by Kim Bowman
Charlie furrowed his brow as he tried to recall the details of his muse. All that came to mind was her kind smile and the way she lifted his sense of well-being. As an artist, he could paint her, but describing her with words was more difficult.
“I didn’t recognize her as a local.”
“Was she dressed in furs and a fancy hat, or did she look more like she was on her way to work?” Linda pressed.
“Or was she a hungry girl looking for a handout?” Connor tended to have a more jaded view of people than his sister.
“No, I don’t think she was a homeless vagrant. She was clean, and her clothes were tidy. Her speech was precise, like someone you’d hear on the radio. But she wasn’t rich. When I saw her, she was upset because she’d just lost her job. Her coat didn’t have fur, not even around the collar. And she didn’t look down her nose at me, not like the really wealthy ladies who used to come into the gallery.”
“Probably a working girl, then. She’ll get another job. But if she’s got an income, she’s not going to take a second look at you.”
“Why ever not? Our Charlie is a handsome man.” Ma re-entered the room carrying a freshly baked pie. The expression on her face was so fierce, Charlie almost laughed.
“Well, he’s my brother, so I can’t call him handsome. But if some strange man looking like him showed up and wanted to talk to me, I’d run. Look at him.” Katie tossed a careless wave toward her brother. “His hair is long and scraggly, his nails are dirty, and he’s got paint splotches all over his old, raggedy clothes.”
Charlie looked down at his hands. A glance at his reflection in the window told him Katie was right. Before the hard times hit, he wouldn’t have been caught in public like this. He’d been to enough gallery openings and galas to know how to groom himself. But times were tight, and he couldn’t afford the things he’d once taken for granted.
“Okay, Katie. You’ve got a point. I guess I’m lucky the customers even stopped.” He sighed. “I still have some dress clothes from my gallery days, but what about the rest? I can’t afford to go to the barber.”
“What about Aunt Ida? She cuts people’s hair,” Connor offered.
“Ida is not touching Charlie’s hair!” Susie slammed her palm on the table. “Have you forgotten what she did to your Pa?”
Charlie shivered. Pa had worn a hat for weeks after Aunt Ida had butchered his hair.
“I have a better idea,” Susie declared. “Do you remember Erin Grady?”
“Of course I do,” Charlie answered. “Her family has lived next door as long as I can remember.”
“Erin went to beauty school. Up until a few years ago, she worked at a salon in Philly and did hair for all sorts of famous people. If she’ll cut yours, she might even agree to trade for a painting.”
“A smaller one, maybe. The bigger ones are worth a lot more than a haircut.”
“Well, it won’t hurt to ask. I heard she moved back in with her folks, she and her husband and their two kids. Mabel is beside herself trying to figure out how to feed that huge bunch. Lots of hungry mouths to feed on just one pension.” Having made up her mind, Susie got up from the table and marched out.
Katie waited until the back door slammed before she started laughing. “Well, Charlie, I guess you’ve got yourself a haircut! You know, if you fix yourself up nice enough, maybe the muse lady will agree to more than just standing in your booth for good luck.”
~~~~
Ma returned less than a half hour later with the neighbor in tow. Erin set up her supplies in the kitchen: towels, shampoo, scissors, and a cape. She had Charlie strip to the waist and washed his hair in the kitchen sink. After he settled in a chair, she wrapped the cape around his shoulders. Long locks of wavy blond hair soon covered the chair and the floor around it. With each falling strand, a worry went with it. His mood lifted, as if the haircut represented a change in not only his appearance, but his fortune.
Erin stepped back. “Now for the great unveiling,” she declared. With a flourish, she swept away the cape, dusted off his shoulders with a towel, and handed him a small mirror.
Charlie hardly recognized the man staring back at him. Instead of the wild untamed locks he’d sported earlier, a neat, contemporary hairstyle gave him a much more professional appearance. Erin had even trimmed his beard and mustache. He looked like his old self back in his successful days in the City. A glance at his mother and sister assured him they approved of the transformation.
I look like someone I would want to do business with, his practical self admitted. He smiled. “Thank you, Erin. What price did you and Ma agree on?”
The girl sat at the kitchen table. A cup of steaming coffee, compliments of Ma, appeared, and Erin clasped it. “I need a picture of the house,” she began.
“Your house?”
“Yes. It looks like we might lose it, in spite of all of us pitching in. I’ve tried selling my hand-woven rugs, but people around here don’t have the money for them. Ma found out Pop took out a loan against the house just before he died, and we can’t pay it and the other bills. I thought if you could paint it, we’d at least have a memory of it when we—” She choked on her words.
Charlie’s throat went dry. He could imagine the heartbreak of losing the family home. Thank goodness the Brannigan home had been paid in full, and he only needed to take care of the maintenance and taxes. But Erin’s father hadn’t been so frugal.
“I’ll paint a picture of your home for you. I need to work on some orders this weekend, but next week, after I’m finished at the Boardwalk, I’ll start sketching. I’ll make it so good you’ll want to open the door and walk in.”
Erin packed up her things and left, and Charlie got out his supplies. But his heart was heavy, and instead of the bright summery colors he normally used when painting pictures of the Wildwood scenery, his brush dipped into the dark, sinister shades of night.
Chapter Six
On Monday afternoon, Charlie returned to his spot on the Boardwalk as soon as he and Connor finished their deliveries. To replenish his inventory from the previous week, he’d spent the weekend using almost every spare moment to paint. A few other small canvases from his New York days rounded out his supply. But without customers, the time crept by.
He was about to give up for the day when things suddenly improved.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Brannigan.” Rose appeared at his side, dressed in a neatly pressed suit. Her hair had been artfully arranged, waved in front and tied back into a tidy bun. She looked as lovely as the actresses he’d seen in the cinema.
“Good afternoon, Miss Sheffield. It’s nice to see you again.”
“Likewise. I’ve been hunting for a new job — unsuccessfully — and I’d hoped you would need my wrapping services again today, but it seems the customers have stayed home. Perhaps the dark skies are keeping people indoors.”
“Dark skies? I hadn’t noticed.” Charlie found it difficult to notice anything other than her. Those wide gray eyes focused on him, lifting his spirits as nothing else had in several years. Eyes shining with intelligence, with purpose, and…
“I think it’s going to rain any minute.”
Just as she spoke, the first drop splashed on his nose. He looked up, surprised to see the dark clouds above him. Only a few minutes earlier the skies had been bright and clear. But Mother Nature had changed her mind, and now he needed to pack his boxes and hurry home.
“Please, help me load everything in the crates. I’m going to have to pedal hard and fast to get these home before they’re ruined.”
Working together, the job took only a few minutes. But that was long enough for the sprinkle to become a downpour. Rose untied a scarf from her neck and put it over Charlie’s top crate.
“Let’s take these to my house. It’s only a few streets north of here. Follow me.”
It was Charlie’s turn to do as he was told. He walked his bike behind her, thankful for Rose’s long stride. In just a few moments their route took them
to a wide, tree-lined street. The thick branches and broad leaves overhead shielded him and his cargo from the rain. Still, he was relieved when she stopped at the first home off the Boardwalk. After opening the front door, she turned back to Charlie’s bike and took one of the crates down.
“Let’s bring these inside where they can dry out.”
Once inside, Charlie noted the crystal chandelier in the foyer. The lofty ceilings, the grand staircase, the fine woodwork, and elegant furnishings all spoke of a quiet wealth. It was not a home for a working class girl like Rose.
“Nice house. Are you renting rooms here?”
“No I — that is, Mother and I — inherited it.”
She owns this house. No wonder she looks and speaks so well. But why would a woman with a house like this need to work?
“Oh, how nice for you,” he said. “Where would you like me to put these?”
“Let’s bring them into the sitting room so we can find out if anything was ruined.”
Careful to wipe his shoes dry on the thick wool rug, he entered the house and followed Rose into a sitting room. The furnishings here were just as elegant as those in the foyer, but a bit older.
A tiny woman perched on a brocade-covered wing chair near the window. She held an embroidery hoop in one hand and a needle in the other. But she set them down as soon as she saw Rose and Charlie.
“Rose dear, I’m so glad you made it home in this awful weather! And who is this young man?”
“Mother, allow me to present Mr. Charlie Brannigan, the artist who asked me to assist him yesterday. Charlie, this is my mother, Mrs. Lily Sheffield.” Turning back to Lily, she explained, “We brought Charlie’s paintings here to get them out of the rain.”
“Of course. Please set them down. We probably ought to spread them out on the floor, don’t you think? Let me help.” She rose gracefully, and Charlie couldn’t help comparing the fragile woman to his own sturdy mother.
The three of them worked to lay the canvases out. A few would need touching up, but most of them had survived, thanks to Rose’s quick thinking. Her soggy scarf lay draped over the room heater.
When the paintings were spread out and inspected, the three of them had tea, along with some tasty cookies. Charlie couldn’t remember the last time he’d partaken of afternoon tea and sat back to observe Rose and her mother.
“I hope your canvases aren’t ruined, Mr. Brannigan,” Lily said. “You do such fine work. Have you ever had a showing at the Bostwick Gallery in Manhattan?”
“Yes, ma’am. Are you associated with the gallery?”
“Not personally. But Gloria Bostwick is a good friend of mine. Well, she — she was a friend.” Lily’s face fell, and Charlie wondered what had happened to the friendship. She drew herself together and smiled. “You’re obviously accomplished. Too talented to have to display your work in an open air stall.”
“Times are rough, Mrs. Sheffield. One does what one must. And right now I have to help my family out. I’ve had a little bit of success at that spot on the Boardwalk, but it would be nice to have a place under a roof.”
“Why don’t you sell them here?” Lily asked.
“Here? In your house?”
“Of course. Rose and I don’t need this much room to ourselves. A long time ago, Arthur and I did a lot of entertaining, but those days are gone. We’ve got this room,” she said, waving her arms around. “And there’s the music room—” She gestured to her left. “—and the dining room hasn’t been used in years. We have lots of wall space to hang your paintings.”
“You wouldn’t mind having strangers traipsing through the house to look at them?”
“Heavens, no. People looking for artwork aren’t going to be riff-raff. It would be nice to have refined company again.”
~~~~
The rain stopped almost as quickly as it had come, and Charlie pedaled back to his home. The still-damp canvases were left spread out on the Sheffield’s sitting room floor, and he promised to pick them up the following day.
After he left, Rose mulled over her mother’s idea of displaying his paintings in their house. Would people come to see them? If they were indoors, they wouldn’t be ruined by the weather. And Charlie wouldn’t have to transport them on his bicycle, so he could have more on display. She took a closer look around her. Charlie’s landscapes would look lovely on the parlor walls. They’d give the place a nice, comforting touch. And if visitors saw how wonderful they looked framed and displayed, perhaps it would entice them to buy.
Was it possible? If the house could be turned into a real art gallery and a viable business, she wouldn’t have to worry about finding another job and being away from Mother all day. And if the venture proved successful, perhaps they wouldn’t have to rent out rooms.
Lily must have been thinking about it, too.
“I hope that nice Mr. Brannigan considers our offer to show his paintings here,” she said over dinner. “Of course, if we’re to open the house to patrons, we’d have to spruce it up a bit. I’ll do some extra dusting tomorrow. And perhaps we should wash those curtains. They seem a little dingy, don’t they?”
“Perhaps. And I should clean the windows behind them. I haven’t done that in awhile.”
“It’s so difficult to remember all these details. How in the world did Etta keep up with it all?”
“Miss Etta had help. She didn’t do it all herself. She oversaw the people who actually did the cleaning.”
“Really? Is that why we needed all those young girls?”
Rose suppressed a sigh.
~~~~
Charlie trudged to the Grady home and searched for the best angle to illustrate the structure. It was an older home built for a large family, and the Gradys had filled it to overflowing. The Brannigan siblings had grown up with the Grady children, and together they’d celebrated life events and mourned losses. And now the Gradys might have to leave. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth, and Charlie wondered how he would feel if the situation applied to him. A few years ago, he couldn’t wait to get away from Wildwood. As an up-and-coming artist, he’d been on track for fame and fortune in New York. He’d left the small working class village and never thought he’d return other than to visit.
And now… now he was here again. Back to his roots. Back with his family. And he couldn’t imagine not being here.
He sketched quickly, as he knew the Grady home almost as well as he knew his own. The tall, straight walls. The steep pitched roofs that had guarded the house against ocean breezes and winter storms. The windows that had let the light in and children’s laughter out. So many times, he and Connor had leaned out of their upstairs bedroom windows to exchange greetings and make plans with the Grady boys.
But times and circumstances create change. Some were pleasant. Others were difficult to bear. Now, instead of facing each day eagerly anticipating what it had in store for him, he awakened wondering what hardships he would have to endure before it was over.
Charlie filled in some of the structural details as he pondered the difference in his outlook. What had caused it? Was it the financial changes — the economy? Or had he just grown up, as his mother would say?
Finishing up, he returned to his house — his mother’s house, he reminded himself — and prepared for bed. Tomorrow would be another early morning delivering newspapers.
His last thought was of the pretty gray-eyed lady from the Boardwalk. Rose. Was she really his Lady Luck? If she hadn’t appeared at just the right time, several of his paintings would have been ruined. Perhaps her mother’s suggestion of displaying them in the Sheffield home was a good one. That way, Rose would always be there.
The thought left a warm feeling in his heart.
Chapter Seven
Rose poured fragrant tea into two of her mother’s best china cups. It was Tuesday afternoon and Charlie had returned for his paintings, but the rain continued to fall, so they remained in the Sheffield sitting room. Since they’d dried, the canvases were no
w stacked neatly in his crates.
“I like the idea of having my work indoors, and your house is certainly close to the Boardwalk, but how will we get people to come in?” he asked.
“How did you get them to come and see your paintings when you were in New York?” Rose countered.
“They came to the gallery because it was well known.”
“And how did it become well known?”
“I — I’m not sure. I suppose they had well-known artists, and they advertised.”
“Exactly. And that’s what we’re going to do.” Rose had been awake half the night cleaning up after their weekend guests. Sometime during the wee hours, an idea had taken root in her mind, and she’d been excited to share it with Charlie. “This isn’t going to be the indoor version of your booth. If we want people to come, we’ll have to advertise this as a true art gallery. We’ll set this up nicely with your paintings, just like the posh ones in Manhattan, and then bombard the residents of New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and New York. Well, maybe not all the residents, but we’ll hit the big time. Newspaper ads, radio spots, flyers, whatever we can afford. And we could have special events here, too.”
“What kind of events?”
Rose picked up a notebook and opened it to the first page. “Well, I thought maybe we could have an art contest for young people. Let them send in their best work and you can judge it. The winning piece could be displayed in the gallery.”
“Okay… what else?”
“I remember going to a gallery opening once. There was chamber music playing in one of the rooms. We could have a Grand Opening, and ask some local musicians to come and play during the event. Perhaps they’d agree to perform if we have a bucket or a box for donations.”
“But where would we find art lovers willing to come and look around? Particularly, art lovers who would be wealthy enough to throw a few coins to a starving musician?”