Tales From Sea Glass Inn

by Karis Walsh

  Heather cried out as her orgasm caught her by surprise. Everything connected with Aspen surprised her. She closed her thighs tightly against Aspen’s sides and felt her shudder once, twice, and then lie still.

  Heather’s hand weakly rubbed Aspen’s back until Aspen raised herself on one elbow and gave her a slow, deep kiss.

  “You startle me,” Heather said. In a world full of sameness and predictability, this quality of Aspen’s most scared and exhilarated her.

  “You ground me,” Aspen said, resting her cheek on Heather’s breast.

  After a few moments of rest, Aspen rolled to one side and lay next to Heather. She stroked her with one hand as if trying to memorize the feel of Heather with her hands.

  “Have you always been this tactile?” Heather asked, playing with Aspen’s hair. “Sculpting and molding things with your hands seems to be part of who you are.”

  “It always has been,” Aspen said. “I was making sculptures from the time I could grab hold of any material to use. My food, Play-Doh, or even piles of fabrics and scrap metal. Any old junk, or real clay, I didn’t care. I never really saw myself as different or unusual because of it until we made papier-mâché jack-o’-lanterns in school one time. I’d never worked with the stuff, and I loved feeling how malleable it was. The other kids made globs of sticky fabric or basic shapes like triangular eyes but mine was a pumpkin house with windows for facial features. It’s like something clicked and I was a person who sculpted. I’ve tried about every medium I could find since then.”

  Heather couldn’t stop her sigh but she tried to keep it from being too dramatic or wistful. “It must feel good to be special. To have a gift you feel compelled to use.”

  Aspen swatted her playfully. “You’re special, too. You’re talented and successful and obviously very good at what you do.”

  “It’s not the same, but thank you. I’m not a gifted loan officer or someone who is completed by doing this work. I studied hard and followed carefully chosen examples to get where I am today. Anyone could follow the same career path if they had the desire and the willingness to do the work. Not everyone, no matter how hard they try or how much they practice, can replicate your abilities.”

  Aspen put her hand over Heather’s rapidly beating heart. “Everyone has passions, though. What moves you? Or what moved you when you were still young enough to be open to the world?” She tapped her fingers on Heather’s chest. “And I don’t mean skill. I mean, what do you love even if you’re not good at it?”

  Heather had to travel a long way back in her mind to find unfettered passion. “I remember standing by the ocean for the first time when I was a child. We were living in Vancouver, Washington, and we went to Ocean Shores for the weekend. I’d never seen or felt anything like it. The waves and the spray of sea mist and the sun glinting off the water and making me see spots. It was one of those moments when you see something so beautiful you feel a stinging in your eyes, like you’re going to cry just because you are looking at whatever it is in front of you.” Heather paused, frustrated because she couldn’t explain herself well and sad because she hadn’t felt that press of tears in far too long.

  “I used to seek that feeling. I’d find it sometimes but usually when I wasn’t expecting it. I’d hear a piece of music or see a picture or find some out of the way view in nature, and suddenly I’d be moved by indefinable emotions. I guess, in a way, beauty was my passion. I didn’t create it or bring it to life in any way. I just looked and saw it.”

  Aspen laid her head on Heather again and held her close, as if understanding the tears threatening Heather’s vision. This had nothing to do with beauty and everything to do with sadness. What good did it do to recognize a passion when it wasn’t anything worthwhile or meaningful? Was Heather going to quit her job and travel around looking at pretty objects and scenic overlooks? No way in hell. She was going to go back to doing what she had made herself good at doing. Maybe she could keep some of these memories intact and make more of an effort to see beauty on her weekends and—God forbid—vacations, but she had a feeling it would be easier and less despairing to keep her blinders on and see only work, her apartment, and her things.

  “You create beautiful art, and I love to look at it,” Heather said. “We approach both art and life in very different ways.”

  “I know,” Aspen whispered. “And I’m not agreeing because I think the skills I have are better than yours. I’m agreeing because you make me feel shame, for not giving more of myself to my sculpting, and a desire to be a better artist at the same time. You confuse me.”

  “And you make me realize how little I’ve lived in alignment with my passions, and how little talent I have for following them. Two people in a relationship should make each other feel good and strong and uplifted, not even more aware of their own weaknesses.”

  Heather pushed herself to a standing position and held her hand out for Aspen. She pulled her off the bed and into a hug.

  “This afternoon was wonderful,” Heather said. She felt Aspen stiffen in her arms as if she realized she was hearing a good-bye speech. “Your body, your mind, and your talented hands amaze me. I love being with you, and having a chance to hold you close was more than I dreamed of, but I think we both know how this ends. You have to get back to the studio, and I have a few more items to cross off my list.”

  Aspen stepped away from her and cupped Heather’s cheek in her hand. “You called me a coward earlier and said I was hiding behind the coffee counter. You were right, but you’re just as afraid to live all the way, with passion and joy, as I am. You hide behind your lists and your anger and your self-pity because you don’t have the skill of an artist. And now you’re disguising your fear as logic and pushing me away.”

  Aspen gave her one last kiss and walked out the door, leaving Heather alone with only the painting of the storm for company.

  *

  Aspen put her energy and emotion into her sculpture. She finished it in a rush of activity after her heartbreaking afternoon with Heather. She had to take short breaks when she’d remember their lovemaking and Heather’s final speech—her hands would shake and she’d need to walk away from the clay figure until she was under control again. But now she was done with the sculpture. Every last detail had been carved and defined until she was satisfied with the piece as a whole and slightly awed by the largest and best work she had ever completed. She couldn’t deny the fact that she was able to produce something special when she was able to devote herself to it full-time and not fit in only an hour or two a day on a small project if she was lucky.

  Making the mold for the bronze was her favorite part of the process, partly because she felt as if she was wrapping a huge Christmas present that she herself would eventually get to open, and partly because this step required just the right amount of mental attention. She had to keep focused on the layers of latex, rubber, and plastic that encased the clay so they were even and filled every nook and cranny of her sculpture, but most of her mind was free to wander. She had expected this seminar to be a fun break from the coffee shop and a chance to fully engage with her work for a change. The reduced-cost two weeks at a gorgeous B&B on the coast was an added bonus. Aspen hadn’t expected the seminar to be life-changing.

  She washed her hands after the final clamp was applied. Now what? She and Pam were taking the mold to a foundry in Portland, but not until tomorrow. She wanted to search for Heather and find some way to break through to her, but she hadn’t seen her since their afternoon together.

  She knew what she needed to do. After hours of intense thought during the past few days, she had come to a decision. She wasn’t going to hide behind the coffee counter anymore. She gave her mold a final pat and left the studio, getting in her car and driving back to Tillamook.

  She drove past the cheese factory and was tempted to go in and stand where she and Heather had stood the other day, but she kept driving to the office supply store. She wasn’t here to relive their first “date.” She
was here because she needed a one-hour photo shop and a big-box office store. The memories of Heather and their conversations kept her going, though, even when she was tempted to back out of her new plan before she got it started.

  Aspen was new to the goal-setting business. Once she had finished school, she had fallen into her job and apartment, taking the first ones she found. She’d taken the easy way out every step of the way. She had justified her lack of drive by claiming she was protecting her art, but she was neglecting it instead. When she had talked to Heather about her childhood and her discovery of sculpting, she had felt sad about the way she had let herself create distance between herself and sculpting instead of creating art. She had always been touching and molding and shaping, from preschool onward. Did she still create every waking moment? No. Did she miss the physical connection between her and the objects and materials around her? Yes. With all her heart.

  She drove back to the inn and sat in her car in the parking area while she hastily shoved photos of her work into plastic sleeves. She tried a few different combinations and orders of pictures. She was particularly fond of one of her earlier pieces—one Heather had suggested she leave out of a portfolio—and she hated to omit it from her collection. She’d been going through a tough breakup and a stressful time at work when she’d sculpted it, and she saw it as a personal triumph that she had created something beautiful and lasting out of her pain. When she looked through the pages now, with a more critical eye, she saw what Heather had seen. The piece was sentimental for her, but it didn’t fit with the rest of her work in tone or subtlety. She put the photo aside, deciding instead to frame it and hang it in her apartment as a symbol of sculpting’s ability to heal. She put the rest of the pictures, including a temporary one of her clay figure, in the order Heather had suggested and got out of the car.

  She went through the back gate, hoping to find Pam in her studio. As she came around the house, she heard Heather and Pam talking on the patio. She hesitated, still hidden by shrubs and not wanting to intrude. She could have walked up to them, but she had a feeling Heather didn’t want to see her anymore now that she was ready to go back home, to her lists and her promotions.

  She shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but she couldn’t seem to move when she heard Heather’s voice. She was going to miss the sound of it, and the way Heather gestured when she spoke, moving through space with a grace and refinement Aspen adored. In her moment of indecision, she heard the last part of their conversation.

  “Just promise me you’ll think about it,” Pam was saying. “Give it a day or two.”

  “Okay, but I don’t want to waste your time. I can say no right now, or I can wait until tomorrow and say it then.”

  “Humor me. Tell me tomorrow.”

  Heather’s laugh carried over to Aspen’s hiding place. She heard humor in it, but something else as well. A tension Aspen only heard when Heather talked about her career and her life in Portland.

  “Fine. I’ll wait. But I don’t have any training or skill or—”

  “Please, Heather. Make your decision based on what you want, not on what you think you have to offer. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t believe in you.”

  Aspen practically felt Heather’s shrug in her next words.

  “All right. I guess we’ll talk again tomorrow. But it’ll be a short, one-word conversation.”

  Pam laughed in response, and Aspen thought she sensed something confident in it. Pam always seemed sure of herself, though, a trait Aspen didn’t share. It would be a helpful one if she followed her heart with her career as a sculptor, but she was going to have to try using blind hope and nagging doubt instead. Much less helpful traits.

  Aspen heard the back door shut and she came out of the bushes cautiously, in case Pam had been the one to go inside. Heather must have, instead, because Aspen saw Pam walking along the path toward the studio. She wanted to follow Heather. Ask how she was, what the offer Pam had made was, and why Heather seemed so defensively opposed to it. Aspen sighed and headed after Pam. Heather didn’t want her input or her presence.

  Pam was setting out paints and an easel when Aspen entered the studio. She was humming to herself and had a hint of a smile on her face. Aspen recognized the signs of an artist about to create, and she hurried into a conversation, not wanting to disturb Pam more than necessary.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said, about trying to sell some of my sculptures and do this as a career, and I think I might want to at least give it a try. For a while. Maybe.”

  Pam turned toward her with a grin. “There were a lot of qualifiers in that little speech, but I believe in you. Give this a shot, and you’ll start to believe in yourself as much as I do.”

  Aspen sighed. She wasn’t positive that would ever happen, but she was dying a slow death without art on the center stage of her life. She had to make this change. “I didn’t realize until this seminar how much I need to be sculpting all the time. Being here, without having my energy sapped by distractions, has been amazing. I’m working better, and I feel more at peace.”

  In her mind, not in her heart. Heather had broken that into pieces, but Aspen would use her pain and create with it. Even though the ending of their brief relationship was a sad one, Aspen had to acknowledge how Heather had changed her life.

  “And meeting Heather made a difference, too. She talked to me about goals and having more respect for my gifts. She made me rethink how I had been living my life. I guess I’ve been too scared of failure to really follow my dream, and I masked my fear with sort of an artistic self-righteousness.”

  Pam laughed. “We’ve all been there. But we create because we want to connect people with places we’ve seen or ideas we’ve had. Art is made to be a collaboration with an audience, whether it’s a single owner of one of our pieces or a crowd of people walking through a gallery. You’ve made a portfolio?”

  Aspen clutched the slim vinyl folder to her chest. “Not a real professional one. I had some photos printed in Tillamook this morning and bought this at an office supply store. I just wanted to show you and get your feedback.”

  “Gladly,” Pam said. She hesitated a moment before continuing. “You’ll need to let me see it first, though.”

  Aspen reluctantly handed the portfolio to Pam. She paced nervously while Pam looked through the pages.

  “I’m planning to replace the first pictures with ones of my bronze, once it’s cast.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Pam muttered. She came to the end of the photos and closed the book. “When you applied for this seminar, you emailed a gallery of your work, but a few are missing from your portfolio and the order is different.”

  “Yes, well…” Aspen berated herself for not adding her sentimental piece to the collection.

  “They’re good changes,” Pam said quickly. “This is a cleaner presentation than the one you sent me. It shows growth but a strong sense of personal style and imagery. Very well done.”

  “Oh, whew.” Aspen sighed with relief and an awkward sense of pride. She hadn’t wanted to blame Heather when she thought Pam wasn’t happy with the finished product, but now she was pleased to give her credit. “The changes were all Heather’s ideas. She suggested the order and what sculptures to keep out of the portfolio.”

  Pam looked through the pages again with a thoughtful expression. “Yes, she has a good eye. She recognized your talent right away, you know.”

  “She seemed to like my sculpture.” Aspen wasn’t sure what else to say about Heather. Somehow, speaking about her in such a casual way helped her control the rampant emotions she had been feeling lately whenever Heather came to mind. In other words, all the time.

  “It’s an astounding piece,” Pam said, handing Aspen the black folder. “I want you to feel proud of this. You made this entire seminar worthwhile. Just to see your growth in such a short time, as well as the quality of the finished piece…To be honest, Mel and I planned these retreats as a way to get guests back again after the spill. I nev
er realized how much I’d enjoy teaching them, and how much my students would inspire me to paint again. You made a difference to me, too.”

  Aspen was speechless. She had spent enough time with Pam during critique sessions to know she wouldn’t fling meaningless praise Aspen’s way. Pam got a piece of scrap paper and wrote a few lines.

  “Here are the names of some local galleries. Take your portfolio to them and ask for a showing. You don’t have enough pieces for an entire show, but they often do events featuring two or three new artists. It’d be a good start for you. Other than that, keep creating, as much as you can. My studio will always be open to you, if you decide to stick around here.”

  The thought was tempting. Aspen could always find work in a coffee shop here, if sculpting didn’t work out for her. But she’d have to live surrounded by memories of Heather… She waved the paper. “We already went to the galleries in town as a class. How will I know these people are interested in me and not doing you a favor if they offer me a showing?”

  Pam laughed. “I understand self-doubt. You’ll probably never get rid of it completely, but you’ll need to learn how to work in spite of it and using it. The names I wrote down are all in Manzanita. They know me there, but they won’t associate you with me unless you tell them. That’s your choice.”