The Joining Tree

by Claire Fogel

Mom could see that I was suddenly nervous. “Relax, Cara. Your work is beautiful. Everyone will see that. Have you decided which ones you’re willing to sell?”

  And that gave me something else to think about. I hadn’t even considered selling my artwork before. “I think I should just wait and see if anyone’s interested in buying, Mom.” My self confidence, at that point, was a little shaky.

  We drove to the Art Gallery, parked in their lot and entered through the gallery’s back door. A well-dressed woman in a blue suit, who looked older than my mother, rushed up to us.

  “Which one of you is Cara Blackthorne?” she asked.

  Mom pushed me forward. “This is Cara. Are you Miss Galen, Francis Sullivan’s agent?”

  The woman smiled warmly. “Yes, and I’m delighted to meet you. She shook Mom’s hand. “You must be Cara’s mother.” She seemed a bit surprised when she looked at me.

  “My dear, when Francis wrote me about you, I had no idea you’d be so young.” My heart sank a little.

  She smiled. “I’ll bet you haven’t yet seen your work framed, have you?”

  I shook my head, and she took my hand and led me into the gallery. The first thing I saw was one of Francis’ latest paintings, a large oil painting showing two young boys flying kites at a beach. It was framed in a pale wood that seemed to match the color of the sand dunes shown in the painting. It was such a joyful scene, I could barely take my eyes off of it. Then I peeked at the price and almost fainted. I immediately understood why the gallery’s customers were described as “fairly wealthy.”

  Miss Galen said, “Isn’t it marvelous? Francis’ work is in such demand. But come take a look at your paintings.”

  She led me to the wall at one side of the gallery where my two watercolors and the four pen and ink drawings had been hung. I stood there amazed at what I was seeing. I’d never seen my artwork displayed this way before, and it all looked so much better than I’d expected.

  That was when I realized that my work did belong here. People would like it. I finally relaxed. I felt like celebrating.

  Miss Galen said, “Well, what do you think, Cara? Have we done justice to your work?”

  Turning to her, I said, “I can’t get over how good they look. They’ve been framed perfectly, and the way the gallery has hung them is wonderful. Honestly, I never expected my work to look so amazing.”

  She chuckled. “Your work is amazing, Cara. When the public starts arriving, I predict the display of your drawings and paintings will attract a great deal of attention. Have you given any thought to selling? Should we put prices on any of them?”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Mom, what do you think? Should I sell them?”

  “That’s completely up to you, dear.”

  I had to think about this. I thought I could probably bear to sell the two watercolor paintings, but the Elf drawings I’d done in pen and ink were too close to my heart. Especially one of them.

  “Miss Galen, I’m willing to sell the two watercolors, but these pen and ink drawings are too personal. I’m happy to show them, but I can’t sell them.”

  She shook her head. “I see. Well, I’ll price the two paintings and we’ll see what happens. I hope you’ll do more pen and ink drawings in the future. They are really lovely.

  “Now, I’d suggest you and your mother walk around the gallery and enjoy Mr. Sullivan’s paintings. People will be arriving any minute.”

  As we were admiring Francis’ other paintings, a tall man approached us and introduced himself. “I am Henri Jourdan. I own the gallery. It is a real pleasure to meet a new young artist, Miss Blackthorne.” He had a heavy French accent, a thin mustache, and he reminded me of an old-time movie star.

  Mom shook his hand and he gave me a small bow and a smile before he wandered away, gazing at all the art hanging on the white walls of his gallery. People were now coming in the front door, most well dressed and middle-aged or older. I was happy to see a few younger couples trail in along with one or two single people, who looked like artists themselves.

  A well-dressed young man passed out glasses of champagne to the growing crowd. When he spotted Mom and me, he smiled, handed Mom a glass of champagne and said, “I have something special for you, young lady.”

  He reappeared a few minutes later with a champagne glass holding what looked like ginger ale. “For you, Miss Blackthorne. When you want a refill, just let me know. I’m Hank. Mr. Jourdan is my father.” He winked at me and left to pass out more champagne.

  We continued to wander around the gallery, admiring Francis’ wonderful oil paintings, all of which featured children playing. I heard murmurs of “such carefree, happy scenes,” “Mr. Sullivan must adore children,” and “I wish we could afford this one.”

  When we reached the wall where my work was displayed, we were behind an older couple and overheard, “lovely, her pen and ink drawings are so delicate. Is she here? I’d love to meet this girl, too bad they’re not for sale.” My photo was displayed on an easel at the front of the gallery, right next to Francis Sullivan’s.

  They turned around and were startled to find me right behind them. We all laughed. The older gentleman said, “You must be Cara Blackthorne. We’ve been admiring your work. My wife has fallen in love with your pen and ink drawings. Is there any chance you’ll change your mind about selling them?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. They’re very special to me. But I will be doing more drawings in pen and ink in the future and I might sell those.”

  His wife smiled at me. “Then I’ll look forward to seeing them another time. In the meantime, I’d love to buy one of your watercolors. You’ve used the most glorious colors in this autumn scene; they remind me of the woods near my family’s home in Vermont. And it’s clear how much you love the woodlands you paint.”

  “I do. This was painted in the woods behind my house. We live next to a beautiful forest. I spend a lot of time there.”

  “Well, I’m so glad we had a chance to meet you, Cara,” the man said. “We love to discover new artists. You have a bright future, young lady.”

  I thanked them and they moved away to look at more of Francis’ paintings.

  Mom looked at me and grinned. She whispered, “Have you noticed the prices Miss Galen placed on your watercolors?”

  I hadn’t. When I looked at the small price tag tucked in the corner of each frame, I gasped. My watercolors had been priced at five hundred dollars each. And one had just been sold!

  “Holy moly, Mom!” I couldn’t believe my own eyes.

  She was laughing. “Sweetheart, I don’t think the term ‘starving artist’ will ever be used to describe you.”

  By the time the crowd thinned and the gallery was ready to close, both of my watercolors had been sold, and several more requests had been made for my pen and ink drawings. Miss Galen congratulated me and asked me to keep painting because she had another Art show scheduled in June in New York City and wanted me to participate.

  The gallery owner, Mr. Jourdan, gave me a much deeper bow and kissed my hand before we left. “Miss Blackthorne, I sincerely hope your paintings will grace my humble gallery again very soon. You have a bright future, cheri.” He winked at me as we left.

  It was after eight when we left the gallery, way past dinner time for us.

  “I think we should celebrate your first successful art show, dear. I saw a nice looking steak house as we drove over here. In the mood for a steak?”

  I was. Mom pulled into the parking lot at the restaurant and we entered a rather dim, rustic place that smelled wonderful. Mom whispered, “They’re so busy, the food must be good.”

  And it was. After a thankfully brief wait, we sat down to Rib Eye steaks with baked potatoes and Caesar salads. The food was fantastic.

  “Did I actually make a thousand dollars today?” I asked as I put down my fork.

  Mom smiled. “Well, not quite. Both the gallery and Miss Galen get a percentage of your sales, but you’ll get enough to open your first bank a
ccount. Congratulations, Cara. I’d say your career as an artist has already begun.”

  It was a great feeling, and for once, my mind was full of the art I hadn’t yet created. This was the happiest I’d been in many months.

  Mom was enjoying a glass of wine when I noticed a man at another table staring at us. He was fairly young and was dining alone. When he continued to stare at me, Mom said, “Ignore him. I’m afraid you’ll get a lot of that once you’re out of Thornewood. Don’t stare back; you’ll just encourage him.”

  I took her advice and studiously ignored him until we left, but I couldn’t help noticing all the attention we received as we walked through the dining room on our way out. I decided it had to be for my pretty redheaded mother in her sleek black suit that fit her like a glove. She looked more like my older sister than my mom.

  As we walked out to our car, I noticed that we hadn’t parked in a very well-lit area. We had almost reached our car when a man came out from behind the restaurant and grabbed Mom’s purse, pushing her to the ground.

  I yelled, “Stop, don’t move.” My voice had deepened and echoed.

  It was the same man who had been staring at me in the restaurant. His mouth was hanging open, and he dropped Mom’s purse.

  “Mom, are you okay?” The man hadn’t moved.

  Her voice was faint as she picked herself up off the ground, looking somewhat shocked. “Yes, Cara. I’m all right. Uh, what do you want me to do?”

  “Why don’t you go back into the restaurant and tell them what happened. They can call the police. I’ll stay right here with him. He’s not going anywhere until the police arrive.”

  She picked her purse up off the ground and dashed back into the restaurant.

  I looked at our attacker again. My voice deepened again. “Why did you attack my mother?”

  He looked at me wide-eyed. “I heard you talking inside. You said something about making a thousand dollars. I need that money bad.” He was trying to move his feet but they seemed to be fastened to the ground.

  He was beginning to look desperate. He frowned at me and asked, “What are you?”

  I used Vox again. “You will never try to rob anyone again. Do you understand?”

  Wide-eyed again, he simply nodded vigorously.

  Mom and the restaurant manager rushed through the parking lot to me. I could hear sirens some distance away. I wouldn’t release my prisoner until the police put handcuffs on him.

  Standing next to me, Mom had that “who are you?” look on her face. She was obviously working hard to remain calm. I realized this was the first time she’d actually seen me use Vox.

  When the police car drove up and stopped beside us, the restaurant manager pointed to the man who was still facing me. The cop asked my mother, “He tried to mug you?”

  Mom said, “Yes,” the cop fastened the man’s hands behind him, and I said, “Go with the police, and don’t ever mug anyone again. Understand?” I hoped the cop wouldn’t notice my deep voice.

  Our attacker just nodded as he frowned at me. I’d released him from Vox, and I had no idea how he’d explain himself to the police. I didn’t really care. I was suddenly very tired.

  I asked my mother, “Can we go back to the hotel now?”

  One of the two policemen who’d answered the call took down our personal information and said they’d be in touch. Mom told him to call Chief O’Donnell in Thornewood if the police needed a reference for us. He said he would and offered to follow us back to our hotel. I think he could see that Mom was still shaken from the whole ordeal. He must have taken one look at me and dismissed me as an innocent kid. Which was fine with me!

  It was after ten when we got back to the hotel. Suddenly exhausted, I took a shower and got ready for bed while Mom called home to speak to my father. While I was in the bathroom, I could hear her side of the conversation. She was having a tough time calming down my father, but it seemed to calm her down as well. I gave them a few more minutes before I left the bathroom.

  Mom handed me the phone, I said hello to my dad, and reassured him that we were both okay. “We can talk more when we get home tomorrow, Dad. Please try to relax.” Then I climbed into bed and was out cold in under a minute.

  After we checked out of the hotel, we stopped at a coffee shop for breakfast and were on our way home by noon.

  Neither one of us wanted to talk about the attempted mugging, so we talked about my success at the art show instead. I think we were both relieved when Mom pulled off the highway at the exit sign that said “Thornewood.”

  She smiled at me as we pulled into our driveway. “No place like home, Cara.”

  As soon as we got through the front door, my father grabbed us both for hugs. No one gave hugs like my dad.

  Mom called to have pizza delivered, which cheered up my dad a little, and we told him all about the art show, the Jourdan Gallery, my first art sales, and ending with our rather scary experience outside the restaurant.

  After congratulating me, he said, “I’m sorry now that I didn’t accompany you. I won’t send you off to a strange city by yourselves again.”

  Mom gave me a look as if to say she knew this was how my father would react.

  “Dad, I had my knives with me too. But Vox was all I needed.”

  Mom added, “As frightening as the whole thing was, Brian, I now have a lot more faith in Cara’s ability to take care of herself. She was wonderful, calm and collected the entire time. I’m so proud of her. You should be too.”

  When we’d finished eating and my father seemed calmer, I went up to my room. I was tired but I made quick calls to Kevin and Amy to let them know the art show had been a success, and that I’d fill them in on Monday.

  They were both happy for me, but Amy insisted she wanted details! I chuckled to myself as I thought about all the “details” she wasn’t expecting.

  I slid under my comforter, Ralph asleep at the foot of my bed. My mind was whirling despite how tired I was. While I was thrilled with the way my artwork had been received, I couldn’t help wondering if using Vox had left a lasting impression on our would-be mugger. I’d probably never know.

  It was my week to drive, so I picked up Kevin and Amy who immediately bombarded me with questions about my first art show. After I had told them everything I could remember about the gallery and the art show, Kevin wanted to know if I thought I could make a living with my painting.

  I laughed. “Well, if I work my butt off creating new paintings and pen and ink drawings, maybe. I was kind of shocked at the prices my agent placed on my two watercolors.”

  “But as your work becomes more well known, don’t you think the prices for your work will go up?” Kevin asked.

  “Who knows? But I have to tell you, when I saw the prices on Francis Sullivan’s paintings, I thought my head would explode. And by the time we left the show Saturday night, every one of his paintings had been sold!”

  “Will you have any more shows soon?” Amy asked.

  “Yeah, there’s one in June in New York City. I was asked to participate, so for the next two months, I’ll be spending most of my waking moments painting.”

  Kevin chuckled. “Do you think you’ll have time to finish our senior year? Or is that not important anymore?”

  “Of course it’s important, Kev. I’ll be in classes five days a week, but I’ll still have nights and weekends for painting and drawing.”

  “No socializing?” Amy asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Well, not much. I won’t have time.”

  I wasn’t watching the two of them while I drove, but I could imagine the looks my two best friends were probably exchanging.

  When we got to school, we separated. We each had classes in different directions but we’d meet at lunch. Which was when I planned to share my other experience in Albany.

  Sean was already in his seat in Science class when I sat down next to him.

  “Hey, Cara. How was your show?”

  “Really good. Both of my wate
rcolors sold, and a lot of people wanted to buy my pen and ink Elf drawings, but I decided not to sell them.”

  “Why not? Don’t you show your artwork in order to sell it?”

  “Well, I didn’t know whether or not any of my artwork would sell. This was really a kind of test run, Sean, to see whether my work would be well received.”

  He smiled. “I knew it would be, and I’m sure Mr. Sullivan knew it would be. So why wouldn’t you sell those Elf drawings?”

  I hesitated. “Well, I did all of them last summer in Elvenwood. They’re tied up with so many memories, I just felt I should keep them. The Elves I hid in each drawing shouldn’t be exposed to the whole world.”

  Sean nodded. “I understand. They’re kind of private, right?”

  “Right. But the pen and ink drawings were so popular, I’ll have to do more. I just may not be adding the Elves to my new drawings.”

  Class had started, so Sean whispered, “You can tell me more at lunch, okay?”

  Sean hadn’t been sharing our table at lunch lately, so I was surprised. “Yeah, okay. I do have more to tell you about what happened after the show.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Can’t wait to hear about it.”

  Once Amy, Kevin and Sean were all seated, Sean asked, “So let’s hear the rest of the story, Cara.”

  Amy looked confused. “The rest?”

  “Yeah. Our day didn’t end when we left the gallery,” I said.

  “We didn’t leave until just before it closed, and we were starved.”

  I told them about the steak dinner Mom treated us to, as well as the man who spent close to an hour staring at me. By that time, Kevin and Sean were frowning.

  “When we got out to the parking lot, the same man tried to mug us.” I heard Amy gasp.

  While they sat there wide-eyed, I told them the whole story, ending with the arrival of the police.

  My friends all looked shocked until Kevin asked, “Had your mom ever seen you use Vox before?”

  “No, but I had talked to her about it before.” I chuckled. “That was her first demonstration. Her initial reaction was a lot like yours, Kev. She looked at me like I’d just grown another head.”