“Are you getting settled in?”
“I moved in last month, but I still feel like a fish out of water.” The farmhouse was located about midway between Hemlock Lodge and Campton, the nearest town.
I also had a lot in common with my Uncle Gene. We shared the problems of coping with our introverted personalities in an ever more social world. I loved my summers of peace and quiet.
Doris Ann suddenly stood up with a great heave, and came around to smother Miranda in a hug that lasted a full minute, ending with a backrub. “Honey, hearing that your Uncle Gene passed away was such sorry news.”
Miranda felt the enormous pain of losing her favorite uncle wash over her—again.
She wanted to run and hide. Hugging was another serious challenge for her. As a child, she had been able to squirm out and run away, but not as an adult. She marveled at the unstinting compassion that was second nature in her large collection of Kentucky cousins.
They were all huggers.
Doris Ann released her and held Miranda out at arm’s length. “Your uncle was a gentle soul. He kept that little farm going all by himself longer than he should have with his bad heart. The turnout for his funeral was the largest that Wolfe County has seen in a mighty long time. I don’t remember seeing you there. Did I miss you in the crowd?”
Miranda carefully escaped Doris Ann’s hold. “No, I didn’t make it to his funeral. I had a Midtown gallery opening that day. I had worked on the portraits for months. He would have understood, but I still regret not being at the graveside. I heard it was a lovely service and he’s buried right down the road from the farmhouse in the old Adams Cemetery.” Miranda coughed to clear a catch in her throat. “That’s a comfort. I sort of feel like he’s watching over me.”
Doris Ann pointed to the Paint & Shine flyer on the bulletin board in the hallway. “I didn’t know that was you. You must have spoken to the manager on one of my days off.” She tilted her head back and frowned. “He give you any trouble?”
Miranda thought about it. “No, he seemed a little stiff, but not negative.”
“Well, he’s not from around here. The flyer just says the name of the business—not that you’re the owner or that you’re a local. Anyway, bring your next flyer straight to me. I’ll put it up, no fuss. So, this is a new business?”
“Yes. This is the first event and I need to get enough clients before the end of the year to pay for the farm’s property taxes. I’m trying to get employment in the school system as a temporary art teacher, but that’s going to take some time,” said Miranda. Miranda tugged at the bottom of her shirt, a nervous tic she first displayed in kindergarten. This is awful. I’m gabbling. Why did I tell her all that?
“Well, bless your heart, dearest. Folks ’round here don’t really hold much stock in artists and their freewheeling ways.” Doris Ann shook a stubby finger. “It just doesn’t seem like a proper way to make a livin’. How’s this deal work?”
“I know this is unusual for the area, but there are lots of tourists who are looking for a cultural experience and something to take home as a souvenir. I provide all the painting supplies and step-by-step instruction. No art experience needed. Then, after the class, we go to the farmhouse for a home-cooked meal paired with moonshine cocktails from the Keystone Branch Distillery.”
“Well, I don’t hold with spirits,” huffed Doris Ann. “You’ve certainly put a lot thought into this. I hope it works out.”
She noticed the pleasant tone in Doris Ann’s voice turn cold enough to freeze a river.
Her head held high and her spine stiff, Doris Ann returned to sit behind the reception desk. She reached for a stack of papers and began to straighten them into a tidy pile.
Miranda’s chest tightened and her insides quivered. Her mother had warned her that Doris Ann might disapprove of the moonshine component of her cultural adventure. An alcoholic brother had caused Doris Ann to take on a near evangelical opposition to drink. Since it was in a state park, the Hemlock Lodge served no alcoholic beverages. It was the perfect place of employment for Doris Ann.
Miranda nodded a goodbye and resumed pacing in front of the fireplace, peering at everyone who walked into Hemlock Lodge. Mentally, she reviewed the various ways her business could fail. Like a threatening storm, the worries returned to plague her. One of them was the situation she faced right now—no one would show up.
The door swished open to admit a family of five with two toddlers and an infant in a stroller so large that it looked like it could comfortably hold a baby elephant.
This is absolutely horrible. No one will show up on the first day. I’m a failure.
Finally, at five minutes past the official start of 9:30 a.m., a well-groomed, tall, almond-skinned man walked over with his hand stretched out. “Hi, you must be the painting instructor. I’m Joe Creech from Dothan, Alabama,” he said in a soft Southern tone. He drew his hand through close-cropped jet-black curls with a distinctive white patch of hair over his right eye.
“Welcome, Joe.” Miranda shook his hand too hard and with too many pumps. “Here’s your badge and a backpack with everything you’ll need out on the trail over to our lookout at Lover’s Leap. You’re a long way from home. If you don’t mind my asking, what brings you here?”
Really? Try to stop chattering.
“I’ve received an exploratory grant from my university to support my doctoral research. Mainly, I’m going to look through the town hall records to gather income and population data.” Joe pinned the badge to the front of his green plaid flannel shirt. “I’ll be here for a couple of weeks.”
“You know the trail is classified as challenging?”
Joe tilted his head back and laughed easily. “Yes, I read that on your website.” He patted his round belly. “I’m actually in pretty good shape. I’m not decrepit, yet. I have quite a few more years to go before retirement. I’ll be fine.” Then he wandered over to the huge windows to watch the bird feeding stations installed along the sidewalk on the cliff side of the lodge.
Popping in from around the corner by the elevators, a young couple holding hands nearly walked into the low bentwood coffee table before looking away from each other. The slim, fair-haired young woman put a hand over her mouth. “Oops, excuse me, I wasn’t paying attention. Are you the instructor for the painting class?”
“Yes, I’m your group leader, Miranda Trent.” She shuffled through the badges in her hand and drew out two. “You must be Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman, the newlyweds.”
The petite bride looked at her equally blond husband. “That’s the first time we’ve been called that.” She clapped her hands together. “Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman. I love the sound of that. It’s so romantic.”
The young man flushed to his ears, looked away from his bride, and turned to Miranda. “Call us Laura and Brian, please. We’re from Akron, Ohio.”
Brian smiled weakly and took the badges from Miranda. He pinned a badge to Laura’s neon pink sweatshirt. She followed that by rising up on her tiptoes with a leg kicked up and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. He blushed a deeper rose and pinned the badge onto his own sweatshirt. Oblivious, Laura dragged her new husband over to the loveseat, where she plopped down and pulled him beside her. She grabbed his hand in both of hers.
“Is this the painting class?” said a fortyish woman in designer jeans accompanied by another plump woman in similar jeans. Both wore red Converse shoes.
“Welcome to the Daniel Boone National Forest,” said Miranda. “You must be Kelly Davis and Linda Sanders—all the way from New York City.”
Kelly took both badges. “That’s us.”
Miranda looked down the short corridor to the entry door and didn’t see anyone else. She had one more client in the class. The sequencing of the events meant that her schedule was tight, and any delays could cascade into a timetable disaster. She needed to leave the lodge right now and get out on the trail to keep from using up all her slack time.
If he doesn’t show, I’ll have
to refund his money and there goes any profit. With only five clients, I’ll barely break even. First lesson learned—allow a lot more time for gathering everyone together before the hike.
Looking at her watch to confirm that it was more than fifteen minutes past the class start time, Miranda stepped over to the reception desk. “Doris Ann, I’m expecting one more client. He hasn’t arrived, but we need to get out there on the trail. Could you do me a big favor and give him his badge along with a backpack? Just tell him to follow the markers for the Original Trail and then follow the number nine Laurel’s Ridge Trail out to Lover’s Leap.”
“Sure, I can do that. I’ll mark up a map and send him on his way.”
Miranda felt a sense of pride. The one thing you could count on from country folk is that they are eternally helpful, the good ones anyway.
Her jaw clenched, Miranda picked up her backpack and motioned to her class. Five clients would be a break-even day for her business—not a horrible start. “We’ve got to get on the trail. Follow me.”
Chapter 3
Saturday Morning, View of Lover’s Leap
If those towering cliffs could speak, Miranda thought they would have told her to take her clumsy, noisy, clueless clients back down to Hemlock Lodge, instantly refund their Paint & Shine cultural adventure fee, and direct them to move back to the city at once. Luckily for her, cliffs don’t speak—they merely hint at danger through silent looming menace.
The clients stood as mute as statues at the trail’s end. It was common to be awestruck by the beauty of the deadly view. Miranda gazed at Lover’s Leap and for the millionth time lost herself in the stacked rocks and whispering pines. The group managed the steep climb up to Natural Bridge and stood at the end of the sandstone arch. The main trail continued to a stunning overlook.
Joe was barely out of breath. Only Linda seemed to struggle a bit. But after quickly crossing the flat arch over the valley, she gulped down half her water and recovered her breath in good time. “Why didn’t you warn me we would be so high? I’m afraid of heights.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ll add that to the flyer for the future.”
After taking yet another unnecessary head count, Miranda turned to face her little class. She felt a bubbling gurgle in her gut.
Goodness, I’m way more nervous than I thought I would be. Teaching is not going to be a piece of cake, but I’ve got to do this if I want to make this business a success.
Miranda took a long deep breath and cleared her throat.
“I scouted out this large clearing just a few steps over here to the right of the view. It’s roomy enough for all of us to paint.” Miranda walked along the cliff trail a few yards and slipped the backpack off her shoulders and placed it in a leaf-littered space about ten feet from the cliff’s edge. “This is where we’ll paint our landscapes. I’m going to set up right over here. So, each of you choose a spot behind me where you can see my canvas and still have a view of Lover’s Leap.”
“This is so beautiful,” said Joe Creech. “It looks a little bit like the Ozark Mountains. I feel right at home.”
Miranda pulled two folded easels from her backpack. “Oh, I almost forgot. Don’t block the trail. This is one of the more popular hikes.” She unfolded and stood up two easels. She placed a blank canvas on one and a finished painting of Lover’s Leap on the other. “I always stand while I paint, but if you want, you can sit on your canvas bag. The easels will adjust to either height.”
“Sweetie,” whispered Laura to Brian loud enough for Miranda to hear. “Let’s put our bags close together and sit in the back away from the others.” She took her groom by the hand and they fashioned themselves a little nest area.
Now that they were about to paint, Miranda smiled with confidence. “We’re using a quick-dry acrylic paint. I’ll squirt puddles of the colors we’re going to use onto your paper pallets. Use the mason jar for washing out your brushes. Put the jar on the ground and put your three brushes inside it. For any of you experienced artists, don’t worry about damaging your brushes by keeping them in the water. These are student grade acrylic brushes. Definitely not the kind Rembrandt would use. We’re only going to be out here for about an hour. Trust me, your water cup is the safest and cleanest place for them.”
Each of her clients finally claimed a painting spot in the clearing. There was a good deal of friendly chatter as they juggled and jostled on the narrow path. It was a good sign. A happy class was easy to teach. She noticed that Joe looked a little lost.
After they settled and placed a blank canvas on the shelf of their easels, Miranda took a large bottle of water and poured two inches into each mason jar. “Just for fun but mostly for clarity, I’ve named your brushes Papa Bear, Mama Bear, and Baby Bear. Can you guess which one is which?”
There were giggles and groans through the group.
“Let’s get up in the front,” said Kelly to Linda. “I love the colors of the trees, especially the bright yellow and vivid red. It’s breathtaking and I want to be closer.”
Miranda grabbed her six-pack of paint bottles nestled in a cardboard soda carrier. Each color was held in a large ketchup-type bottle about the size of a one-quart milk container. She squirted a generous glob of each color onto everyone’s palettes.
“First, we’ll lay in the sky on the top third of our canvas. You’ll notice that I put your paint colors on the edge of your palettes. That’s so we can use the center for mixing colors. Now, don’t fuss about that too much. We’re all going to paint in the French Impressionist style, which means we are seeking to create a general impression of a scene, not a photographic likeness.
“Okay, so the deal here is that I go first to show you what needs to happen and then you paint.” Miranda picked up her largest brush and held it in the air. “Use Papa Bear to gather up a generous glop of blue. Then, still using Papa Bear, gather up about half that much white and mix them like this.” Miranda tilted her palette and showed everyone. “Now, it isn’t necessary to mix the colors completely. You want a little interest and texture in your brush strokes.”
Miranda noticed that her brush was trembling. She put her hand down by her side for a moment and inhaled a slow deep breath.
Just keep calm—you can do this.
Then she raised her brush and laid down a nice blue sky using a twisting motion to add texture to the quickly drying paint. She stepped back from the canvas and looked around at the class. “That’s another thing you want to do. Step back and look at your work from a distance. Now it’s your turn. Go for it.”
Timidly, slowly, one by one, each client began working on the sky of their painting. At each canvas, she made small suggestions to encourage them to brush more freely. “It’s normal to feel a little stiff at first. Just try to loosen up.”
She walked among the clients. Joe had finished and was staring out at the view. “Isn’t it fascinating?”
He returned from his thoughts and smiled. “It seems so ageless. Time must mean very little to those rocks.”
Miranda agreed.
She waited until everyone had completed the sky before she went back to her canvas. “Now, clean off your brush by swishing it in the mason jar of water, then wipe it dry on your paint rag.”
“Yuck!” said Laura. “My water is all blue now. Won’t that mess up the rest of the colors?”
“Good question. The answer is no. Don’t worry about the color of your rinse water. That doesn’t affect the brush, the color, or the painting. I know it seems like it should, but the color is so diluted that it doesn’t.”
Miranda picked up her brush. “Now, take your clean brush—”
“Aha!” echoed loudly on the trail behind Miranda. She jumped a foot and bumped her easel. She grabbed the edge of the wet painting and saved it from tumbling into the dirt and leaves along with the easel.
“What the—” she sputtered. She turned.
“I found you!” A large heavyset young man appeared at the outcrop of the view. “I am so do
ggone sorry. I got up in plenty of time, but somehow, I just didn’t get a-goin’ fast enough to meet you at the lodge.” He was black haired with ice-blue eyes and wore an all-black ensemble of jeans, cowboy boots, and a classic Rockabilly Western shirt decorated with snap buttons. His accent tagged him as local. “And then, a course, my truck balked at starting up so early.”
Miranda smiled. “I’m happy to see you.” She poked her brush into the mason jar and scrambled over to shake his hand. “Find yourself a nice spot where you can see the view as well as see my painting. I’ll get you caught up to the rest of us in two shakes. You couldn’t have arrived at a more perfect time. I see that Doris Ann gave you your badge.”
“Thanks, ma’am. I’m mighty sorry to cause you so much trouble.”
“I’m glad that nothing serious delayed you. So, you’re Shefton Adams.” Miranda handed him his materials. “We may be related on my dad’s side. His mother was an Adams from over on Pine Ridge.”
“Then we are surely related. I live right down there across the road from the old Adams homestead in Gene Buchanan’s farmhouse.” He embraced her in a huge bear hug that lifted her feet off the ground. She stiffened and wanted to push him away but smiled brightly to cover an aversion to public displays of affection.
The newlyweds giggled.
I keep forgetting that bear hugging is like shaking hands here. My New York City ways are not helping me.
After he planted her back on the ground, she raised her voice. “Everyone, this is Shefton Adams. He’s a local and apparently, we’re cousins. If you’d just sound off with your name and where you’re from.”
Each client welcomed Shefton with an introduction. Miranda waited until everyone had returned their attention to her before continuing. “Now, back to painting. We’re going to work on our painting, moving down the canvas from the background to the foreground.” She noticed the frown on Kelly’s brow. “That means from the top of the canvas to the bottom of the canvas.” She used her brush as a pointer on the finished painting.
Still Knife Painting Page 2