Brush Strokes
A Tale From Blythe Cove Manor
Shirley Hailstock
Copyright © 2018 Shirley T. Hailstock
Photo Copyright © Depositephotos.com
All rights reserved.
Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Shirley T. Hailstock PO Box 513, Plainsboro, NJ 08536-0513.
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Contents
Brush Strokes
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Dear Reader
Also by Shirley Hailstock
About the Author
Brush Strokes
Brush Strokes
by
Shirley Hailstock
* * *
A Tale from Blythe Cove Manor
Chapter 1
It happened every time she stepped off the ferry and onto Martha's Vineyard. Even though Michaela Manfred-Smith could not define what it was, she could feel it. She owned the prestigious Manfred Art Gallery that catered to only the best artists. Her works and reputation were known throughout the art world. Yet, the moment her feet made contact with the sandy soil of the Vineyard, the weight of an invisible cloak wrapped itself around her.
It closed in on her. It didn't hurt, only added a light weight to her frame and an urgency to her hands to paint. Harmless, right?
Wrong.
She hadn't always been that way. She was born on the island and lived there until her college years. Graduation sent her to Europe to pursue her art. Italy and France beckoned and for many years she walked the ancient streets, studying the masters. Upon returning to the U.S., she opened the Manfred and built it into one of the foremost galleries in the country.
And that's when it started.
Michaela had come to the island for a visit. For the first time, she stayed at the B&B. During a conversation with Blythe Calvert, the owner of Blythe Cove Manor over tea and scones, the idea of giving back to the island was fleshed out.
A year later the first Vineyard Art Walk was a reality. And with it the blanket settled, and Michaela couldn't shrug it off. She tried to ignore it while she worked to get the show up and running. As soon as the show closed, the urge to paint was so strong Michaela postponed returning to Boston until she finished a reproduction of Degas The Ballet Studio.
She didn't make the connection that the painting and the cloak started at the same time. When Michaela got on the ferry and felt the wind of the sea blowing against her face. She didn't give it a thought. The painting was something all the other artists' work inspired in her.
But then it happened again.
Michaela checked her feet. The sandy soils dusted her tennis shoes. She felt the cloak settling over her from head to toe. Shrugging her shoulders, she looked around for Jim. He should be close by.
"Michaela?"
She turned around, spotting Jim's smiling face.
"It's great to see you again." Jim Davis, her longtime friend, greeted her with a hug that lasted a second too long. "Are you ready for another Walk?" he asked, abbreviating the annual Vineyard Art Walk to a single word.
"As ready as I ever am." It was a call and response play they repeated every August.
Jim had more than a little crush on her. Michaela knew it, although she didn't encourage it. She could get to her parents' house by herself, but Jim insisted on picking her up each year when the ferry docked. He stopped at a black SUV and stored her baggage.
"New?" she inquired.
Jim smiled. "I have a lot of stuff to cart around."
She knew he meant his daughter had a lot of stuff. Jim had a teenager who was very active: swimming, tennis, ice skating and she was an honor student. He was very proud of her and Michaela loved her too.
"How is Penny?"
"Running me ragged." The smile on his face told her differently.
Michaela climbed into the passenger seat, while Jim took the wheel.
"I'm staying at Blythe Cove Manor this trip," she told him. Seeing his confused expression, she added, "Too much congestion around the Painted Ladies." These were the colorful Victorian houses that tourists flocked to see and capture images of on digital cameras. Staying there, Michaela felt as if someone was always looking at her, that a camera just waited for her to open a door and a picture would be snapped.
Jim angled the big car onto the beach road and headed toward Blythe Cove. The island wasn't very large. Rush hours or traffic jams were non-existent phrases on the Vineyard. They reached the B&B in less than ten minutes.
"Hello, Martha," Michaela greeted the tabby cat who scampered to the door when she opened it and wove her way through Michaela's legs. She knew the cat remembered her by those sensitive cheeks brushing her skin. Bending, she caressed her soft fur from head to tail. Martha meowed softly. Michaela liked the familiarity of the greeting. She didn't often stay at Blythe Cove Manor, but she visited each time she was on the island. And the cat made her temporarily forget the aura that she wore.
"I hate to greet and run," Jim said, putting her bags down and glancing at his watch. "But I have to pick up Penny."
"Thank you, Jim. Please say hello for me and I'll be sure to see you two at the Walk."
"You can count on it," he said. Then he gave her an awkward kiss on the cheek and waved to Blythe who'd just come from the kitchen. Michaela noticed his cheeks were a little redder than usual and it had nothing to do with the island's breezes or exertion from carrying one suitcase and a computer bag.
"Blythe." Michaela went to the B&B's proprietor and hugged her.
"Welcome home," Blythe said.
Michaela didn't consider Martha's Vineyard home any longer. Her parents lived in Arizona, although they still owned a house in Edgarstown. They rented it out, investing the income. Michaela thought they kept it as a nest egg for her. Art was a finicky business. Income fluctuated widely and while they'd been nothing but supportive of her choices, they never wanted her to struggle. The house was empty at the moment. The real estate manager never rented it during Art Walk week. Even though Michaela was staying at Blythe Cove Manor, she stored some things at the house and needed access to them.
And there was Blythe. She wasn't related in any way to Michaela, yet she felt, in the absence of her parents, Blythe looked out for her. Despite that fact that Michaela was a thirty-three-year-old adult with her own business, her parents would always see her as the little girl they reared and make sure she was cared for.
"Come on, I have your room all ready." Blythe grabbed her suitcase and headed to the stairs. "The car you ordered was delivered this morning," Blythe told her. "The keys are on the dresser."
Everything appeared to be falling into place, Michaela thought, except for the weight of the island on her shoulders. She wondered what this trip would produce. Shrugging off thoughts of that, Michaela didn't spend a lot of time in the B&B. She needed to see to the arrival of a score of crates and packages she'd shipped. And she needed to make sure Zachary Cooper's paintings were secure.
Zack had no problem identifying Michaela Manfred-Smith. He could do it blindfolded. It was her voice. She had a phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear. He'd only spoken to the owner of the Manfred Gallery over the phone, but the distinct trill of her voice connected with him on some level. Even with her back to him, she needed no introduction. And that was the weird part. Not that he wasn't good at identifying people by voice. But that h
e'd made this agreement with a total stranger for an event he would refuse if anyone else had asked him.
She was well known, had an impeccable reputation in the art world and her annual Art Walk was a coveted coup. She didn't accept everyone. Her roster this year was a who's who in the art world. Zack wanted to be on it and he had made the call, volunteered to judge.
But why? He had no motivation to do an art show. It wasn't going to enhance his career. All the advantages of being part of this Walk were for Michaela, her art program for kids, or one of the attending artists. He got nothing out it, yet he had to be there. His PR person wanted to design a campaign around the Art Walk, but Zack shut her down. He wouldn't upstage Michaela and what she'd accomplished and would continue to do. He thought of agreeing to let the firm do a campaign around her if she agreed, but he knew they'd somehow work him into the scenario, so he refused that too. The publicity done by Michaela and her team was enough.
Michaela finished her conversation with a laugh. She turned, and he saw her full-face. He took a step back as if he'd been pushed and all the air in his lungs whooshed out.
He knew her.
He was sure they had never met, but he recognized her. Her hair was shoulder length, dark brunette with auburn highlights. It was parted in the center and flowed in straight lines until it reached her rounded chin where it turned under slightly as if it had been tickled and was shying away from someone's hand. Her cheekbones were high, giving her a classic look and accounting for her voice that trilled due to that bone structure. She had deep-set, light brown eyes, enhanced by eyelashes that complemented their color. Zack's attention was arrested by the unexpectedness of their dramatic appearance.
She was taller than he anticipated, at least six feet. He could tell she was short-waisted, giving most of her body over to her long legs. A New York City Rockette came to mind. She could easily fit into their line except her height would disqualify her as all the Rockettes conform to a small range of heights. Their lines needed to appear uniform and clearly, Michaela Manfred-Smith was a standout.
He found his footing and walked to meet her. She stopped when they were close enough to block each other.
"Zachary Cooper," he introduced.
"I recognize you," she smiled.
He recognized her too. This was too weird, even for someone who'd seen a lot of weird in his lifetime. How could he know? How could he recognize a stranger? It made no sense. Neither did that thought make sense.
"Thank you again for agreeing to speak and display. You're certainly a draw for this year's event. The minute your name went up, ticket sales soared, and the phone calls poured in faster than we could handle them."
"That's good to hear." He'd heard the same sort of thing before, but it never got old.
"We'll be setting up tomorrow. I'll verify that all your canvases have arrived and give you a call. Are you at the hotel?"
He shook his head. "I'm staying at a B&B."
It was unlike him. Usually, he stayed in first-class hotels and the island had one, the St. Romaine, but he opted for something smaller this time. He couldn't explain why. Or how he'd chosen which B&B.
"Blythe Cove Manor?" she asked. Her face showed a small frown.
"Why yes," he agreed. "Is there anything wrong with that?"
"No, absolutely not," she said. "I have a room there myself. It's just that I thought. . ." She didn't finish.
"I usually stay in hotels, but not always and I wasn't born with the proverbial two comma bank account."
Michaela smiled. "Neither was I," he said.
"I thought you were from the Vineyard?"
"I was born here, but I live in Boston and I'm friends with Blythe."
He smiled. The owner of the B&B had that effect on all her guests, he assumed. She'd made him feel both welcome and at home moments after he walked through the door. He felt more comfortable at her small manor than he ever had on entering a four-star hotel. Zack understood why her establishment filled up fast and why she maintained a year-round business.
"Then I guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other over the next few days."
He nodded, knowing that wouldn't be a hardship.
Michaela smiled a little awkwardly. "I have to go and oversee the shipments," she said.
"Do you mind if I tag along?" Zack asked. "I like to personally verify that everything is in place."
Michaela didn't say anything. She started walking and Zack fell into step with her. More than likely, she'd dealt with paranoid or eccentric artists before, maybe even a few who were mildly autistic and must see that every crate was in a specific order. In any case, she didn't object.
The building where the art was to be displayed was large enough to drive a tractor-trailer through. In fact, several tractor-trailers could get inside and turn around to drive out if they wanted to. However, there were no tractor-trailers on the Vineyard. Crates of various sizes were standing in what Zack could only describe as organized chaos.
"This is much larger than I expected," he said. "Judging is going to be difficult if all these crates contain paintings."
"There are a few sculptures, and some have chairs, rugs, items to set up an area, but mainly they contain artwork," Michaela agreed. "And by some of the best artists, yourself included."
Zack let the comment go while his eyes roamed over the huge room. He tried to estimate the number of canvases the boxes contained. He knew some of the artists on her guest list and they were highly talented contemporaries. Although, Zack knew naming the best painting would cause him to lose a few of those artists as friends, he also knew that after a few weeks, time would smooth out the wrinkles and the friendships would resume.
"Your paintings are over there." Michaela pointed to an area close to the entrance. It was prime real estate for getting the greatest amount of traffic and subsequently the most views.
He checked the boxes, knowing what was inside. He also knew why he'd known Michaela Manfred-Smith. He wondered what she'd do or say when one particular painting in those crates was opened.
"Whose next to me?" Zack eyed the empty space. There was an oriental rug floating in the sea of hardwood, but no boxes, packages, or crates.
"I am," Michaela said.
Zack let the smile cover his face.
"Don't worry, my painting is not part of the competition."
"Why not?" he frowned. "I've heard good things about your talent."
"Thank you, but as the sponsor and organizer of the event, it would be inappropriate."
"Don't you think I would be fair in judging?"
"Absolutely, " she said without hesitation. "Yet, there is no need to tarnish the event with rumors. You know how even the suggestion of anything unwarranted can kill a reputation."
She was right. She also had a world-class gallery in Boston. Entering her own art competition would raise eyebrows. If he determined she was the winner, it could kill her business. And while Zack would be fair, he would also hold her future in his hands. His decision in her favor could ruin her. Michaela was intelligent enough to know that.
And equally smart enough to only display her work.
It took several hours to verify that everything had arrived, to check it and cross check it. Michaela didn't expect Zack to stay with her or to pitch in and help, but he did. He was an enigma to her. Why he was here at all was one question, but why had he volunteered to judge this event? It wasn't the best in the world, but it was by no means the worst. He certainly didn't need the publicity.
"That's it for the day," she said around four o'clock. The sun was still high in the late August sky, but when it began to set, darkness happened fast.
Zack put his hands on the small of his back and overextended himself. After a moment, he sighed loudly and straightened to his full height. Michaela heard him exhale and knew he was as tired as she was.
"You were a big help. Without you, I'd still have hours of work to finish."
"Do you usually do this alone?" he asked.
"Usually, it's not this large. I can generally get it done in a few hours. I think the increase in entries this year has to do with you."
He looked a bit uncomfortable. Michaela liked that. So many artists had egos larger than their canvases, but Zack seemed to be humble to the accolades.
"Why don't we go back to the B&B and have some tea or coffee. Blythe always has it available."
"Sounds like a plan," he said.
Ten minutes later, they both took some time to wash the dirt off their hands before meeting in the dining room and enjoying a well-deserved break.
Michaela slipped out of her shoes and put her feet up on a chair and relaxed.
"I didn't see your name on any of those crates," Zack said, taking a sip of his tea.
She was surprised he was a tea drinker. She was surprised he was a painter. He looked more like a basketball player. It wasn't his height. He wasn't even close to the near the seven-foot height most of the NBA players topped out at. Six one, six two at the most. But he was athletic looking, solid frame, strong shoulders, and forearms. His hair was dark and could use a trim. He had no mustache and was clean shaven. His eyes were dark brown. And his best feature was his mouth. Michaela found her attention going to his lips as if she were a deaf woman and needed to watch them to read.
They were full and shapely, sporting a look that was almost female, but the hard set of his jaws canceled some of the softness and offered a slightly sinister pose. It was an interesting face, almost a work of art. Michaela's hands itched to paint his features.
Again! The word exploded in her brain.
What, she asked herself? What did again mean? Had she already been painting a portrait of Zachary Cooper? When? She shook her head as if to dislodge the errant thought.
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