by Lydia Grace
“And I bet she paid lots of attention, and has turned over a new leaf now,” Lauren replied dryly, relief giving humor to her words.
“Well, you know Lucy, always a good patient,” Paul replied with a chuckle. “They’re keeping her in for a few days’ enforced rest, but I think it’s going to be a close thing as to who drives who insane first—Lucy or the nursing staff!”
“My money’s on Lucy! The staff doesn’t stand a chance! In that case, I’ll drop over to the hospital this morning. That will take off some of the heat for a while,” Lauren said, doing some rapid calculations of time-and-motion, remembering the traffic jams on weekdays and silently kissing her working morning goodbye.
“I hear old Chief Ohmer is pretty peeved with everyone, going around giving us all the beady-eyed stare,” Paul chuckled, then his voice grew serious as he added. “But I really never thought things would turn so nasty. We still aren’t really sure what happened. Lucy remembers everything going into a swirling purple haze and then reaching out to grab hold of you in a panic, but that’s all. Honestly, Lauren, when I saw her lying there…I suppose, really, I should thank Jon Rush for getting her, and you, out from that mess before either of you were really injured. Although I understand the poor man got clobbered over the head for his efforts! You always did have a nasty temper, Lauren!”
“Paul! I am so tired of explaining to people that it was an accident—as it quite obviously was.”
“Okay, okay, kiddo, I believe you. So you’ll call around and see Lucy later?”
Assuring him that she intended to visit the hospital during the early part of the morning, Lauren said goodbye to Paul and went to get on with her morning routine. However, it seemed she’d only just put the phone down and gone to finish dressing when the instrument shrilled again. This time it was Alex Waters, artists’ agent and owner of the Waters Gallery near Curve Lake, a more populated area some miles south-west of West River. Besides being Lauren’s agent and chief fan, Alex had also become a good friend over the last few years. This time however as organizer of Lauren’s first full solo exhibition in Toronto, Alex was wearing his agent’s hat this morning as he chided Lauren. “Well, well, my dear, I hope you’re working hard. I suppose I needn’t mention that the deadline is fast approaching?”
Lauren’s heart sank to the soles of her wool-encased feet. Unreliability, thought by many of the uninitiated to be a trait of the typical artist, was anathema to exhibition organizers and gallery owners. It was also death to the career of an offending artist, and Lauren wanted to succeed with this show so much she could taste it.
“Alex, I’m sorry. I should have called you. You know everything has been so hectic, I don’t know if you’ve heard of the campaign up here.”
“Heard of it? Darling, it’s legendary! And such wonderful publicity, too. A picture tells a thousand words, they say…But you’ve got to deliver the goods, regardless. Now I can possibly squeeze a couple of days out of the schedule since you’ve been such a good girl in getting so much attention and publicity. No more than that, though. I don’t think an exclusive gallery like the Harrison will be happy about hanging still-wet works while the guests are mingling!”
“Alex, this is not a publicity stunt! What do you mean a picture tells a thousand words? I’m not using the ABC campaign as the basis to promote the show.”
“Don’t be obtuse, sweetheart! Of course I know your heart’s in the campaign! Just remember that your next paycheck is in your sales! Comprenez? Bye-bye!”
Sighing with frustration, Lauren put the phone down. Alex was a dear friend, and she’d often had dinner with him and his partner, Pat Allen, in the luxurious flat above their Gallery with its panoramic views of Curve Lake and the reservation lands around it. Gentle and hospitable, Alex could be a total slave driver when it came to his protégées. The more talent he thought an artist had, the harder he drove her. Lauren knew that it was a compliment that he was driving her so hard but it was becoming excruciating. Not to mention the disturbed sleep and increasing level of stress stemming from those hang-ups on her answering machine.
Glancing at her watch, Lauren smiled to herself as she filled the coffee maker. If she hurried, there would just be time. Quickly she tidied her work area, laying out paints, replacing empty tubes of acrylics and oils, taking brushes from cleaning solvent and wiping them dry. Other brushes, the ones she used for acrylics, were ready and waiting, clean in the old-fashioned milk jug that held them together near the easel. Everything was ready, now, to dive right in to work once she got home from visiting Lucy at the hospital. No excuses for procrastination—to the easel the minute she walked in the door, she promised herself.
That left enough time for a little treat. Feeling light-hearted in a way she refused to try to explain to herself, she pulled on her parka, slid her feet into boots, and poured two huge cups of coffee. Stuffing two cereal bars into her pocket, she made her way out through her back door, across the small porch, and into the woods. She wasn’t disappointed. Jon Rush was just packing the last of his gear into the back of the four-wheel drive Jeep when she came into the clearing, and her heart raced as she saw his face glow with pleasure at the sight of her.
“Thought the least I could do was bring over a hot coffee to a neighbor,” Lauren smiled, offering him one of the mugs. “And voila! Breakfast!” she added dramatically, producing one of the cereal bars with a flourish.
He took both gratefully, and his dark eyes held a deep look, which made her pulses pound fiercely in a way, which had nothing at all to do with the impromptu breakfast. She found she had to look away for fear of betraying her own thoughts.
He was wearing a flannel shirt beneath a thick Aryan style sweater in a natural color, which accentuated his own blondness and highlighted the dark blue of his eyes. Old jeans, soft with age and wear, stretched tight over a neat butt and strong thighs as he reached down to lift a sports bag and stow it in the back of the vehicle along with his camping equipment. Lauren stood watching, her artist’s eye taking in form and color as though she wished to store it away forever. His voice startled her as, coffee in hand; he closed the rear door and turned to her.
“So, the truce still holds?” His voice was deep and mellow, flowing over the snow-scattered landscape like maple syrup.
Lauren had many times watched maple toffee made at festivals, the hot syrup dripped over snow, cooling almost instantly to a thick, sweet toffee consistency, snatched up and devoured by gleeful children. She’d snatched up her own fair share, too, and now she found herself wondering if that warm, sexy voice would leave the same sweet taste on her lips, and had to fight a wicked desire to stand on tiptoe and raise her mouth to his, to find out.
Then he was smiling at her, and she felt a slow flush rise to her cheeks from her neck as she saw in his look that he’d read something of her thoughts, and that he shared them. Momentarily they stood, frozen in ice-fire in the forest, their faces inches away from each other, lips parted, eyes locked. With a great effort, Lauren was the first to break the tie, reaching out to take his now empty cup, berating herself for her treacherous thoughts. But as their fingers touched, the feeling caught again and Jon suddenly, looking bemused, bent his head, capturing her lips so briefly, like the touch of sunlight through dappled clouds, caught and lost again like quicksilver.
“No, the truce is over,” she heard herself saying, trying to match his light-hearted mood, but struggling with a heartbeat gone into overdrive. “I really think it’s time for us all to get back to our real lives. There’s really nothing more to be said.”
Lauren tried for a note of finality. Coming out here like this had been a mistake, fuelled by an overwhelming desire to see him once more in this rarefied space, before the reality of their individual lives came tumbling in again on them both and the mood had gone. But a mistake, nonetheless. As she turned to go, she heard him speak softly, and felt her knees go suddenly weak.
“No, Lauren, you’re wrong. We have lots to say—when the t
ime is right.”
She turned back towards him, wanting to tell him that they were too different, and that any further interaction was pointless. However, he had already slipped lithely into the driver’s seat. With a brief salute of his hand towards her, he turned the keys and set the gear lever. The powerful engine roared to life and the big vehicle moved slowly along the dirt trail through the brush and towards the road, leaving Lauren once more watching its disappearing red taillights.
Shaking her head, wondering at the sense of loss she always felt when they parted, Lauren trudged back towards her cottage. A glance at the big schoolhouse clock over the kitchen door told her that she had better take her own advice and get back to the real world. She quickly slipped into smooth black woolen dress pants and a deep forest green sweater that accentuated the red highlights of her hair and skimmed lovingly downwards over her full breasts. Lauren applied a scant amount of lipstick and mascara, grabbed a black woolen blazer from the closet, added black low-heeled dress boots, and headed for the door. There was just time to visit Lucy, snatch a bite to eat, and return to her studio home to put in a full afternoon’s work. Then, with luck and no further interruptions, she’d have the final piece for the exhibit completed, ready for shipping the next day. Alex was organizing framing and hanging at the Harris gallery, so she’d have little to do after that but swan around on the big night, dressed up to the gills and making nice to the customers.
Little, that is, except spend a day in the city, adding final touches to limited edition prints and signing them, as well as a couple of hours caged in her accountant’s office going over the business plan Alex insisted she develop in order not to wind up a penniless artist starving in a garret. And then there was all the work still to be put in the Art Before Commerce committee. Lauren sighed and turned her thoughts to color and technique for completing her bobcat portrait, seeing in her minds eye how various colors and textures would work. Automatically, with practiced ease, she kept her eye on the rapidly thickening traffic on the six lanes of Highway 401 as she approached Kingston, the historic town where Lucy had been admitted to the hospital affiliated with the university. Lauren loved visiting the old university town—once historically the top candidate for capital until Toronto flourished as provincial capital and Ottawa took over the reins as national capital. She loved the wide streets and sedate university buildings that provided a dignified backdrop and vivid contrast to the students who flowed through the streets, filling the town with their youthful vibrancy.
With a twinge of sadness, she noted the gaps on the sidewalks where so many of the big old trees that had lined the streets had had to be taken down, victims of the once-in-a-century ice storm of the winter of ‘97 – ‘98. The storm had paralyzed most of Ontario and Quebec, freezing rain coating everything in ice several inches thick. The weight of all that frozen water had brought down power lines, destroyed pylons, and been the death of many majestic old trees including those which had sheltered generations of students along Kingston’s streets.
Passing through the bright entrance lobby of the hospital, Lauren checked the directions board for Lucy’s ward, and had to sprint for an elevator. A little breathless, she finally reached the nurses’ station on the correct floor, and asked for her friend.
The nurse, a pretty blond with a round face, gave her a long look, then a big smile.
“Of course! It’s Miss Stephens, the artist lady from West River! Go right ahead in, dear,” and she pointed to a door across the corridor.
Lauren was taken aback to be recognized, but assumed Lucy or Paul had left a message at the nurses’ station that she’d be expected as a visitor.
She promptly forgot the incident as soon as she saw Lucy, face white against the hospital pillowcase, eyes closed, looking impossibly fragile and small in the narrow hospital bed. An IV drip was attached by clear plastic tubing to the back of her left hand. The skin there pinched around the ingoing valve and looked far too thin and delicate to maintain its hold. Lauren felt her heart tug as, for a sickening moment, she thought that if Lucy moved her hand suddenly, that fragile skin would tear and the IV needle would come loose…Then Lucy opened her bright, intelligent blue eyes, not asleep but resting, and turned a megawatt smile on Lauren, which quickly dispelled the appearance of fragility.
“Thank God! A sane face amidst all this hospital madness! They woke me up at 5:30 this morning to take vital signs to see if I was doing okay. Good God, I told them, how could anybody be doing okay when someone wakes them up to stick needles in them, drain blood from them, and ask asinine questions in the middle of the night?”
“I see you’re being as good a patient as ever?” Lauren couldn’t resist teasing, but the malevolent look Lucy turned on her redirected immediately on the head of a poor lab nurse who crept in with the obvious intention of taking blood samples.
“What the hell do you want? Don’t you know I’ve already given enough to keep the blood bank stocked for the next decade?” Lucy growled, and the young technician gave a sickly smile as she snapped on clean gloves and pulled out the rubber tourniquet to tie about Lucy’s upper arm.
“Touch me and die!” Lucy warned.
It was evident that the young technician had already been warned of Lucy’s grizzly-bear-with-a hangover disposition, and she kept right on going. Even though she obviously longed to make a quick getaway, her movements were firm, gentle and efficient as she found a vein and inserted the syringe, and drew blood.
Lauren saw Lucy about to go into orbit, and rapidly intervened. “What did you think of the campaign yesterday—er, before you checked out on us?” she asked, baiting Lucy because she knew that would get her attention.
It did. Lucy gave her a knowing look. “Well, I really didn’t think you’d be so chipper about it all, not after what happened, but I really do admire your standing up to them—even though what happened was an accident, I’m sure.”
Jon Rush’s pale face flashed before Lauren’s eyes, the trail of red blood contrasting with the white skin as it flowed from under the silky blond hair at his temple, and her stomach cramped in a sudden spasm. She was grateful for the intervention of another nurse, who told her the consultant was on his way to see Mrs. Howard and she would have to leave the room. Quickly, Lauren deposited the magazines she’d bought in the hospital shop onto Lucy’s bedside table, kissed the pale cheek and told Lucy to be a good girl and play nice to the nursing staff, which raised a howl of angry denial from the other woman. Grinning, Lauren escaped outside, accidentally bumping into another nurse as she left
“Well, it’s Lauren Stephens, isn’t it? The wildlife artist from West River. I recognized you from your picture! I must say, it did look bad but I really admire you, standing up for your rights like that. We’ve lost too much of our forests and open spaces to the big companies like that, trample all over ordinary people, they would…” Then the nurse bustled on, leaving Lauren looking after her in puzzlement.
How could a nurse she’d never seen before in her life recognize her from her picture? She didn’t think Lucy carried snapshots of her friends around with her so?
The answer came to her as she walked past the hospital gift shop in the lobby. Several of the daily papers were displayed on a shelf outside the store and Lauren gasped as she saw pictures of herself apparently in various stages of using her protest sign to brain the handsome blond unarmed executive of Rush Co. In the final picture, featured on the front page of a tabloid Lauren particularly despised, Jon Rush appeared to lie helplessly at her feet while she stood over him victoriously holding her club in the air while another large man grasped her wrist and appeared to be restraining her from raining more blows down on her hapless victim’s head.
Horrified, and sure that everyone must be looking at her, Lauren scooped up several of the papers, deposited some dollar coins down on the counter in the store, and fled to the parking lot where she had parked.
Once in the safety of her car, Lauren was in for another shock. Not only
did all the newspapers feature the misleading photographs prominently, they all also carried quotes from West River police Chief Mike Ohmer and the Rush Co. President and Chief Executive Officer, Jon Rush. Ohmer’s comments were like the man, straight and to the point. He had told the press that his investigations had led him to believe the incident was caused simply by a misunderstanding, and no charges were to be laid.
“It was”, he was quoted as saying, “an unfortunate aspect of such occasions when emotions ran high that events could go beyond the control of the organizers. However,” he said, “I can assure both the people of West River and the executives of Rush. Co. that no such incident would occur in the future.”
Lauren couldn’t repress a rueful smile as she’d remembered Mike Ohmer’s disgust that such a thing should happen in his territory, and the grilling he’d subjected the whole gathering to, except, of course, the Rush Co. executives, she added peevishly to herself.
However, reading Jon Rush’s comments made her throat and chest go tight, and little angry hammers began to pound behind her eyes. How dare he!
“As you would know if you were present at the event, I wasn’t really in a position to know everything that went on.” Jon was quoted as saying, sounding like the soul of reasonableness. “However, it was a very unfortunate incident and I am quite sure that Ms. Stephens is both embarrassed and regretful that she should be carried away in such a manner. Certainly, at this juncture, I do not foresee pressing charges against the young lady.”
Then, obviously to the reporter’s delight, and here Lauren saw red again as she noted the newspaper’s phrase “…with a smile, the debonair company boss, son of the founder, Jonathon Rush, Senior, intimated that it wasn’t every day a lovely lady had attempted to get his attention by hitting him over the head…”