As the bowl of pasta with chicken and mushrooms heated in the microwave, it occurred to Mia—not for the first time—that Sid hadn’t been around since the morning before. Since she told her about Riley. Not so strange. Death had a way of making people feel uncomfortable, especially in North American culture where mourners were told, usually by people who’d never lost a loved one, to get over their grief instead of being allowed and encouraged to move through it. There were times when Mia felt that talking about Riley with the “get-over-it-gang,” as she called them, put her own healing at risk, so she was careful with whom she shared her grief. Sid had seemed empathetic at the time, but maybe she hid her discomfort well. Like she apparently hides so much. Not that it really mattered, she reasoned, thinking back to the tense phone call she’d witnessed. After all, Sid seemed to have her hands full with a bunch of things, not the least of which was apparently her girlfriend Aurora.
The dogs followed lazily behind her as she took her pasta to the recliner. Her ribs were beginning to feel better. She still felt as though she’d been hit by a truck, but all in all, the acute pain had diffused. She was able to move a bit more easily, but most importantly was able to take a breath without being skewered with spears. Her head was clearer, the bump on her scalp the only source of pain unless she turned her head too quickly or forgot to keep her movements conservative. Speed was her enemy, but otherwise, the pain was manageable. Hopefully, tomorrow’s trip to the doctor would confirm Mia’s own positive prognosis.
She fell asleep for a few hours after her pasta and slept on and off. Halfway through the night, she stopped trying and opened her eyes, surprised to find Sid leaning against the nearby door frame looking down at her. She fought the instinct to stretch, knowing her ribs weren’t quite ready to bear the movement.
“What are you doing up?” she spoke groggily, her mind thick with ragged sleep.
“Not stalking you, though I couldn’t blame you for thinking so. I just got here. Thought I’d make sure you and the boys were okay. Did I wake you?” Sid’s voice was so warm and soft that the sleeping dogs didn’t budge.
“Not really. I can’t sleep soundly at the moment. I feel like I’ve been sleeping for days, so I’m guessing my body doesn’t need any more right now.”
Sid sat at the end of the couch that ran perpendicular to the recliner, turning so she was facing Mia, and pulled her legs and feet up. She leaned forward and put her cell phone on the coffee table and relaxed into the big pillows. She put her hands on her thighs, rubbing her jeans beneath her palms. Her eyes were unfocused, and although she was looking toward her, Mia could tell she was not looking at her. In fact, she appeared to be staring at nothing in particular. She realized this was the first time she’d seen Sid sit still. Not reacting. Calm even. With the one small exception at the table yesterday morning, all their interactions had been filled with distractions or laden with tension or cell phones or anger or bravado. Right now, there was just Sid. Mia watched, matching the silence and keen to see how long it would last.
After ten minutes, Milo disrupted the moment by moving in between Sid and the coffee table and nudging her elbow.
Her eyes lifted. “Listen, I’m sorry about before. Not the hand. I’m sorry if I’ve been rude, is what I’m meaning to say.”
“And I’m sorry for what happened with the bull,” Mia countered.
“Please, don’t apologize for that. It’s the very least of my concerns.” Sid looked at her phone.
Mia wasn’t sure how to interpret Sid’s words, but there was something in her tone that suggested she was struggling. Perhaps this was Mia’s chance to return the favor. “You have a captive audience, you know. It’s not like I can run off.”
Sid smiled and looked back at her, apparently taking measure of the offer. “It’s work.”
Mia sat quietly, sensing that Sid needed to find her way.
“I work at an art gallery. Curating mainly. But it’s hard not to get involved with the buying and selling end of the business.”
Mia nodded. A curator’s expertise would be extremely useful to art dealers, particularly when the market was hot. And the Canadian market was very hot.
“I’ve only been here a few weeks helping Dad, and already someone at my gallery has apparently been involved in a questionable deal. To what degree, I’m not sure. But there may be some exposure at the gallery’s end, and I’m trying to resolve things.” Sid ran her fingers through her hair and looked again toward her phone.
“That must be hard from a distance,” Mia said.
“It is, but there are two issues that make the situation more difficult. Do you know much about art deals?”
“A bit but help me understand as much as you’d like.”
“I work at a gallery that exhibits post-impressionist and contemporary art. Canadian mainly. We act as a gatekeeper of sorts, an intermediary between the artists or their estates or benefactors…and the brokers or buyers. I chose to work at Northern Lights because it has a strong reputation for respecting a work’s provenance and maintaining an artist’s or movement’s legacy. With Canadian art prices at an all-time high, some of these considerations seem to be falling by the wayside. Northern Lights has thus far managed to stay clean, for lack of a better word. But this week…” Sid trailed off, looking toward her silent phone.
“This week, things changed?” Mia offered.
“Maybe. Likely. We hired a new gallery associate, and it seems one of his first acts was to convince an elderly collector who has worked with our gallery in the past to part with a Group of Seven piece. We know that this particular work is of great interest to a European collector. We have evidence that the sale went through. What we don’t have is a receipt by the gallery. It strongly suggests that he’s been working with a broker to side deal. In spite of what he suggested to the seller, the gallery was never going to manage the piece.”
“So, the first issue is one of trust and ethics? Maybe criminal?”
“Yes. Unconfirmed but it seems so.”
“And the second issue? Is it that you’d have preferred the piece to stay in Canada?”
“No, actually. I think the nationalist notion, as romantic as it is, influenced many selling decisions in the past, especially where works of the Group of Seven and contemporaries like Tom Thomson were concerned. But now I think we collectively, no pun intended, feel a greater sense of pride when Canadian artists are appreciated abroad.”
“I’ve heard quite a bit in the news lately about Martin Stephens, the American actor who’s taken quite a shine to Lawren Harris?” Mia was also a fan of one of the Group’s key members, especially of his many Iceberg depictions.
“Exactly! And you’re probably also aware what a celebrity spotlight does to prices?”
Mia was fascinated at how the discussion had transformed Sid. Until this point, her passion seemed fueled by anger or tension, but as she spoke about her work, her eyes brightened and her focus sharpened.
So, this is Cassidy?
“Yes.” Mia said. “Provenance is bolstered, and we end up with record prices for many of the Group’s major works. Sadly, that’s why I don’t have an original hanging in my trailer. So, the second issue is…”
“Legacy. Legacy is vital. It helps preserve the story, and what is there to art but the story? Aesthetics?” Sid shook her head.
“Perhaps a bit. Yes. I would think so.” Mia felt brave. “I like a work that is pleasing to look at.”
Sid paused, and Mia could sense she was considering her next words. “Aesthetics are subjective, would you agree?” Sid asked. “What you find beautiful might differ from what my dad finds beautiful, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And subjectivity depends on where the viewer stands relative to time and place.”
Mia felt that Sid, Cassidy, had argued this case before. She also realized that having lived on her own for a couple of years, the opportunities for an engaging debate had been few and far between…Milo and Flynn ang
ling for a treat notwithstanding.
“I would agree with that, too,” Mia allowed.
“Story…well, the story of any true work of art is objective. It is bound by credibility, provability, and it is ostensibly sustainable. The story stands the test of time.”
“Objective?” Mia was happy to present an opposing viewpoint. “But any work’s story is subject to interpretation, too, no?”
“It is indeed.” Sid reached for her phone and turned the screen toward her. “We could go on all night, at least what’s left of it.” She turned her phone. White numbers glowed 4:10. “But if you’re not too tired, and you’re still willing to be my captive, there is something I’d like to share, if only to explain and maybe excuse, my rather un-neighborly behavior. I had mentioned legacy earlier. The work that’s in the process of being dealt by my colleague…” She seemed to have trouble with the egalitarian nature of the title.
“Of your coworker?” Mia asked.
“Yes.” Sid flashed a satisfied smile before continuing. “The work is not a final painting as we think of it but rather a field sketch. On cedar shake.”
Mia had seen several of these types of renderings at the McMichael Gallery and knew that the shake, nothing more than a wooden shingle, was used by the Group and other travelling artists because unlike paper and lighter than canvas, it stood up to the rigors of bush-whacking, train and canoe transport, and often harsh weather conditions, all of which the young artists endured as they forayed into the Canadian wilderness to record their visions. The shakes were perfect for fieldwork and made it back to the studios to enlighten the canvases.
“The partner piece, the finished canvas, is owned by one of my good clients. An American. He would never have approached the sketch owner or had any dealer approach them because he trusts that the tradition of first offer would be honored. He trusts us to ensure that happens, and we have never failed to do so.”
“The right of first refusal for the corresponding field sketch goes to the final canvas owner. Sounds fair.”
“Fair. And right. At least, as far as our gallery sees it. Absolutely, as I see it. Having the sketch and final canvas is the most powerful way to preserve the story. The differences, so evident when the two works are seen side by side, shows us more about the artist’s intent than anything. The vision pops from the canvas, the story’s words…well, they almost speak for themselves.”
“And in this case, if the sketch goes farther afield…” Mia understood Sid’s dilemma.
“Hopefully, it doesn’t. I’ll know as soon as the European markets close.” Sid sighed and sat up, elbows on her knees and head in her hands for a moment until she pushed up from the couch, tucked her hair back over her shoulders, and headed for the kitchen. “I think I’ve kept you up long enough. I’m going to make you something that will help you sleep.”
Mia wasn’t about to argue. The aches in her head and body were again hard to ignore, and the meds could not replace rest. She must’ve dozed off because within what seemed like a second, Sid was kneeling beside her with a mug of something steaming.
“Warm almond milk with vanilla and a touch of maple syrup.” Sid handed it over, remaining on the floor with Flynn and Milo, who were delighted to have someone at their level. Sid placed a hand on Mia’s knee, a hand so wonderfully warmed by the mug that Mia could feel it through the blanket across her lap. The drink was equally soothing and delicious. Mia’s eyes closed, and she exhaled deeply. She tried to turn in the chair, but as hard as she was capable of trying, she couldn’t find a comfortable position.
“I’m guessing you’d be better off in bed.” Sid’s words didn’t sound like a question, and in seconds, Mia was helped to her feet and escorted through the kitchen and down the hall to her bedroom.
She was able to slip the robe from her shoulders and let it fall on the edge of the bed. She didn’t have the energy to manufacture modesty, and she noticed that Sid didn’t flinch at the sight of her in the Melissa Etheridge V-neck tee. Instead, Sid placed the mug on the bedside table and gently swung Mia’s legs up onto the bed, pulled the covers over her, and started toward the door.
“It’s nice that you care about your artists,” Mia managed, taking care not to slur as fatigue set in. She hoped Sid didn’t see her scowl before pushing thoughts of Aurora out of mind.
“Somebody has to protect them. And their stories. I’m not alone in thinking so.”
“It sounds funny to hear you say that. Not alone.” Mia’s eyes were closing.
“Funny? Why do you say that?”
Mia’s eyes were now closed, and she felt her head sink slowly into the pillow.
“Not alone…” she mumbled again before falling into a fitful sleep. She dreamt of northern lights, white-topped waves lapping across canoe bows, warm hands, and a wild and dangerous woman with raven black hair wielding an artist’s brush with flaming bristles.
* * *
After turning off the light and closing the door, Sid stood in the hall outside Mia’s room, leaning against the door frame. Mia’s words ricocheted in her head. What did she mean by “not alone”? Why would she think it was funny to hear those words from her? Attributing the strange comment to the hefty combination of fatigue and meds, Sid wondered if her interest in it was just a way to sidestep the cumulative effect Mia was having on her.
Sid did not regret that she’d put her hand on Mia’s the previous morning. In fact, doing so gave her one of the few truly pleasurable moments she’d had in weeks, and in the virtual tornado of events in the last twenty or so hours, she found solace reliving the tenderness of that touch more than once. Tonight, she’d allowed herself to lean closely into Mia by taking her into a confidence and realized not only how rarely she experienced intimacy but how wonderful it felt.
As she tucked her in just now, Sid was aware of feelings of a decidedly physical nature: she’d had an overwhelming desire to slip under the bedcovers with Mia, to hold and protect and heal her, to let her lean in. It was all Sid could do to walk out the door.
Now is not the time, she thought. It may never be.
As she walked across the dark house toward her upstairs loft, she questioned whether Mia was even ready for another relationship. Did she say Riley had passed away two years ago? Does it matter? Don’t I have enough on my plate?
Sid’s internal debate stirred up memories of the earlier subjective vs. objective discourse. Mia had surprised her. She had a quick intellect and strong opinions and was better informed on the subject of art than most people she’d met outside of the industry. For a moment, she felt guilty that their chat had burned energy Mia could have spent on her physical recovery. The debate had obviously exhausted her. Nonetheless, Sid hoped she’d have another opportunity to convince Mia that where the paint landed on a canvas, like provenance, wasn’t nearly as important as the artist’s intent.
Sid’s mind jumped back to the gallery, and she pulled her phone from her pocket. Five a.m. She had a noon call with Ella, and she had to spend at least a couple of hours on the range repairing fences before then. She took the stairs two at a time and didn’t bother to undress before falling into bed, instantly asleep.
Chapter Twelve
Ella Danowski had worked at Northern Lights Gallery for almost as long as Sid Harris. As one of the gallery’s associate curators, Ella reported to Sid but never felt like a subordinate. They respected each other and had a shared vision of art.
For a time, Ella wondered if Sid was on the high functioning end of the autism spectrum. She certainly had savant qualities, extraordinary acumen when it came to Canadian art and detectable though slight social awkwardness. But Ella soon learned that the impatience Sid demonstrated was self-directed and extended to others only when they annoyed her. Sid Harris did not suffer fools lightly. She was intellectually adept at moving swiftly to resolve issues, and when confronted with a problem, Ella accepted that Sid preferred to stay in her head until she could present the solution. She reminded Ella of a pointi
llist, standing in front of a giant canvas and applying each dot of colour with Seurat-like precision yet with a vision for the final work.
Ella realized that people meeting Sid for the first time often mistook her intensity for disinterest. And her unrelenting focus for dismissiveness. But she knew that in spite of these misconceptions, Sid’s reputation as the expert in the Group of Seven and contemporaries was unsurpassed, and her clientele quickly learned to love Sid’s peculiar, undeniable charm. One artist had become particularly charmed, and as Ella reflected on the almost year-long gallery romance, she found herself wishing that Sid had as discriminating an eye for quality in women as she had in art. Aurora St. Germaine was a piece of work. Talented, without question, but her behavior was erratic, her lifestyle turbulent, and her commitment to Sid questionable if one believed the ever-churning rumour mill. The artist’s abstract canvases evoked the torment of Frida Kahlo and frenetic qualities of Jackson Pollock. She guessed that Aurora’s addictions were not terribly different from her influences.
At this moment, though, the bohemian artist was the least of Ella’s—and Sid’s—problems. It was noon. Ella picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and dialed.
* * *
Sandwiches in fridge. Xoxo, Isabel.
Mia, awake but still groggy from a restless night, found the note on the kitchen table just after noon. She resolved to put herself on a more regular sleep schedule and to arrange for flowers to be sent to Isabel, whose egg salad was as unexpectedly transcendent as her kindness was appreciated.
Mia curled up on the chair by the kitchen’s bay window, enjoying an iced tea and soaking in the sun with Milo beside her when she noticed Sid sitting on a hay bale, her back against the door of the barn across the yard. She was mostly in shadow, but her hair flicked the light as she pushed the disobedient tresses repeatedly back over her ears, moving her phone from hand to hand, ear to ear, as she did.
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