Tales From Sea Glass Inn

by Karis Walsh

  “I might take you up on that,” Heather said with a relieved sigh. She had originally planned to get to town and do some sightseeing right away before going out for dinner and a glass of wine. The idea of going out right now was unappealing. “I wouldn’t mind a walk and a quick bite to eat before going to bed early.”

  Heather surprised herself with the admission. She wasn’t usually the quiet evening in and early-to-bed type. Quite the opposite. Maybe the long drive coupled with her raccoon scare had worn her out. A good night’s rest, and she’d be back to her old unfazed and active self.

  “Sounds like a nice plan,” Mel said. She got the first-aid kit and a clean towel out of a cupboard in the bathroom and set them on the counter. Heather picked up a binder with information about Cannon Beach and nearby towns. Mel had included a list of tourist destinations and things to do in the packet.

  “Can I keep this list?” she asked when Mel came back.

  “Of course,” Mel said. “I have plenty of copies, so take what you like as a souvenir of your time here.”

  Heather ripped the pages out of the packet. Souvenir? No way. She was planning to check off all the activities on the list and send it to her doctor. Then he wouldn’t be able to lecture her about not taking enough time off.

  Once Mel left, Heather took off the dusky blue suit she had worn to the office. She cleaned the blood off her face and squeezed some ointment on the small cut on her forehead. Once she had finished, the damage looked minimal, and except for a small headache and partially missing thumbnail, she was unscathed. She pulled a bulky fisherman’s sweater over her head and put on a pair of black sweatpants. Not an attractive outfit, but who was going to see her out here?

  She found her way to the brightly lit and welcoming kitchen with its blue cabinets and cozy breakfast nook. Mel had said breakfast was served in the dining room, but Heather thought this looked like the perfect place to sit with a cup of coffee and a newspaper. Maybe Mel would let her bypass the group meal and sit here by herself instead.

  She snagged a ham and cheese sandwich and an apple out of the fridge and started eating as soon as she was out the back door. She followed a flagstone path as it curved around the garden and past the studio. She hesitated in the shadows and looked inside. Eight people—the artists and Pam, Heather figured—were seated around a large wood table on benches that looked like halved tree trunks. Different types of art projects in various stages of completion were set up near the windows where they must get wonderful light during the day. Four paintings, two clay sculptures of figures, a twisted heap of metal, and something that looked like a pile of coat hangers. Heather’s gaze skimmed past them to a life-sized sculpture of a human figure. As she walked by the studio, the path brought her closer to the window and she could see some of the details of the sculpture. The figure’s chest was molded with the texture of a tree trunk and its feet were entwined with roots. Some type of plant had been roughly drawn on the sculpture’s neck and into its hair. The expression on the face was one of almost terror as the human tried to escape the elements of nature. Heather thought of the clear-cut areas she’d traversed today on her drive. Some humans seemed to have turned their backs on the environment more easily than this carved person was able to do. The piece had been shaped and molded with a subtle touch, and even in this early stage, the skill of the artist was evident.

  Heather chuckled to herself at the idea of buying the piece and putting it in her office at the bank. Once finished, it was sure to be powerful, a statement about people and the world they inhabited and destroyed. She was supposed to remain neutral about such topics at work, not display her personal beliefs in such a public and symbolic way. Heather shrugged and kept walking. What did she know about the piece, anyway? Maybe the sculptor had something completely different in mind, like a statement about fashion or a protest against Arbor Day.

  Several of the people in the studio looked up when she passed. They were a diverse group, as different from each other as their works were. One was even wearing an honest-to-God beret. Heather paused when the beret-wearer turned toward her. Pale skin and wide eyes, with short, untidy white-blond hair. Young. A bit too bohemian-artist for her tastes. Still, she found it difficult to look away. Was this the woman whose sculpture had captured Heather’s attention? Somehow, she was sure of it.

  She finally got herself together enough to walk past the studio and down to the end of the garden. She stood there for a few moments, chewing her apple and listening to the waves crash below. A huge basalt formation rose out of the sea like the kraken, a deeper shadow in a world full of them.

  Heather sighed and turned away, heading back to the inn. She was too cold and tired to stay outside any longer. Besides, she had accomplished her goal.

  Look at Haystack Rock.

  Check.

  *

  Aspen Carter spread another handful of clay on her sculpture’s torso. It felt cool and tacky to her touch as she smoothed it into an even layer. She wanted to make the waist thicker to keep the androgynous look of the figure, but she didn’t want to lose its slender grace. She was having trouble finding the right balance and had already added and taken away what felt to her aching arms like eighty pounds of clay.

  Once she thought the shape looked right, she used her fingers to gouge the furrows that would eventually be the rough bark of the tree-trunk-encased upper body. Too deep. Damn. She filled in the divots and smoothed the clay again before making another try at the subtle forms.

  This sculpture had given her more grief than any of the others she’d done. The transition from an image in her mind to a physical manifestation of it had been challenging and frustrating. Almost every step along the way had required repeated attempts before she was satisfied with her work, and even now she was second-guessing—or was it twentieth-guessing?—the curve of the sculpture’s thighs. She’d had moments when she’d wanted to throw the figure over her shoulder, carry it down to the beach, and dump it in the ocean.

  She’d never been happier in her life.

  She sighed and stepped back to survey her progress. She’d been at the inn for three days now, and the amount of improvement she’d made was obvious to her. Pam’s keen eye had helped her through her usual trouble spots. The transition points of knees and wrists and neck had always been tough for her to get right. She usually erred on the side of making these areas too slender because she wanted to show grace and delicacy in her figures. Pam had suggested she add more size and fullness to them instead. She had been skeptical, but she was here to learn, so she had ignored her accustomed tendency and had slapped on more clay. After only one knee, she had been able to see what Pam meant. Suddenly, the proportions of the entire leg were more balanced and elegant, not bulkier as she had expected.

  Aspen slowly circled her sculpture. She had never had the type of feedback she was getting from Pam and the other artists. She’d taken art classes in high school and college, but she’d mostly been self-taught and self-critiquing since then. When she’d heard about the retreat and the discount on a room at the inn, she had nearly emptied her savings account to come here. Already, only days into the two-week seminar, she had more than gotten her money’s worth.

  Her stomach rumbled, but she ignored her hunger and decided to keep working through breakfast. She wanted to finish the torso today, and the texture of the bark still didn’t look right to her. She needed to make sure it was recognizable as a tree but keep it subtle enough so it looked like part of the person and not something wrapped around it. She was about to wipe away—yet again—the lines she’d made, when she saw the same woman who’d been outside the studio last night walking along the garden path.

  Aspen peered around her sculpture. Like the night before, the woman was wearing old sweats and a thick sweater. Her hair was tangled and had what looked like twigs caught in it, reminding Aspen of her own sculpture where nature and human met and clashed. The real human in front of her seemed less troubled by the connection to the natural wo
rld, though. Her cheeks were red, probably from the wind and cold of the winter morning. She walked with purpose, just as she had last night after turning away from the art and the studio’s windows.

  Aspen wasn’t sure what captivated her about this unknown person, but she felt helpless to ignore her interest and curiosity. She quickly covered her clay form with moist towels and plastic sheeting. Maybe she wouldn’t skip breakfast after all.

  By the time she came out of the studio, the woman had already disappeared, presumably through the inn’s back door. Aspen followed, stopping briefly to wash the chalky film of dried clay off her hands in the downstairs bathroom before joining the others in the dining room. The three other artists who were staying at the inn were there, and Pam and Mel were bringing dishes of food out to the table. Aspen had hoped to sit next to the woman, maybe talk to her and find out her story, but the two empty seats weren’t next to each other. Aspen sat down in one of them, and moments later the woman came into the room and sat across from her. Even better. Aspen was finally able to see her without distance and plate-glass windows between them.

  Mel called her Heather, and Aspen met her eyes and smiled when they were introduced. Heather must have raced up to her room and back because her hair was neatly combed and de-twigged, and makeup hid the windburn on her cheeks. Except for a Band-Aid on her forehead and some gauze wrapped around her thumb, she was as impeccably groomed as someone about to have luncheon with society friends. She’d even changed into a pair of dark brown slacks and a pale lilac sweater, quite a contrast to Aspen’s mustard-yellow sweater and gray cords—both thrift store finds. Still, if Aspen could learn Heather’s secret to getting dressed and ready in such a short time, she’d never be late to work again.

  Aspen scooped some eggs onto her plate and added a cherry scone and some hash browns. She ate without paying much attention to the conversations around her and stared at Heather while trying not to be too obvious about it. Aspen estimated her age somewhere in her midthirties, probably ten years or more beyond Aspen’s age of twenty-four. Young looking for her age, but something in her expression seemed older and weary. Aspen’s hands tingled with a longing to mold clay into the delicate triangular shape of Heather’s face and the slope of her neck into her collarbones. She’d felt the same urge many times before, whenever something beautiful or meaningful caught her attention and begged to be sculpted, but she had never experienced the desire to follow the contours and curves of a woman’s body like she did Heather’s.

  “I saw you leave early this morning, Heather,” Pam said. Aspen had been focused on the strange yearning she felt to explore Heather more thoroughly, and she gladly abandoned that troubling line of thought when Pam and Heather started talking. Aspen was curious about her, as if understanding Heather would help her understand and control her own reaction to someone who was nearly a stranger to her. “We were surprised to see you up before dawn since you got in late last night. Did you go for a drive along the coast?”

  “I did,” Heather said. She flashed what seemed like a self-satisfied smile before it faded again, leaving her as expressionless as she’d been before. “I walked to a bluff in Ecola State Park and watched the sunrise, or what little you can see of it with the mountains in the east. I drove to a lookout and saw the lighthouse, and I even spotted a herd of elk.”

  Heather ticked off the items with the fingers of her left hand, as if crossing them off some sort of list.

  “I didn’t expect the elk,” she continued, “but they’re on the list of things to see around here, so they count. Local wildlife. There were about six of them in a grassy meadow next to the highway, all shrouded in fog. Stunning.”

  Most of Heather’s words had been precise and clearly enunciated, but the last two sentences were mellower and spoken with a real smile. Aspen couldn’t figure her out. She seemed aloof and businesslike part of the time, with her fast walk and quick, careful speech and elegant appearance. But at other moments, like when she had looked at Aspen’s sculpture through the studio window last night or when she talked about the elk, she softened around the edges and made Aspen’s breath catch in her throat.

  Mel sat and cradled a cup of coffee in her hands. “What a busy morning! I hope you find some time to relax while you’re here. You shouldn’t have to work harder at your vacation than you do in the office.”

  Heather nibbled on a piece of toast with some of Mel’s homemade strawberry-rhubarb jam on it. She’d barely eaten half of it, but she’d already had three cups of coffee. Aspen, on the other hand, had worked her way through something out of every bowl on the table, and she was on her second scone.

  “I want to make sure I take full advantage of everything Cannon Beach has to offer,” Heather continued. “I’m signed up for a yoga class on the beach this afternoon, and I’m sure that will be relaxing. I need to call and sign up for one of those cooking classes at the culinary school in town, and I’ll go to Tillamook tomorrow.”

  “Tillamook? Where they make cheese?” Aspen asked. She had been content to listen and try to puzzle out Heather’s shifting personality. She was vacationing with a vengeance, and Aspen’s curiosity was growing more ravenous every moment. She surprised herself by interjecting into the conversation, but she’d spoken without thinking.

  Pam nodded. “They have some interactive exhibits and a shop where you can buy ice cream. Marionberry Pie is my favorite flavor.”

  “I want to go,” Aspen said. She looked at Heather. “I don’t suppose you’d mind some company?”

  “Oh, I…well…” Heather looked as disconcerted by Aspen’s request as she had felt suggesting it. “Aren’t you going to be busy with your retreat?” Heather asked in a relieved-sounding voice, as if she was happy to have come up with an excuse to go alone.

  Pam spoke up before Aspen could answer. “Tomorrow’s retreat activities are scheduled early in the morning and after dinner at night. The artists work at their own pace during the day, and there’s plenty of time for a fun sightseeing trip.”

  “Besides,” Aspen added, “I’m sure take a sculpting student to get ice cream is on a list somewhere of the top things to do while in Cannon Beach. After tomorrow, you’ll be able to cross it off as accomplished.”

  Heather gave her an inscrutable look, but then her expression collapsed into softness again. She smiled. “Okay. But only because I don’t want to skip any of the Cannon Beach highlights, and I’m sure this sculptor–ice cream thing is one of them.”

  “Then it’s a date,” Pam said before Aspen could respond. “You two will have a great time tomorrow. Be sure to go to the Air Museum, too.”

  “And there are a couple of wineries along the way,” Mel added. “They’re on the page from your welcome packet, Heather. I’ll mark all these places on a map for you.”

  The two of them launched into a tourism board advertisement for Tillamook, Oregon. If she and Heather went to even half the places mentioned, they’d need more than an afternoon. Heather listened to their suggestions with an unreadable mask on her face again, and Aspen ignored most of what they were saying and tried to justify crashing Heather’s plans. She’d been working hard on her sculpture since she’d arrived, and a break would do her good. Plus, she might get some inspiration for future works in a new setting.

  Besides, she wasn’t a commercial artist anyway. She would take full advantage of Pam’s lessons and learn as much as she could while she was here, but her art wasn’t her livelihood like it was for the other participants. She was a barista in Seattle who sculpted when she had the chance and the cash for materials. She was playing a part here, but it wasn’t one she’d take on full-time. While she was at it, she’d play along with her body’s reaction to Heather and give in to its enthusiasm about spending some time with her tomorrow. These two weeks were a game, and she’d win if she left here with some new skills to apply to her art. That’s all.

  Aspen excused herself and left the table without another glance at Heather, but her image was visually
imprinted on Aspen’s mind. Time to get back to the studio and back to her creation.

  *

  Heather sat in the living room at the inn and waited for Aspen to finish her morning sculpting. She wasn’t thrilled about spending too much time with any of the other guests, especially since she had a mission to accomplish, and she hoped Aspen would be ready for the speed-dating version of sightseeing. She would have been more annoyed with her for inviting herself along if Aspen hadn’t looked as surprised to be suggesting she come as Heather was to be asked. Still, Heather would make the most of her unexpected company. Aspen was lovely and interesting, and Heather thought an afternoon talking about her sculpting would be a nice change of pace. Heather and her coworkers never had in-depth conversations about art or culture, tending instead to stick with mundane talk about the weather and the bank. Aspen didn’t strike Heather as the small-talk sort. Besides, Heather could use a witness to vouch for her if her doctor didn’t believe she had really done everything on her vacation list.

  She sat down at a table with a large puzzle depicting a colorful picture of a seaside amusement park and idly put several pieces together. Before she knew it, she was searching in earnest through the jumble of pieces in the box for the remaining edge ones. She hadn’t done a jigsaw since grade school, and she had forgotten how addictive they were. She could spend the entire day in this chair, putting together sections of boardwalks and roller coasters. Instead, she was about to embark on another round of intensive tourism. She realized her insistence on completing the long list of Cannon Beach attractions was a passive-aggressive way to send her doctor a message to butt out, but she couldn’t stop now that she’d started. She didn’t want to be told what to do, and she didn’t want to have the unseen and scary medical issues that had prompted his insistence on this holiday. Most of all, she seemed incapable of standing still long enough to really think about the underlying causes of those issues. Over the past couple of years, her growing tension and dissatisfaction had become too uncomfortable—and now threatening—to fully ignore. She had to push herself even harder than before to keep from acknowledging them.