by Karis Walsh
Heather completed the upper edge of blue sky pieces and started to work on the left side. Her doctor should be pleased with her hour-long bout of yoga yesterday. She’d disliked every minute of it. The wind had blown grit in her eyes and had flipped the corner of her yoga mat into her face every time she did the downward dog pose. The shifting sand under her feet made balancing poses—something she sucked at even in a normal studio—impossible to perform. Not to mention, it had been fucking freezing out there. Whose brilliant idea had it been to do yoga on a beach in December? Every business in town seemed determined to find unique ways to make money. That was definitely not one of the more successful ventures.
Of course, everyone out there except Heather had seemed to find a version of nirvana during the class. She had a feeling they were all as miserable as she’d been. They just hid it better.
“Hi,” Aspen said.
Heather looked up from the puzzle. Aspen stood in the doorway to the living room wearing a sweatshirt that looked like it doubled as a painter’s drop cloth and a pair of clay-smeared cargo pants. She was a mess, but an irresistibly adorable one. She had a glow about her, and Heather took a guess as to what caused it.
“Did your sculpting go well this morning?”
“It was amazing,” Aspen said. She came over to the table and picked out a puzzle piece Heather had just spent ten minutes trying to locate. Aspen snapped it in place while she talked. “I’ve been struggling with the tree-trunk torso and I couldn’t get it to look like it was organically part of the figure. Pam and I talked about ways to make it look less symmetrical, and I ended up extending the bark pattern partway down one of the thighs. It looks awesome, but I never would have come up with the idea on my own. I’m lucky to have someone as immensely talented as Pam helping me.”
Heather watched Aspen talk, the puzzle completely forgotten. Aspen was sparkling with passion, a joy in learning new aspects of her craft and the thrill of accomplishment. Had Heather ever felt the same way? She couldn’t remember.
“I’ll clean up and be right back,” Aspen said. “I’m already a little late and I’m sure you’re ready to get going.”
She left the room before Heather could answer. If she had been going to Tillamook alone, as she’d planned, she would have left long before now. She’d been forced to wait for Aspen, but she’d had more fun sitting there doing the puzzle than she had doing all the other things on her tourism list. She wasn’t about to admit that to her doctor, though.
By the time Aspen came downstairs again, Heather was in the foyer with her keys in hand. Once they were in her car and driving south on Highway 101, Heather reopened their last conversation. The subject matter—passion for work—wasn’t a comfortable one for her, but she couldn’t seem to shake her curiosity about what it must feel like to be so in love with a hobby or career.
“The retreat sounds like it’s been worthwhile for you, especially with the advice you’re getting from Pam. I thought most artists had mentors, though. Teachers or agents or whatever.” Heather had sought mentors from the first moment she had chosen her career in banking. College profs, industry leaders—she had carefully researched their accomplishments and had done her best to emulate them. She’d been proud of each positive step she had taken, but she knew without a doubt she’d never had her face light up with pure joy in her work like Aspen’s had today. “Who sells your sculptures?”
Aspen visibly shuddered. “No one. I don’t sell them. I’ve donated some to parks in Seattle, but usually I give them to family or friends.”
Heather frowned. “You’re not serious, are you? You could make a fortune with your work.”
“Ugh. Sculpt for money? I’d end up a sellout, trading my artistic vision for cash.”
“Or you could create the art you love, and people who appreciate it would buy it,” Heather said. “I’ve never heard of someone not wanting to make money.”
“I earn enough to support myself,” Aspen said. “Being rich isn’t everything.”
“No, but it’s a damned good start. What do you do for a living, anyway?”
“I dream and sculpt and experience the world for my living. I work in a coffee shop to pay my rent and buy food.”
Heather couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. Aspen sounded idealistic and naive. “Eventually it’ll need to be the other way around. You’ll need to make a living from your work and have art and experiencing the world as your hobbies. You should be saving and investing in your future, and you’re fortunate to have enough talent to make your passion pay for that future.”
“You’d want me to sacrifice the integrity of my art and my soul just to have more money and buy more things?”
“Yeesh, no,” Heather said with distaste, even though she wondered if she herself had sacrificed something important along the way. She was envious of Aspen—she had the talent to attain the best of both worlds. Make a lot of money doing what she obviously loved to do. Working in a coffee shop probably meant long hours and minimum wage, a little extra if tips were good that day. “How much time do you have to sculpt, anyway?”
Aspen shrugged and looked out the window. During the rest of her argument for the nonmaterialistic lifestyle, she had challenged Heather with a direct glare. Heather realized she’d struck a nerve.
“Art supplies are expensive, especially if I’m casting in bronze,” Aspen said. “Sculpting makes me feel good and energizes me, but I don’t like to bring too much negativity with me to the studio. So if I have a full shift or cranky customers, I don’t always feel up to creating. But I have the freedom to make those choices.”
“So you have the freedom to sculpt when and what you want, but not always the money or appropriate energy to do it. Sounds like you’re a slave to your work just like a lot of other people. Haven’t you heard of making your avocation your vocation?”
“Are you speaking from experience? What do you do?”
Heather hesitated. Aspen sure as hell wasn’t going to be impressed by Heather’s job title. Why did Heather even care what she thought? Still, she answered the second question and ignored the first as she pulled off the main road and into the parking lot next to the huge hangar housing the Air Museum. An avocation? She’d have a hard time even defining one, let alone giving up her secure lifestyle to pursue it. Maybe she was trying to protect Aspen from making the same choices she had. Maybe she was angry with her for having other choices available.
“I’m a senior loan officer in a bank.”
“A very successful one, judging by your car and your clothes,” Aspen said. “Are you happy there?”
“What does happiness have to do with it?” Heather asked. “For most people jobs are for making money. Not everyone has the chance you do.” She got out of the car and slammed the door shut. If she really believed what she was saying, and what she had told herself throughout her entire career, then why did she feel so upset?
She and Aspen bought their tickets at the snack bar counter and went into the museum in silence. Heather looked around at all the planes on static display and sighed. She was only interested in aircraft if she was sitting in a first class seat inside one, but she dutifully walked around and read some placards. She’d started this obstinate quest to conquer Cannon Beach in all its touristy glory, and she couldn’t seem to stop herself. She watched Aspen as she followed a parallel path to hers, but one row over. Aspen seemed to feel an uncontrollable urge to touch everything she saw. Any part of a plane that was close enough to the velvet ropes for her to reach, the etched lettering on display signs, and the displays of World War II flight suits and equipment. Heather was less a tactile person than a verbal one. She lived inside her head, while Aspen sought to reach out to the world around her. Heather definitely saw the advantage in Aspen’s way of connecting with the world. She’d be an amazing lover. Heather stopped walking and pressed her hands to her cheeks, feeling the thrum of her pulse and the heat of arousal. Perhaps she should add Have torrid affair with an artist
to her vacation to-do list…
A tempting thought, but one Heather would keep in her imagination. Still, she’d been pushy with Aspen for reasons Aspen wasn’t aware of and hadn’t intentionally created. Heather didn’t like having anyone tell her what to do or how to live her life. She’d followed enough of other people’s rules along the way and had gotten stuck in their visions of her life, and she was certain Aspen didn’t want to be bossed around, either.
“I liked my job well enough at first,” she said, catching up to Aspen near an open-cockpit triplane and continuing their conversation as if it hadn’t been interrupted. “I love learning new things, just about anything, and I feel a lot of satisfaction when I set and meet goals. It’s just…”
“It’s just…what?” Aspen put a hand on Heather’s sleeve, and Heather wasn’t sure whether she was offering sympathy or just obeying an urge to touch the nubbly texture of Heather’s sweater. Either way, the simple gesture was uncomfortable because it felt too good. Heather was on this trek to Tillamook and the other tourist highlights because she needed to distract herself from thoughts of work and happiness—not because she wanted to explore them. She couldn’t seem to stop talking once she started, though.
“I met my goals. I chose the bank I wanted to work for and I moved through the ranks ahead of even my overambitious schedule. Last year, I got a big promotion, and now I’m where I always wanted to be. My salary, my home, and my possessions are exactly what I wanted. I guess I’m feeling adrift because I’ve achieved my dreams and I don’t know where to go from here. Maybe a different bank, maybe a higher-paying job. I don’t know. I’m in limbo, and I don’t like it. I’m sorry I took it out on you. Sculpt or don’t sculpt. Be a professional artist or a weekend hobbyist. It’s your life.”
Aspen opened her mouth as if she was about to say something, but she closed it again and walked to the next plane. Heather followed and read the sign, memorizing a few random facts about the Spitfire in case her doctor asked questions about what she had seen here.
“Did getting everything you wanted feel as good as you thought it would?” Aspen asked after a few moments without speaking. Heather wondered if this was what Aspen had been about to ask, or if she’d been thinking of something else entirely. She wished Aspen had asked anything but this.
“Of course,” she lied. “I have the security of investments and a great health care plan. I get a lot of pleasure from my car and apartment. I’m just the kind of person who needs to have another goal in sight. I’m in between right now, but I’ll decide where I want to go next and get myself there.”
“Seems like if you were made truly happy by any of your possessions or job titles, you wouldn’t be so desperate to move on to something new.”
Heather had been able to push the same paradigm-changing seed of thought deep inside her heart, where she rarely ventured. Aspen’s words brought it out where Heather couldn’t help but acknowledge and recognize it.
“I’m an ambitious person and have been all my life,” Heather said. Had she really? She’d certainly been that way since the time she figured out how to please her parents and make them proud of her. She’d never looked back or slowed down after those first words of praise—if she had, they’d have stopped immediately. “I’m not going to change, and I don’t want to. I just need to figure out my next big step. And today’s next big goal? The Tillamook cheese factory.”
“Sounds like a worthy one,” Aspen said. “I’m sure it’s the key to a successful life.”
“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
*
The drive from the museum to the huge cheese manufacturing plant was a short one, but Aspen wished it had lasted longer. As much as she despised obvious signs of luxury and materialism, she had to admit Heather’s car was an understated and damned comfortable ride. The seat warmer barely had a chance to take some of the chill from the enormous open-doored hangar out of her bones before she had to get out again, though. She didn’t think Heather would be willing to skip the factory and go for a long, warm ride along the coast, so she didn’t suggest anything to take them off course.
The parking lot was nearly empty. Tuesday afternoons in the dead of winter, only months after an oil spill, didn’t seem to be high traffic times in this coastal area. Aspen didn’t mind crowds because she was always looking for unusual body types and interesting facial features to incorporate into her sculptures, but she figured Heather preferred the quiet. Not because she was contemplative, but because then she could speed walk through the exhibits and barely bother to look at them. She had hardly looked at the planes in the air museum, seeming to prefer instead to read the informational signs about them as if she was studying for a test. Aspen really didn’t care about the planes or the cheese, either. She was here because she had been drawn to Heather for some reason, and she wanted to listen to her intuition. Maybe she’d get some inspiration from being around her, such as an idea for a sculpture of a woman drowning in cash and flailing for help, or one of a woman sitting on a briefcase wearing a fitted, expensive business suit and an expression of loneliness and emptiness.
Try as she might, though, she couldn’t see Heather as merely someone caught in the meaningless rat race. There was more to her, more even than Aspen had been privileged to see yet—she was sure of it. Heather was sexy and Aspen’s fingers wanted to smooth the lines of evasion and tension off her face, and then work their way over the rest of her body. She was also bossy, talking to Aspen like a smug old guidance counselor lecturing an unmotivated teenager. She was nothing like the go-with-the-flow women Aspen usually met and dated—of course, rarely did she find herself in contact with smart businesswomen, unless she was serving them expensive and high-maintenance lattes. Heather was intense and challenging and irritating.
And correct. Aspen reluctantly got out of the car and jogged to catch up to Heather as she walked across the lot. Aspen’s ideals kept her from becoming a tainted professional artist. Her need to eat and find shelter meant she had to work. Her job and the people she had to serve drained her to the point of exhaustion every night, and she barely had time to get out her clay and tools, let alone spend hours perfecting the lines of a sculpture.
Why was she squandering this one chance to spend two weeks learning from Pam by spending the day with Heather and not in the studio? Just the day, she promised herself. She had worked intently this morning and had needed a break by the time she came back up for air. She’d continue tonight until long after dark with a fresh mind and perspective. This short rest would be good for her as an artist.
Besides, the chance to spend time with someone like Heather wasn’t something she had every day, either. Even though Heather’s questions made her uncomfortable, she needed to pay attention to them—maybe because they made her uncomfortable and resistant. Even though Aspen had nearly perfected the art of acting placid and serene even when her insides were in turmoil, as they often were when she wasn’t molding clay and carving wood on a regular basis, Heather made her emotions roil to the surface.
Aspen loved a challenge, and Heather certainly provided her with one.
“I hope we’ll slow down long enough to get ice cream on the way out,” Aspen said as Heather rushed past her toward the gift shop and food counter. “I’ll bet eating a scoop of chocolate peanut butter would give you extra credit points in your tourism class.”
Heather paused on the stairs leading to the self-guided tour area. “Tourism class?” she asked with a tilt of her head.
“We’re all making bets on why you’re so gung-ho about seeing sights you don’t seem to care about seeing.”
“What are some of the guesses?”
Aspen grinned in response to Heather’s barely suppressed smile and she leaned her elbow next to Heather’s on the handrail. “A blogger, an aspiring tour guide, a spy for a rival bed-and-breakfast—that’s mine—or the inventor of a new extreme sport. Marathon sightseeing.” Aspen rattled off some of the options they’d come up
with when they were supposed to be having a brainstorming session last night. Most of the discussion had been devoted to Heather’s puzzling interest in everything Cannon Beach. “I’ve been appointed as a mole to uncover your real reason for taking the town by storm.”
“Is that why you offered to come with me today?” Heather asked, looking at Aspen with eyes so blue they almost appeared violet. Aspen tried to imagine her in a bank, staring at loan applications and credit reports all day. She couldn’t place Heather in her work setting, though, and instead pictured her staring out at the ocean with the sunset reflecting a rainbow of color in her beautiful eyes.
“No,” Aspen said. She swallowed and licked her lips, her mouth unaccountably dry as she saw Heather’s gaze flick from her eyes to her lips and back. “I don’t know why I did that. But I’m glad I did.”
Heather leaned closer, as if about to tell Aspen a secret. “So am I.”
An occasional visitor walked past them on the staircase, but Aspen only noticed them as shadows passing by. All she saw, smelled, and heard was Heather. Her low-pitched voice and the aroma of an exotic, floral-spicy, and most likely expensive perfume. Aspen’s body felt numb except for the alive and agitated patch of skin where their arms touched.
“Are you going to tell me the real reason you’re working instead of relaxing on your vacation?”
Heather shrugged, and the movement rippled through Aspen’s body. “I have some health problems. From years of living on coffee and danishes and working overtime, I guess. My doctor insisted I take time off, and someone from work recommended Mel’s inn. So here I am.”