by Mara Purl
She’d certainly met and dated her share of interesting businessmen in L.A. But it never took long for her to get bored. That—and an inkling it was time to put down roots somewhere—had fueled her decision to move to Santa Barbara, where she’d likely meet a fresh crop of interesting males. At first she’d singled out the senior Mr. Calvin as the most likely target. Rich. Widowed. Attractive. High-powered CEO. But then Zackery had spotted her first. Since that would’ve spoiled it with the father, she’d decided to allow the son’s advances. She hadn’t yet admitted to herself that it was the last time she’d felt completely in control with Zackery.
Cynthia stripped off the Halston she’d wear later, draping it across the foot of her bed. Pulling on a short, fitted cotton housedress, she padded on bare feet to the small desk in her kitchen and turned her attention to the party she was planning. I’ve got to make sure that I’ve invited everybody… make sure I haven’t overlooked anyone. Cynthia had a gift for entertaining. It was in her nature to leave nothing to chance, and to trust no one else’s ability to get things right.
I’d better call the printer. She’d gone over the details with him endlessly, but one could never be too careful.
“Hello?” Mr. Dinzle had been a master printer for forty-five years and, she imagined, saw everything there was to see in black and white.
“Oh, yes, hello, this is Cynthia Radcliffe—with an e.” She’d read somewhere years ago that little idiosyncrasies made one more memorable and had decided that adding the e to her name—and reminding people of the unusual spelling—would become one of her trademarks.
“Oh, yes, hello, Miss Radcliffe. Are you calling about your invitations?”
“Yes. How do they look? Did the gold borders come out just perfectly?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Radcliffe, they did, and so did the little gold—” Mr. Dinzle paused. “Uh … hearts you wanted on the outside of the envelopes.”
His tone had seemed a bit questioning. “You don’t think they look too… well, too….”
“I’m not quite sure what you mean, Miss Radcliffe.”
“Oh, well, after all, this is rather a too-too occasion, isn’t it? And besides, nothing is too good for Zackery.”
I’m going out on a limb for you, Zackery. A knot of discomfort tied itself in her gut. Why am I nervous? For one thing, Zackery seemed to have a strange ambivalence about parties, especially big ones. That didn’t worry her too much, because he did go to them all the time. In fact, that’s how they’d first met. But this would be different—a party in his honor.
“Well, you would know best, I’m sure,” Mr. Dinzle continued. “Would you like me to read the invitation back to you?”
“Oh, yes, you’d better do that.”
He cleared his throat, then read: “‘You are cordially invited to join Mr. Zackery Calvin and Miss Cynthia Radcliffe’—with an e—‘at a benefit for the Arts Museum to celebrate Mr. Calvin’s birthday, Thursday, December twelfth, Seven O’Clock pm, Calma (the Calvin Estate), 10500 Sycamore Canyon Road, Santa Barbara, California’.”
Cynthia listened carefully, imagining the lovely script on the small cream-colored gilt-edged card. Doing the party as a benefit was really a stroke of genius. She’d congratulate herself again later, when she calmed down. For now, she could feel the anxiety creep over her again. Everything had to be perfect. “And you got the address right?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Radcliffe, as I just read to you.”
“And it says black tie in the bottom corner?”
“Oh, of course, Miss Radcliffe. Blue tie in the corner.”
Cynthia felt her throat begin to tighten. “Oh, no no no no no no!”
“Printer’s joke, Miss Radcliffe.”
She swallowed hard and tried to make a quick recovery. “Oh. How cute. Well, that’s all for now, I guess. I’ll send James down to pick them up, if I can’t get there myself later.” The Calvins’ butler had agreed to help with the party, though he had not seemed enthusiastic.
“That’ll be fine, Miss Radcliffe. Thank you.”
Cynthia hung up and took a deep breath. This event has certainly grown. She thought back to her first vision for celebrating Zackery’s birthday: an intimate dinner party for eight or ten, to include just a few of his key business associates and club members.
But then she’d thought better of the idea—until she could afford to move into a better condo. I know exactly what I want. The payments would be steep, but well worth it to establish herself in the right kind of neighborhood and create a space suitable for entertaining. She needed a perfect setting for memorable evenings, the kind where people went home talking about what a great time they had, and what a great hostess she was. She would have the parties catered, of course. But that would have to wait until cash flow improved. She sighed. Then again, if I play my cards right, I won’t need the new condo.
Zackery already had the perfect location for any and all entertaining. The family estate known as Calma had it all: his own charming cottage; the grand main house; the beautifully tended grounds; the patio overlooking the ocean. Her plan had come together when she’d had the brilliant idea of making his party a museum benefit. This had enabled her to approach Joseph about the use of the house and grounds, and to earn a gold star for placing Calvin philanthropy in the limelight—while honoring Joseph’s only son. Immediately, the party size had grown well beyond the bounds of intimacy.
Have I bitten off more than I can chew? I ordered 500 invitations. Two hundred are on the list so far… better invite about that many again… all the club members are already invited and, of course, the other major charities have been notified.
She sat quietly for a moment, and allowed herself to daydream about the big event. The food would be fantastic, the flowers gorgeous, the tent sparkling with tiny lights. She would wear the dress—just on the point of being too risqué for the Santa Barbara intelligencia, but tasteful enough that no one would be able to comment. The men would love it; the women would hate themselves. Zackery will spend the evening trying to concentrate on his guests, but unable to keep his eyes—or his thoughts—off me. I’ll present him with some stupendous gift in front of all his family and friends. We’ll be dancing to the sounds of—
“Oh, the music! I never got an answer from the orchestra!” She picked up the phone and began dialing frantically. “Oh, no, that’s right, I asked James to call them for me, and he said he was already taking care of that.” She hung up and drew another deep breath. Sometimes I’m smarter than I give myself credit for.
She looked at the kitchen counter, where she’d tossed today’s edition of the Santa Barbara Register. At one time, newspapers hadn’t held the slightest interest. But then she’d discovered the society pages—why had no one ever told her? Now she’d become a devotee.
She stood, opened the fridge and pulled out a chilled bottle of Frappuccino—the brand new coffee drink Starbucks had just introduced—opened it and took a first delicious sip. Grabbing the paper, she sat at her kitchen table and opened the paper to the Julia Cavendish column. Scanning details of a Charity League—at which local artists had donated their work—to make sure she was familiar with all the names, she placed her fingernail on the page when she spotted a new one.
“Zelda McIntyre.” she read, “Owner of her own company: Artists Representation. I guess that means she manages painters.” Her mind began to click into gear. I wonder if she’s listed in the Yellow Pages? Grabbing her copy, she rifled through the “A’s” looking for “Art: Fine”. And there, strategically placed in the middle of a page listing several galleries, was a tasteful business-card-sized print ad. “Artists Representations. Fine Art for Discriminating Tastes.” This is obviously someone I should invite. Pressing her long nail just below the number, she placed the call. An answering machine picked up.
“Hello, this is Zelda McIntyre at Artists’ Representations. We are out of the office at this time, but please leave a message and we will call you back.”
; By the time the machine beeped, Cynthia’s nerves had racheted up again. Looking down as she spoke, she held Zelda’s name in view by pointing at it with her long, pearl-beige nail.
“Oh. Hello? Oh, hello, this is Zelda.” Cynthia knew at once she’d said something wrong and looked up. “No, no no I mean of course, you are Zelda… I was looking at your name when I dialed. Excuse me! This is Cynthia Radcliffe—with an e. You’ve probably heard that I’m co-hosting a benefit for the new Arts Museum. I would like to send you an invitation, so please get back to me and let me have your address. I’ll talk to you soon. Oh! My number is 555-1040. Thank you so much! Bye-Bye!”
She hung up. Mercifully, the message-leaving ordeal was over, and Cynthia’s dreams of a magical evening were well on their way to becoming reality.
Chapter 5
Miranda Jones swished her brush in the jar of water, watching as blue paint trailed off the tip to form tiny pigment-clouds.
She lifted her gaze to the studio windows and followed the sunbeams lancing through the pines until she could see the sparkle of the ocean beyond.
Love afternoon light. Always have. Even as a child, she’d delighted in sneaking out of the house in the afternoon—when she was supposed to be taking a nap—sketchpad and crayons in hand. She’d climb the hill on the far side of her family’s property and make picture after picture of the California Coastal Ranges—Mount “Tam” being her favorite—before the sun sank into the ocean. That’s one of the good memories.
Milford-Haven had been home for only nine months, but there were days when it felt as though she’d lived here forever. It was the first place she’d put down roots of her own, and, aside from her work, that had been more important to her than anything.
Roots… maybe that’s why I’ve had this urge to plant flowers. Why is having my own home—even though I’m renting for now—such a priority? Everything’s always been handed to me. It’s time to create a space of my own, something that expresses who I am now. I knew I wanted to live in California, and rooming with Mer was great, but it was time to imagine my life on my own terms.
This chapter of life—looking for roots, experimenting with her rooms, making new friends—was intriguing, perplexing, even terrifying, she had to admit. It’s more than just designing my space. It’s almost like I’m creating myself, or discovering who I’m supposed to be.
She looked over at the shelf she’d designated to hold the notebooks she used as an ongoing series of chronological logs. I do journals about my travels. Maybe I should do one about this process. I could use one of my HandBooks. Yes! I could devote one just to this inward-and-outward journey—the journey to find my home. Heart beating a little faster, she visualized the possibilities. Sketches, watercolors, musings … I can ride my bike around Milford-Haven and track the visual cues, the emotional markers. I love this idea!
Now she glanced around at the high, angled ceiling, the hewn beams, the worn hardwood floors. It might be kinda rustic and simple, but it’s a perfect starting point. I bet my folks would just hate this place. At the very least, Mother would have “suggestions” about how to “improve” it.
She pushed the thought away, eager to stay in the embrace of the new life she was creating for herself. People here knew her only from what they saw of her and her canvases. With no cumbersome history to get in the way, friendships could be formed purely on their own merit. The smallness of the town was a constant delight to her, as was the fact that the citizens seemed to have at least some sense of the preciousness of the pristine coastal environment. One of my passions.
She watched as a jay swept gracefully down from a high branch to land on the deck railing outside her window. Nature in its glory… our precious planet… the only one we have. She’d had the argument with her parents time and again, and never once won it. They had their points down pat: recycling was for other people; emissions regulations would ruin the economy; new technologies would succeed when could they prove themselves financially; reports of global warming were exaggerated. Why do they believe these lies? Why can’t they see what I see?
Again she shoved aside the argument, reaching inside for the sense of purpose that’d brought her here. I have something to give. And what she couldn’t bestow in daughterly affection to her parents, she could freely and joyfully give to strangers through her paintings.
She went to any and every length to imbue her work with accuracy. If it meant traveling through treacherous country or venturing on the high seas, she did it without so much as a heartbeat of hesitation.
That’s another thing that drove her parents crazy, always forcing her sister to play the diplomat. I hate having to explain myself. Meredith does it so much better. Authentic detail in her work was critical. What was so hard to understand about that?
Yet the research was just part of the process. The source of it—the center, as she liked to call it—that was the mystery, and the joy. In that quiet place there’s a power. That’s what my home really provides. And after her sometimes-dangerous travels, she’d wanted a centered place to call home, where she could always return, to let that truth flow through the end of her paintbrush.
She’d chosen to rent this house—actually the left side of a duplex—because of the large upstairs room. The moment she’d seen it, she’d known this would be her studio. The light was perfect—pristine northern exposure all morning, warm northwestern hues in the afternoon. The wall of picture windows offered a panorama of the coastline winking through a protected band of mature pines. And she’d have ample room for her supplies. It’s the most perfect workspace I’ve ever had.
Not only had she fallen in love with the studio, she loved the whole place. She’d spent several weeks in an exuberant, newfound domesticity, surprising herself by drawing floor plans for furniture, playing with color samples, and designing shelf units, which Kevin had later built for her. Rather than settling for temporary furnishings, she’d held out until things came into focus, sleeping with only her mattress on the floor till she’d found the right bed, painting each room a different shade—sometimes more than once—and playing with fabric swatches for sofa and chairs, comforter and pillows.
The special quilt from her sister had been one perfect addition to her new home, a moving-away gift she now thought of as her one house-warming present. Miranda would never have ordered it for herself—a quilt featuring cotton squares printed with images of her own landscapes. But now, cleverly stitched into a puffy comforter, with colors that perfectly complemented her decor, she treasured it not only for its connection to Mer, but as an element of self-expression.
Over these past nine months, it’s like my whole life became an art project, she mused. One I haven’t finished. In fact, there were still some unpacked boxes stacked in her garage, and a couple more tucked right here, under her studio work bench. What’s in there? My numbered HandBook notebooks—I have to designate a couple of shelves for them. And maybe some old drawings? I’ll get around to unpacking them soon.
Now she glanced around the studio and couldn’t help but smile. How many hours had she stood here at her easel, absorbing all the coastal beauty framed by the studio windows? Even the expanse of white canvas didn’t scare her so much when that afternoon light turned everything to gold. It’s why I almost never answer the phone at this time of day.
Today, however, even the golden light couldn’t keep her focused. Her mind skittered and the paintbrush twitched in her hand. Unable to do any real work, she moved to the built-in desk that ran the length of the windowed wall in her studio. Her gaze fell on a favorite image that made her smile.
Last August she’d spent time painting in the Guildenstern Garden, a local place well-known for collecting multiple species of flora. She’d done small landscapes in various sizes, including a five-by-eight portrait of a humming-bird in a dream-garden—a piece she considered magical. The hummers have left, now. They’ve started their migration to Mexico.
Next she picked up the stack of postcards.
They featured her own miniature watercolor—the first landscape she’d done that was actually a portrait. The vertical orientation… like the Japanese sumi-e pieces I just did. There’s that Asian influence again. But those were huge. This is small, the other end of the scale.
The print shop had done a good job, she decided. The color looked true, the proportion appealing. Main Street stretched away to the ocean, pines rose along the edges to touch a blue sky. It hadn’t seemed complete till she’d added cars in front of Sally’s popular restaurant. And she hadn’t been able to resist placing in the foreground the lovely gallery that carried her work.
Did I send Nicole a thank you note for agreeing to the special handling of “The Cove”? She stood, walked a few steps, then squatted to open her top filing cabinet drawer. Her fingers danced across the tops of the file labels: Art Supplies; Car Repairs; Darius…. Why do I keep his letters? It’s not like I’d ever read them again. Maybe I’ll make a ceremony of burning them one day. Events; Finder’s Gallery. There it is. Opening the file folder, she found a copy of the note she’d written. Good… just wanted to make sure.
She returned to her workspace and picked up the miniature watercolor. Think I’ll frame this. It’d be great as a set—maybe one small painting for each season in Milford-Haven. That would echo the Japanese scroll pieces. Love that idea.
Her new postcards were practical. She’d already sent them to her short list: a few old friends and some new ones, her always-supportive sister, her ever-skeptical parents, and of course Zelda, who’d help with a business contact list.
But there was something else about the postcards too. She liked the crisp edges and bright image, felt in it the vibrancy of the little place she now called home. Somehow the town had a heartbeat that matched her own, and the postcard took its pulse. If the Universe had fulfilled a promise to her, this little card was her thank-you note.