When Hummers Dream

by Mara Purl

  But more recently she’d been accepted into a workshop by the eminent American calligrapher Barbara Bash, who’d shared her unique approach of pouring sumi ink from half-gallon bottles and using an oversized brush to create her huge scrolls. I’ll never master this the way Barbara has, but I love how it centers my mind. It’s all about flow.

  Is this a “head” or a “heart” process? If “head” was the answer, it wouldn’t be in an intellectual sense, because the ink almost seemed to be “thought-projected” onto the paper, the marks capturing a flow of movement uninterrupted by editorializing.

  Though the actual painting of the ink-wash was necessarily quick, preparing for each piece was a lengthier process. At least it is for a relatively inexperienced calligrapher like me. The ink had to be poured, the paper laid, and the artist had to summon both energy and vision.

  Miranda appreciated that this big-brush technique worked on three levels. As physical exercise, it felt similar to Tai Chi and to Yoga, both of which she enjoyed. As mental discipline, its immediacy permitted no distraction, no procrastination. A brush pressed a moment too long would cause ink to soak through and ruin both the paper and the image. She carried these lessons into her own watercolor work.

  And though technically big-brush sumi-e was certainly a form of fine art, it was far enough away from her core practices of watercolor and acrylics, that it left her free from internal judgment. She could float above the brush, the paper and the image, allowing thoughts and feelings to surface freely. I know why I love it so much. It lets my heart speak.

  The CD she was listening to came to an end, and a gust of wind rattled the windows. How many images have I done tonight? The new one makes four. And how long have I been at this? I’ve lost track of time again. She glanced out at the moon, noting it was lower now, its color beginning to shift from silver to gold as it sank toward the ocean. It’ll set soon, and we’ll have some black sky before dawn, so I’ll have a chance to sleep a little. I think I’m finished work for tonight.

  Stepping to her worktable, she picked up her X-acto knife and carefully sliced below the end of the painted image, separating it from the heavy roll. She lifted the top edge enough to drag the long sheet parallel to the others, which were laid out on the studio floor to dry. Tomorrow she’d mount the stepladder and tack the vertical images to the wall. For now, she stared down at the new work and its three companion pieces, finished earlier that evening.

  She stood back to examine the four scrolls. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “It’s the four seasons!” Amazed this hadn’t occurred to her before, she now saw clearly that the four six-foot-high water paintings described the subtle elements of California’s coastal seasons: a pine for winter; a blooming crape myrtle for spring; an olive tree for summer; and a persimmon tree for autumn. Maybe I didn’t notice at first because the images are black-and-white.

  The piece she’d just finished was of the persimmon, its signature drooping-leaves and multi-stemmed trunk so reminiscent of Asia. Yet she learned they’d been imported to California in the 1800s, and they were now as much a part of the Central Coast as any native tree. The bright orange color of the fruit came into her mind, highlighting the fall season when it ripened.

  She glanced down at the bottom corner, where she’d added that final swirl of paint. What is it? It looks like . . . a kitten! Kneeling, she inspected the small image more carefully. I know I had no particular definition in mind when I created it. She remembered laying the wet brush sideways, then dotting it here and there as she lifted it off the page. But now, there they were, the distinct feline features—head and whiskers, tail and feet.

  “Hello,” she said to the impish picture. “Thanks for the visit!”

  Tired to the bone, Miranda stood, stretched and sighed. Now for the cleanup. It took her a good half hour to wash the brushes, empty the buckets, and secure anything else she might’ve left open in her workspace. By the time she flipped the light switch and headed downstairs to her bedroom, she was already half asleep.

  I’ll shower in the morning, she thought. But it’s already morning! Too tired to make sense of the chronology, she washed her face, brushed her teeth and collapsed under her comforter. It’d be nice to cuddle up with that little kitty I drew. She smiled at the fantasy and imagined the kitty tiptoeing across the covers.

  Those four scrolls . . . they’re great, but I’d love to do them in full color. Maybe I can take the four seasons idea and incorporate it into my miniature watercolor postcards. . . .

  As she reached to turn out the light on her nightstand, something caused her to choke. Gasping, she reached for the water bottle she kept handy by the bed, sputtering as she took a gulp. What in the world? It wasn’t as though she’d gagged on a morsel of food, or swallowed down the wrong pipe. She’d been choking before she took the swig of water.

  She shuddered, trying to sense the source of whatever she might be feeling. Is something bad about to happen?

  No, not in Milford-Haven, she reassured herself. Bad things don’t happen here.

  Jack Sawyer’s alarm clock stuttered into life, its plastic frame cracked from abuse. A heavy hand swept down and banged the “snooze” button, then retreated under the covers.

  Jack hadn’t slept well. Keeping one step ahead of town, county, and state regulations didn’t usually keep him up at night. But now he had to contend with Samantha. No matter what he did, he could never seem to get away from that woman.

  He swung his legs out from under the blanket and didn’t notice its long-forgotten coffee stains. He focused for a moment on the clock’s digital display. The last digit no longer illumnated, so it was always a guess. He hoped it was still within a minute or two of 7 a.m.

  Jack headed down the hall, his bare feet leaving an occasional imprint in the dusty floor. An hour-and-a-half from now, he’d be in his office and the irritating phone calls would start: from contractors trying to pick his brains; from prospects who said other contractors could outbid him; from incompetent workers with idiotic questions; from inspectors with nasty notices. But at least his home phone wouldn’t ring, and he wouldn’t turn on his cell till later. Plus—today held the promise of a new client.

  He reached the bathroom and scowled at himself in the mirror. The fierce blue eyes were still clear. The hair had gone salt-and-pepper, the face a little jowly. Chest and arms remained firm, thanks to the fact he spent about as much time on his job sites as behind his desk. Jack’s gaze trailed down the rest of his six-foot frame—solidly packed with muscle, but with a little too much gut. Not bad for over fifty. Besides, only one thing really matters. Everything still functions.

  Just then, his home phone did begin to ring. Damn! Who the hell would be calling me now? A sudden fit of coughing seized him, loud enough that he missed the next two rings of his phone, and on the fourth one his answering machine picked up.

  “This is Jack Sawyer. I’m out. Leave a message if you expect me to call you back.” He paid no attention to his own gravelly voice on the outgoing message. But after the beep, when an authoritative female voice began speaking, Jack started coughing again.

  “Jack, this is Sam calling.” As if he didn’t know. “I’ll leave a message at your office, but in case you don’t go there this morning, you should know you’ll be facing an injunction. Have a nice day.”

  Kevin Ransom loved the mornings better than any other time of day. In autumn, it was still dark and chilly when he got up. He never knew whether the sky would look pink or orange or lavender, so it was always a surprise. He liked that best of all.

  The view from Kevin’s porch raced down a steep incline through a stand of tall California pines. The smallness of the house was made up for by the size of the trees, which stood on protected land, so they’d never be cut down. The first rays of light penetrated the upper branches like the strobe lights of a National Geographic photographer. Guess the storm last night cleared out all the clouds.

  The squirrel who occupied the back yard stepped onto the
railing of the deck and walked gingerly toward Kevin, chattering for his morning nut. Today it would be a cashew, and Kevin couldn’t decide whether his squirrel was demanding an early Halloween treat, or stocking up for winter.

  Kevin only had a few minutes before he had to leave for work. He liked to get there before Mr. Sawyer and make sure the coffee was made. It sometimes seemed to make Mr. Sawyer’s mood a little better.

  “Hey, little fella.” He spoke quietly so as not to scare the squirrel off. “Want another one?” he asked. He wondered why it was always so much easier to talk to animals than it was to talk to people.

  Sally O’Mally unlocked the back door of her restaurant and flipped on the kitchen lights, illuminating the gleaming steel sinks, pristine countertops, and the rows of shiny pans that hung from a large overhead rack. She caught the room’s faint odor of fresh lemons that lingered after last night’s cleaning. Though she’d been tired when she woke up this morning, she felt a spark of energy at seeing her workspace spotless and ready for a new day.

  Mama trained me well. Still, I never do get up as early as she does. She pictured her mother in Arkansas, still living on the farm, still knitting, and still baking up a storm—biscuits, breads, and her signature pies.

  Gotta get the first pot o’ coffee started. After putting her shoulder bag in the tiny private office she’d created out of a closet, she pulled the plastic lid off an industrial-sized tin of ground coffee, loaded several scoops into a filter paper, then snapped the basket-holder into place. Okay, now for the biscuits. Maybe I can get the first batch in before June gets here.

  Her hands moved almost by their own volition as they found the chilled batter—prepared the night before—in the fridge, greased the baking sheets, dusted the cutting board, rolled out the dough and began pressing into it a round cutter. When the sheets were ready for the oven, she slid them in. Just then the back door swung open again.

  “Morning, Sal,” June called cheerily in her distinctive Brooklyn accent. “Geez, it’s gettin’ light a lot later already!”

  “Well, that’s September for ya,” Sally confirmed. “How you doin’ this mornin’?”

  “Fine.”

  Sally smiled at the long sound of June’s vowels. I s’ppose I sound just as funny to her as she does to me. Milford-Haven brings in all kinds.

  Sawyer Construction Company was still closed and locked when early-morning sunlight slid past decade-old layers of dust on the Venetian blinds. There was no sign of life until the light on the office answering machine illuminated, and the cassette tape began to squeal softly while it turned.

  Jack’s outgoing message crackled over the speaker. The voice did nothing to belay the gruff impatience that set the tone at his office. “You’ve reached Sawyer Construction. We’re out of the office at the moment, but leave your name, number and a brief message, and we’ll get back to you shortly. Wait for the beep.”

  “Jack, it’s Samantha. I read in the paper this morning that you’ve announced the start of construction on that shopping center.” Not even the filtering of the tiny speaker on his machine could make her voice small. “You know perfectly well the plans have not yet been approved by the Planning Commission. I’d advise you to call me the minute you get to your office.”

  Cast of Characters

  Joseph Calvin: mid-60s, 6'1, gray eyes, steel-gray hair, clean-shaven, lean, handsome; CEO of Santa Barbara’s Calvin Oil; eligible widower; dates several women including Christine Christian.

  Zackery Calvin: mid-30s, 6'2, blue eyes, dark blond hair, handsome, lean, athletic; Vice President of Calvin Oil, works with his father; popular bachelor; dates Cynthia Radcliffe; becomes smitten with Miranda Jones.

  Nicole Champagne: mid-20s, 5'5, brown eyes, brunette, chic dresser; runs Milford-Haven’s Finders Gallery; sells Miranda Jones’s and other artists’ work with skill; originally from Montreal, Quebec and speaks with a French-Canadian accent.

  Stacey Chernak: late 40s, 5'6, blue eyes, blond hair, kind, submissive, speaks with a Swiss-German accent; married to abusive Wilhelm Chernak; works full time as Clarke Shipping secretary, and works part-time for Chernak Agency.

  Wilhelm Chernak: mid-60s, 6', deepset black eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, low resonant voice, a Swiss citizen who still carries an accent from his native Germany; capable of fierce and sudden anger; started the Chernak Agency, a service for locating adopted children; abuses his wife Stacey.

  Christine Christian: early-40s, 5'6, aqua eyes, blonde, vivacious, beautiful, intense; special investigative reporter for Satellite-News TV station KOST-SATV; lives in Santa Maria; frequent international traveler; dates Joseph Calvin.

  Russell Clarke: early 60s, 6'3, coal black eyes, dazzling white teeth, dusky skin, deceptively strong, by turns charming and stern, adopted with unknown mixed lineage; owner of Clarke Shipping; Stacey Chernak’s employer; business associate of Joseph Calvin; commissions Jack Sawyer to build him Milford-Haven’s most magnificent seaside mansion.

  Ralph Hargraves: late 70s, 6', blue eyes, gray hair, a face seamed with smile-lines, pleasant disposition; a fixture in Milford-Haven, owner of Hargraves Hardware.

  James Hughes: early 60s, 5'11, brown eyes, thinning gray hair, soft- spoken with a mid-Atlantic accent; the fiercely loyal Butler at the Calvin Estate, Calma.

  Samantha Hugo: early 50s, 5'9, cognac-brown eyes, redhead, statuesque, sharp dresser; Director of Milford-Haven’s Environmental Planning Commission; Miranda’s friend; Jack Sawyer’s former wife; a journal writer.

  Deputy Delmar Johnson: early 30s, 6'2, brown eyes, black hair, handsome, muscular, African-American; with the San Luis Obispo County Sheriff’s Department, assigned to the Special Problems Unit; originally from South Central Los Angeles.

  Meredith Jones: early 30s, 5'8, teal eyes, medium-length brunet hair, beautiful, shapely, athletic; San Francisco financial advisor; Miranda’s sister.

  Miranda Jones: early 30s***, 5'9, green eyes, long brunet hair, beautiful, lean, athletic; fine artist specializing in watercolors, acrylics and murals; a staunch environmentalist whose paintings often depict endangered species; has escaped her wealthy Bay-Area family to create a new life in Milford-Haven.

  Michelle “Shelly” Larrup: mid-40s, 5'6, hazel eyes, bobbed burgundy hair, well-toned dancer's body, flamboyant dresser; originally from Australia and speaks with the accent; owner of Shell Shock in Milford- Haven.

  June Magliati: mid 40s, 5'2, brown eyes, dark brown curly hair, no- nonsense expression that goes well with her thick Brooklyn accent; Sally O'Mally’s trusted friend and employee at the restaurant.

  Mr. Man: age unknown, dark eyes and hair, medium height, medium build; one of reporter Chris Christian’s anonymous sources.

  Will Marks: mid-30s, 6', dark eyes and hair, athletic build; VP at Clarke Shipping; contact of Zack Calvin’s at Calvin Oil.

  Zelda McIntyre: early-50s, 5'1, violet eyes, wavy black hair, voluptuous, dramatic and striking; owner of private firm Artist Representations in Santa Barbara; Miranda's artist's rep; corporate art buyer; has designs on Joseph Calvin.

  Mary Meeks: late 50s, 5'2, warm brown eyes, mousy brown hair perfectly coiffed, trim figure, conservative dresser; loyal secretary at Calvin Oil, remembers every detail of Calvin business.

  Sally O'Mally: early 40s, 5'3, blue eyes, blond curly hair, perfectly proportioned; owner of Sally’s Restaurant; owner of Burn-It-Off; born and reared in Arkansas; Miranda’s friend; dislikes Samantha; secretly involved with Jack Sawyer.

  Burt Ostwald: age unknown, 6'2, dark eyes, close-cropped blond hair, quarter-sized mole on left cheek, burly; taciturn loner; freelance construction worker; temporary-hire at Sawyer Construction—work nickname behind his back “Mole Guy”; has another primary employer.

  Michael Owen: mid-40s, 5'9, blue eyes, black hair, slightly rotund; owner of Lighthouse Tavern.

  Cynthia Radcliffe: early 30s, 5'8, amber-brown eyes, blond, shapely, gorgeous; passionate, petulant, persuasive; Santa Barbara social climber; Zackery
Calvin’s girlfriend.

  Randi Raines: early 30s, 5'5, black eyes, frosted hair, cute, athletic; demanding, impatient; a talk-show host in Los Angeles; dates Will Marks.

  Kevin Ransom: late-20s, 6'8, hazel eyes, sandy hair, strong jaw-line, lean, muscular without effort; Foreman at Sawyer Construction; innocent, naive, kind; tuned in to animals; technologically adept; highly intuitive; has longings for Susan Winslow.

  Jack Sawyer: mid-50s, 6', blue eyes, salt-and-pepper hair and mustache, barrel-chested, solidly muscular, ruggedly handsome; Milford-Haven contractor-builder; Samantha Hugo’s former husband; secretly involved with Sally O’Mally.

  Lucy Seecor: mid-30s, 5'6', blakc eyes, shiny black hair worn in a long braid; trim figure; photographic memory; manager of Rosencrantz Café & Guildenstern Garden.

  Cornelius Smith: early 40s, 6'3, indigo-blue eyes, black hair, handsome, lean; grew up in Milford-Haven where his parents still live; a professional astronomer who works part time at NASA Ames and plans to build an observatory in Milford-Haven; a loner, an eccentric.

  Susan Winslow: mid-20s, 5'4, brown eyes, long black hair, rail-thin, attractive but sullen, Native American; Samantha’s assistant at the EPC; avid rock-star fan; victim of traumatic childhood; feels trapped in Milford-Haven; defensive about her heritage; toys with Kevin Ransom.