by Karis Walsh
Aspen grinned and put the folded paper in the pocket of her cords. She wouldn’t tell. She had to do this part on her own.
*
Heather walked as close to Haystack Rock as the tide allowed. The sun behind her threw the rock in dark shadow, but the wheeling gulls streaked flashes of white across its craggy surface. Waves lapped and curled around its base, sending the occasional spray of foam and glistening drops of water into the air.
She remembered her first night here and rubbed the fading mark on her forehead from where she’d hit her head on the drive to Cannon Beach. So much had changed since she’d arrived. She’d come out to the beach to see the town’s landmark basalt formation merely to check it off her list. Look, then done. On her way to it, she had first spotted Aspen—bohemian and beautiful—and her magnificent sculpture.
The nagging jealousy she’d felt because she didn’t have the raw talent of an artist had been steadily and unexpectedly fading since Pam’s surprising offer the day before. Heather had listened in disbelief while Pam told her about needing someone to help in the gallery—not a student clerk as she’d had before, but a real partner who would help ease Pam’s responsibilities and free her up for more painting and retreats. She hadn’t been offering Heather a job but had been giving her the opportunity to buy in as a partner.
Heather shook her head. What would her parents say? She had a good guess, but their imaginary voices were drowned out by her own shouted reasons why she should refuse. What did she know about art? Pam had called her a discerning viewer, and Heather had told Aspen about how she had sought visual moments of beauty when she was a child, but she’d had no formal training apart from an elective class or two in college. Pam would expect her to purchase pieces for the gallery—high-quality ones as well as commercial works with wide appeal. She’d help retreat students and other artists who came to Pam as a mentor with the logistics of being an artist in a world that favored those with more traditional jobs.
Heather snorted, and the sound of her humorless laughter was carried away by the wind. No salary. No ladder rungs to climb. This would be her job, and commission on sales not yet made would be her pay. There wasn’t a secure base salary, just the dream of potential commission. Heather shuddered. She’d done everything in her power to avoid the unknown, unpredictable life Pam was now dangling in front of her. She’d been aggressive in her career, but always by following high-powered mentors who’d paved the way in a career that had easily discernible and quantifiable steps to success. She’d never taken a chance on herself, by herself, with the huge risk of failure she’d face here. Her savings would buy part of the business. Her intuition and artistic taste would have to step up and take care of the future.
She’d be insane to consider it. And she’d never have given it a second thought if it weren’t for Aspen. Aspen, who asked questions and made Heather think about passion in a whole new way. Aspen, who had amazingly talented hands and imagination, but little business sense or concept of how to make a career out of her art. She’d told Heather she wasn’t interested in pursuing sculpting as a full-time job, but others like her would want the chance and would need someone like Heather to help. Pam had talked about needing Mel to ground her, encourage her, and help her navigate the real-life aspects of life as an artist. Heather could be that person for artists young and old who wanted to recreate their lives. She’d also be the one to ease Pam’s burdens at the gallery, freeing her to paint and mentor more.
Heather walked along the shore, not because she needed to cross it off her list—she already had marked off walk on beach and collect sea shells days ago—but because she felt more able to think and plan out here. There was something limitless in the waves and the tang of salt and the gray sky meeting gray water on the far horizon. Something hopeful, something nudging her toward a new life and a new chance to live with more passion than she’d dreamed.
By the time she turned back toward the inn, the sun was sinking low in the west, over the ocean. She saw a silhouette on the top of the inn’s part of the bluff. Aspen, as if summoned by Heather’s thoughts. She took a step back from the staircase, maybe retreating in case Heather saw her there, watching, but Heather waved and beckoned her down the stairs. She went slowly to meet Aspen. Too many things needed to be said, even after such a short time apart.
“Hey,” Aspen said once she got close. She was wearing a ragged green and brown sweater that looked hand knit and had a blue scarf wrapped snugly around her neck. No beret this time, and her short blond hair was mussed by the breeze.
“Hey. I’ve missed you.” Heather reached out and took Aspen’s hands in hers, half expecting her to pull away. Aspen squeezed her tight, instead.
“Me, too. I wasn’t meaning to invade your privacy, but I saw you out here and I couldn’t…I just wanted to see you.”
Heather’s heart felt as buoyant as a gull soaring with a wind current. Decisions fell into place with startling ease as she stood here, face-to-face with the woman she loved.
“We need to talk.” Heather saw Aspen’s frown at the trite breakup phrase and she shook her head quickly. “Not bad talk. Just talk. I’m staying here at Cannon Beach. I’m going to be partners with Pam and help run the gallery.”
Heather hadn’t even told Pam her decision—hell, she hadn’t made it for certain until seconds ago. Aspen deserved to be the first to know. Heather saw Aspen’s confusion, but she kept talking. “I want you to stay, too. I know how different we are, in age and approach to life and goals. But the afternoon…that afternoon when we…anyway, we talked about how we each seem to make the other person more aware of weakness. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe that’s how growth occurs. I want to learn from you, Aspen, how to be freer and happier. I just want to be with you.” Heather took a deep breath. Aspen needed to know she was accepted and loved, not worry she was Heather’s project or first gallery acquisition. “Just stay here, as you are. Work in a coffee shop or the bakery or the bookstore if you want. Sculpt when and how you want. I’ll support whatever you decide. I just want you to be with me.”
Aspen shook her head, and Heather wasn’t sure what she was answering in the negative. She held her breath until Aspen spoke.
“I want to be with you. I’d already been thinking of staying, and that’s part of the reason I was looking for you. I made a portfolio, just like you suggested. Nothing fancy, just some pictures thrown together, but I got a show, Heather. A gallery in Manzanita is going to display my work with two other artists next month. I’m going to work in Pam’s studio to get pieces done for it.”
Heather grabbed her and pulled her close. Even if Aspen hadn’t added the part about wanting her, she would have been as happy with the knowledge that Aspen was going to seriously pursue her art. Heather felt the same tight twinge of tears she’d always experienced in moments of beauty. Aspen would provide her with a lifetime of this kind of passionate response.
“What made you change your mind?” she asked, keeping her face buried in the curve of Aspen’s neck. Their bodies molded together as if Aspen had sculpted them out of a single block of clay.
“You, mostly. I’ve always been alone with my sculptures, but in these past few days I’ve realized I’m not anymore. Pam’s voice is there, giving me suggestions and challenging the way I look at my work. The other artists, too, are there with all their different ways of solving problems and expressing what they see and think. Mostly, though, it was you. You became part of me because you burrowed into my heart. Part of me as a person and me as a sculptor. I’d never felt such a connection with other people, and I never had a community of artists before. I’d never have grown much or had the same opportunities if I’d continued to steal moments of time and work by myself without feedback. And I’d never be able to bring the same depth to my work as I will with you in my life.”
Heather sighed and pulled back enough to look in Aspen’s eyes. She kissed her, feeling the warmth from Aspen’s lips seeping under her weather-chilled skin
and making her feel alive and vital again. What they had was special, and no one else would ever get as much of her as she was offering to Aspen. But in smaller ways, she’d be able to help other artists find their community and their artistic freedom and voice. She might not ever pick up a paintbrush or sculpting tool, but she’d bring more art into the world in her own small way.
And Aspen would take the world by storm once she completely dedicated herself to her work. Heather was sure of it. She deepened their kiss and then broke away, leading Aspen up the stairs and past the studio. There was time for everything else tomorrow. They’d start making plans in earnest—Heather’s specialty—and she’d be careful to offer support to Aspen without dumping all of her overwhelming drive and goal-setting skills on her at once. They’d make a life here, full of passion and beauty. Tomorrow.
Tonight, Heather had a different kind of passion in mind. She and Aspen held each other close as they hurried back to the inn. Tonight, Heather would be the sculptor, molding the desire she felt for Aspen into a living work of art.
Spinnaker
Once Tamsyn Kalburg had sailed her sloop a short distance past Haystack Rock, she flaked the halyard in a loose figure eight to keep it from snagging and turned onto a steady downwind course. She intentionally made the turn wider and smoother than she would have if she had been alone, but even with her precautions, her passengers looked ready to puke.
Tam started gathering the blue and white spinnaker, stuffing the lightweight sail under the boom and down the hatch. She pointed at the beach. “Hey, Pam. The inn is over this way now.”
Pam was leaning over the railing, staring at the open sea as if it might calm her stomach. She and Mel had driven down to Newport this morning to join Tam on a sail up the coast because Pam wanted to see the Sea Glass Inn from a new angle and make a whale’s view painting of it. The two of them had seemed excited at first, but they’d grown quieter during the short sail to Cannon Beach.
“All she’ll remember from this trip is dangling over the railing and being sick,” Mel said. She was sitting on a red-cushioned bench with her knees hugged to her chest. “We’ll be giving you paintings of the side of your boat for your next five birthdays.”
“Maybe I’ll make a portrait of you, Mel,” Pam said in a weak voice. “That green tinge on your cheeks is a very flattering color.”
“I’m not sick,” Mel said in an indignant tone. Tam might have been more convinced if she hadn’t noticed the same color Pam had. “It’s a new makeup. All the rage now. The beautiful blush of seasickness.”
Tam laughed. She had met Mel almost a year ago, when the oil spill hit Cannon Beach and Tam was called here from her Newport office of the Department of Fish and Wildlife. She and Pam had been acquaintances for ages since they had both spent part of their childhood here on the shore. Mel and Pam had been the first people to welcome Tam back to what she loosely considered home, and although her homecoming had been anything but pleasant, she had been grateful for their readily offered friendship. She liked hearing the playful banter between them, companionable and intimate even though they weren’t feeling well. Tam, on the other hand, felt great. The rough seas and salt air nourished her more than food could ever do, and she relished the tactical thrill of sailing out here where skill and confidence could mean the difference between living and drowning.
She sat with a relaxed hand on the tiller while Pam eased herself away from the railing and onto the bench next to Mel. Her life vest rose up when she plopped down, bumping her in the chin, and she pulled it back into place.
“I should probably tell you now how happy we are that you’ve moved back here, Tam,” she said, picking up her pad and squinting toward the shore. “Because I doubt I’ll be speaking to you after the return trip.”
“I’m starting the not-speaking-to-her thing right now,” Mel said. “I don’t know why I bothered to pack a nice lunch for us when I won’t be able to hold any food down. Oh, Pam, look at the way the sunlight’s hitting the studio. How lovely.”
“I see it,” Pam said, her charcoal pencil rapidly capturing the scene in front of her. Her voice grew steadier the more she worked. Even Mel seemed captivated enough by the view of her inn from the ocean to perk up somewhat.
Tam watched with interest as the beach and the large house unfolded on Pam’s paper before her eyes. Pam shook her hand and continued working with short, brisk flicks of her pencil.
“Can you hold the boat still for a minute, Tam?”
“Yeah, sure. One of my special sailing skills is calming the seas.” Tam shook her head with amusement. She brought people sailing with her on occasion, usually preferring to be on her own in the middle of water and waves, and most of them got the same queasy look she was seeing in Mel and Pam. She didn’t think she had a particularly strong stomach or any immunity to being sick, but she always took more care to keep stunts to a minimum when she had guests on board. Most of her passengers were undone by what she’d consider an easy sail.
“This is the Pacific Ocean, not the lake at summer camp,” she said. She gently adjusted their course to give Pam a change of angle. “Besides, I thought the two of you said you’d sailed before.”
“We have,” Mel said in an indignant voice, ending with a sheepish laugh. “On the lake at summer camp.”
“Never again,” Pam said, never taking her gaze off the scene before her. “I’m not even getting on one of those fake boats in Seaside’s kiddie park, just in case they slip off the track and fall into the water.”
Mel laughed, and then groaned and leaned back in her seat. Tam handed her a ginger ale from the cooler and Mel took it with a moan of thanks.
“I blame you for this, too, Pam,” Mel said. “You’ve known her for years and you should have warned me about how she sails. Remind me not to let her drive us home.”
“I’m a great driver,” Tam said with pretend indignation. “I never get speeding tickets.”
“Because no cop can catch her,” Pam said, chewing on the end of her pencil and tilting her head as she examined the back of Haystack Rock. “Can you take us a little closer? And over thataway.”
She waved toward the south side of the large basalt formation, and Tam shook her head with caution. She’d been much closer than this before, maneuvering delicately around the rock with one hand and snapping pictures of birds and seals with the other, but she wasn’t sure these two were up for the added roughness. “We’ll get tossed around a bit more than we are now. Are you sure?”
Pam swallowed visibly and pointed. “See those nesting murres? I want to paint them.”
Tam looked at Mel for her opinion. She sighed and nodded with the look of a martyr heading to the gallows. “Anything for the artist,” she said.
Her voice was punctuated with an exaggerated, long-suffering sigh, but Tam had a feeling Mel meant those words without hesitation. The connection and love between the two women was at once awesome and sad for Tam to witness. She had never experienced anything like it herself, although admittedly she’d never hung around long enough for a real bond to form. Unattached and free. That was her motto.
She went as close to the rock as she was willing to go with Pam and Mel along for the ride. She’d have pushed the limits further on her own, but she was careful with her passengers.
“Whew,” Mel said when a particularly strong wave rolled under the small sailboat. “You need to distract me, Tam. Get my mind off losing my breakfast and tell me what Pam was like as a little girl.”
Tam usually hated to talk about her childhood. She, like Pam, had grown up around here with her grandparents. Pam had spent summers here, while Tam had been dropped off for unpredictable and increasingly frequent amounts of time by her freewheeling mother. Mel looked like she really needed to get her attention off the movement of the boat, however, and Tam didn’t mind talking about Pam. Anyone but herself. She pointed at Pam, who was drawing with a rapt and distant expression.
“What you see is what you get, even back
then,” she said. “Pam was always the introspective sort, wandering the beaches with her sketch pad and a dreamy look in her eyes. We all thought she was a little loony.”
Pam laughed. She continued to draw rapidly, her eyes seeming to see past the birds on the rock and onto the canvas on which she’d eventually paint them. Tam appreciated her talent but didn’t share anything like it. She was connected to earth and sea, as down-to-earth as Pam was visionary and imaginative.
“I had plenty of inspiration for drawings with Tam around,” Pam said. “I remember a watercolor of her clinging halfway up the side of that bluff over there while she waited for the fire department to rescue her. And I did an interesting charcoal study of her draped over the hull of a capsized rowboat before the Coast Guard arrived and hauled her ass out of the ocean. I got my first start with portrait painting by capturing the look of terror on her face.”
“Exhilaration,” Tam corrected with a laugh. The day on the bluff had been exciting, and she’d had her first crush on the woman firefighter who got her off the cliff. The time in the rowboat really had been frightening, but she wasn’t about to admit it. She’d learned her lesson, though, and it had been pounded into her by the cold waves that had threatened to unmoor her from the hull of the boat. To this day, she might be daring, but she’d never lost her healthy respect for the ocean’s power.
“Whatever,” Pam said. She finally looked away from her sketchbook and at Mel. “You know what? I blame me, too. I should have remembered those incidents before agreeing to come on a boat ride with her.”
“You asked me for a ride, not the other way around,” Tam said with a laugh. She kept her boat moored at Newport even though she’d be in charge of the new Cannon Beach office. She knew why she had eventually applied for the position after turning it down repeatedly, but she still wasn’t convinced it was a good idea to be back here. She was staying at the inn until she either ran out of money and got a place of her own, or until she quit and went back to her old job. There were too many memories here. One memory in particular—her father—had abandoned her here and now was trying to call her back. She’d needed him then, and he needed her now. He wasn’t going to get what he wanted any more than she had as a child. She pushed aside the guilt she felt whenever he came to mind these days. She wasn’t after revenge. She just had nothing to give.