada’s hat. It becomes you.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet a good friend of my sister’s,” said Sarah, taking an immediate liking to her lovely hostess.

  Una turned to Sirena, “Thank you for bringing her. If you’ll excuse us, I’d like to have her to myself for a few minutes.” Sirena shrugged and joined the other guests.

  Una picked up a drink from a dozen of the same on a side table and handed it to Sarah. “Please have a glass of my homemade Coine-Eairngorm wine. A recipe from the Scottish Highlands. It’s made from oranges, raisins, and rice and promises to put you at ease. I know this might be a rather awkward situation for you.”

  “If I had known the attention I’d get . . .” She reached up to take off Ada’s plumed hat.

  “No. Wear it. Proudly.”

  Though of small stature, Una had the poise of a very confident woman who was accustomed to people doing as she bid. Sarah took a sip of the wine and told Una it was delicious, which it was. Just the right amount of fruits and spices and wine.

  Her hostess led her to a corner of the garden, presumably to show off her yellow rose geraniums and purple lavender but when they were alone she dropped her voice.

  “The circumstances surrounding Ada’s suicide were very strange and frankly beyond belief. We knew Ada very well and Robin and I both want you to know that we do not believe your sister killed herself. Marshal Judd was not at all thorough and we think the insurance company pressed him for a quick verdict in their favor.”

  Sarah inhaled quickly and breathed out. “Thank you for telling me that. It’s encouraging to know that at least a few people in Carmel feel the same as I do.”

  “We’ll help you anyway we can in your search for the truth.”

  “When did you last see Ada?”

  “The day before the fireworks. She stopped by here with Albert. She was very excited about something, but when I asked her what it was, she said she wanted you to be the first to know and was sending you a letter. Did she?”

  “No. But I think I know what it was.” Sarah was about to tell Una about Ada’s pregnancy, hoping she might know the father, but before she could confide in her, they were interrupted by two boisterous women joining them.

  The conversation immediately turned to the upcoming local play. “It’s unfortunate,” said Una, “that Pirates of Penzance was scheduled to be the last play in the outdoor theater this summer. Even now it can be chilly in the evenings, but we’ll have a few bonfires to keep everyone warm and Alain Delacroix, who’s playing the role of Frederic the Pirate, is known to light a few fires himself.” At this she gave a little shoulder shimmy. The two women smiled in agreement and nodded their heads. Una turned to Sarah, “Have you seen Alain perform on Broadway? He’s simply marvelous.”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Sarah, slightly irritated. She could care less about this actor and wanted to resume their private conversation.

  “Then come meet him and my husband,” said Una. She took Sarah’s hand and drew her away from the other guests over to a low ornate metal gate on the other side of the garden that fronted the Pacific. Two men were slowly climbing up a steep wooden staircase from the rocky coast below.

  “There they are.” The gaunt man leading the way up heard Una call out “Robin” and he raised his long arm and waved. His prominent nose, arched cheeks, an
d square chin appeared to be sculpted from the granite boulders below.

  A savage pirate followed behind him, or so it seemed from Sarah’s first impression. Thick black hair fell down to his shoulders and a bushy beard and thick brows covered most of his face. He was a well-built, muscular man like Robin, but smaller in stature. He looked up at the two women and tripped on a step. Robin quickly gripped his arm to keep him from falling off the steep ledge.

  “Alain!” said Una, when they reached the top step. “Have you been dipping into my Irish whiskey again?” The pirate turned and squinted at the horizon. He seemed to be looking for a boat to rescue him.

  Robin Jeffers, the poet of Tamar, was just as Sarah had imagined him: a commanding figure, who was now holding her hand in an iron grip, his alert eyes probing hers.

  “Miss Cunningham. What a pleasure to finally meet you, though I wish it were under better circumstances. I was deeply fond of Ada. Her death was a terrible shock. I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult it must be for you, her sister.”

  Alain Delacroix showed no interest in their talk of Ada. When he finally did turn to face Sarah, his swarthy complexion was barely visible. A pointed moustache curled on its ends as if in cheerful rebellion against the brooding face it was attached to.

  “Alain is our pirate-in-residence,” said Robin, smiling down at his companion on the step below.

  “That’s why we forgive him the hirsute mask,” added Una. “It’s impossible to see right now, but there is a gentle poetic soul lurking underneath this pirate of Penzance. Lucky for us, when the other Frederic got sick, we were able to convince him to take a break from shooting a film in Hollywood to take over the role.”

  Delacroix, clearly uncomfortable with the attention, looked at the eye-of-the-peacock waving in the breeze and turned away.

  “Alain, don’t shirk!” said Una. “It’s not like Sarah wants your autograph. A pleasant hello will do.”

  He did as he was asked and turned away again.