“You’re going to finish the work on our house, right?” I asked teasingly. He’d been helping out for a few months, stripping and repainting the walls of the house my aunt had given us. No more out-of-date wallpaper or colors that didn’t suit us.
He shifted feet. “Yes, but—”
“Yes, but what?” I did my best not to worry. There were other handymen in town, but Keller had the same sensibilities as Rhett and me. He was nailing every aspect of our remodel.
“I’d like to expand my financial horizons through my art.” Keller brandished the burin in front of his painting. “I get that it’s a pipe dream, but—”
I patted his arm. “You should follow your dream.”
“Except I’m worried about Min-Yi.”
Keller and Katie had adopted an adorable Korean girl a while back. She was nearly fifteen months old.
“She’s not going to college any time soon,” I joked. “You have plenty of time to save up.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s . . . She’s not sleeping well. I think it might be my fault. I’ve been working on this piece for months, and I pace as I work through ideas. She hears me and wakes up crying. Maybe I should quit and—”
“Hello-o-o.” The Fairchild twins, Faith and Flora, sashayed to two easels and set up their artwork. They didn’t look or act like twins. Flora wore her hair in a long braid; Faith wore hers in spiky abandon. Flora preferred understated and somewhat boxy beaded sweaters. Faith wore clingy upscale workout clothes and gads of colorful jewelry. Flora was down to earth while Faith, who at one time had been an artists representative but was now hoping to become a full-fledged artist, was a tad brassy and narcissistic.
Faith’s work, like her, was a bold array of colors depicting ocean waves. Flora’s piece, a pen-and-ink of the mountains and neighborhoods that rose above Crystal Cove, was refined and delicate. For Home Sweet Home, the shop she owned in town, she made all sorts of candles, ornaments, wall hangings, and more. She was quite a talent.
“Jenna,” Flora said, in the bubbly way she spoke, “that orange plush cat you ordered has come in.”
“Terrific. I’ll come by later this week to pick it up.”
“Keller, your work is really coming along.” Flora contemplated his painting, taking in every corner of it. “It makes such a statement. I can see you’ve done a lot to it.” She studied mine. “And Jenna, that’s simply lovely.”
Faith chortled. “You do have a penchant for blue, Jenna.”
She wasn’t wrong. I’d painted Buena Vista Boulevard, the main drag in Crystal Cove, at sunset. Blue and darker blue shadows lined the storefronts. Overhead, strings of party lights cast a luminous glow.
“Is this your van Gogh period?” she asked while fussing to straighten her oversized agate pendant necklace. “Van-go or van-gock? Which do you prefer?”
“I think van-go is the most common pronunciation,” I said judiciously. We weren’t Dutch. Why pretend to be?
Yardley swept into view, the folds of her floral shawl-style sweater wafting. She clapped her hands. “Are we ready?”
Two other artists slipped in behind her. Each said, “I’m here.” I didn’t know either of them well. One, a dashing Latino in his fifties, owned a pet store that only sold reptiles. The other, a freckly redhead, made coral jewelry that she sold online.
“Welcome,” Yardley said. “Now, let’s quiet down and get started. As I approach each of you, I want you to tell me what you hope to accomplish this evening. This is our final workshop. Your finished product will remain with me and will be sent along to the judges. How about a little music?”
She clicked an instrumental jazz playlist on her iPhone. The music piped through a portable Bose speaker. Nice. I could feel my shoulders relax. So what if I didn’t win the competition? It was an honor to have made it this far.
For a half hour, Yardley orbited the verandah, giving each of us tips on how to improve this or that. So far, I’d heeded every tip she offered. The last art class I’d taken was in college. After Taylor & Squibb Advertising hired me, I had painted solely in the privacy of my home. I’d meant to take classes once I’d relocated to Crystal Cove—there were a number of fabulous art teachers in town as well as an artists’ retreat—but I hadn’t found the time.
To Faith she said, “See if you can find a way to add a smidgen of white along a crest of the waves.”
“Darlin’, I don’t do anything a smidgen,” Faith bragged.
“Try.”
To Flora she said, “I thought you were going to fine-tune this with pastels?”
“I am.” Flora giggled and held up a pack of chalk.
“You’re going to do it all tonight?” Yardley fought a skeptical smile.
Flora nodded.
“Go for it.” Yardley patted Flora’s shoulder.
Yardley stopped beside me and reviewed my painting, her chin resting on her hand. “Jenna, how about a dot of red here and there? Liven it up.”
I recalled an artist named Rabindra, who drew gorgeous pen-and-ink animals. He’d added a bold red dot to each of his paintings. It had been his signature. I didn’t want to imitate him.
“Better yet, what do you think about a splash of yellow on one particular shop?” Yardley suggested. “Draw in your viewers and make them wonder what’s going on inside the shop. Mystery matters in a painting such as yours.”
“Excellent idea.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Quade, a roguish mixed-media artist in his late twenties, walked onto the verandah with a cynical slouch, his work covered in burlap. He set it on an easel but didn’t remove the burlap. “Traffic,” he said with a wry smile while finger-combing his shoulder-length brown hair.
Usually, Crystal Cove had light traffic unless the main street was shut down.
“Don’t kid a kidder,” Yardley said. “You fell asleep.”
“Caught me.” Quade offered a cocksure smile.
When Yardley frowned, I got the feeling she didn’t approve of his cavalier attitude.
Quade, no last name, who’d come to town two years ago and was known for the two gigantic murals he’d been commissioned to paint in Crystal Cove, had dreams of becoming the most famous artist in the world. Rumors abounded about him. He’d been in numerous relationships. No, he was a monk. No, he’d been married twice. No, he was the child of a drug lord who’d sent him to Crystal Cove to hide. Personally, I thought Quade was spreading the rumors himself to add to his mysterious persona.
“Whoa, Keller, dude,” Quade said, eyeing Keller’s work. “What the heck is that?”
“Ha-ha, very funny. You’ve seen it before.”
“Nope, don’t think I have.”
“Sure you have.” Keller yukked.
Quade imitated Keller’s unusual laugh.
“Don’t make fun,” Yardley warned.
“Make fun? Moi?” Quade’s mouth turned up with surly defiance. “All I’m saying is he really messed up his piece. Last week it was good. Sometimes less is more, dude.”
Keller’s brow knitted with frustration. “You’re not the teacher.”
“And you’re not gonna be the winner.”
“Fellas,” Yardley said.
“He’s a pretender, teach.” Quade jutted a hand at Keller’s work. “Be honest. He’s on a fool’s errand.” He removed the burlap from his art, and Yardley gasped.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Something new. Night Sky.”
Yardley hadn’t gasped because his new work was horrible. In truth, it was incredible. It was bold and kinetic, like nothing I’d ever seen. Black on black with large strokes, sharp lines, and textural grooves. He’d adhered silver aluminum bars to the canvas, which caught the light. It reminded me of death and jail and anger all at the same time.
“But your other work . . . Morning,” Yardley said.
Quade’s initial submission had been the complete opposite of the new work in tone. It had been done in pale colors and the aluminum bars he’d used
had been gold filigree, representative of the way the sunlight bathed the ocean waves at sunrise. The honesty and sensitivity of the work had surprised me, given the artist’s temperament.
“Where is it?” Yardley pressed. “That’s the one that was accepted into the competition.”
“Yeah, about that.” He jutted his chin. “It seems to be missing.”
“Missing?”
“M.I.A. I think someone stole it.” Quade stared daggers at Keller.
“Whoa!” Keller threw up his hands. “Don’t put that on me, man.”
“Did you report the theft to the police?” Yardley asked.
“As if.” Quade shrugged a shoulder. “Police won’t help the likes of me.”
Chapter 2
As the surprise and shock of Quade’s announcement turned into muted conversations between artists and as Yardley stepped away from the group to have a serious conversation with one of the judges on her cell phone, Naomi Genet arrived.
“Hello, everyone.” She waved enthusiastically as she approached us on the verandah. Naomi was last year’s poster competition winner and was now a part-time teacher at the institute and Yardley’s assistant for the workshop. Pretty in a minimalist way, her brown hair pulled back and braided loosely, her coffee-colored peasant dress loose on her tall frame, Naomi weaved through the artists to me. She was a regular at the Cookbook Nook, often eager to find a cookbook that would provide recipes for her three-year-old daughter. A few months ago, I’d invited her to the Nook Café to chat about art techniques, and as our friendship grew, she’d coaxed me into entering the competition. “Nice work, Jenna,” she trilled. “I love the splashes of yellow.”
“Yardley’s idea.”
“She’s incredible, isn’t she?” Naomi said, eyes bright, the model of a perfect assistant.
“She has an eye, for sure.”
“I wish I had her acumen for business.”
I whispered, “Between you and me, I’m pretty sure Wayne is the one who handles the business side.”
Yardley and her husband owned Wild Blue Yonder, an internet company named for a basic coloring crayon. Wayne Alks was a social media expert, invariably traveling the country pitching their company, which provided online classes with curriculum for art teachers. Yardley came up with the idea when she realized teachers craved lessons that were easy to teach at any level. Inspiration, she said, was all they needed. Fifteen years ago, Wayne set up their first e-commerce store, as the business was evolving. Now, they sold over five hundred lesson plans every year and employed a staff of twenty who traveled countrywide.
“Have you mulled over becoming one of Wild Blue Yonder’s full-time staff?” I asked.
“And go on the road? I could sure use the money, but, no, I couldn’t do it. Not with Nina.”
“Right. Nina.” Her little girl was the spitting image of her mother. Long brown hair, gorgeous skin, a sweet tentative smile. “How does she like the kids gym class?”
“She adores it. She’s fearless.” Naomi set her bulging crocheted purse on a chair and it flopped over. Pens, paper, postcard-sized sketches, cell phone, a cellophane wrapper, and keys spilled out. “Crap,” she muttered as she bent down to shove it all back in.
“Hey, Naomi,” Quade said, his eyes drinking in her backside. “Looking good. How about going out for that coffee you promised me?”
Naomi jerked to a stand, her gaze withering. “I never promised.”
I was surprised that Quade was acting so cool. He didn’t seem upset that his work had vanished. Was he lying about what had happened? Was he still in possession of it and had simply lost his inspiration to complete it?
“Ladies and gentleman!” a woman said, raising her voice. Sienna Brown, the owner of the Crystal Cove Inn, strode into the center of the verandah in riding gear, breeches that were a tad too tight tucked into boots and a heritage show coat over an untucked white blouse. She raised her arms. “Quiet, please, if you don’t mind.” She was about five-ten, my height, but she was more formidable with broad shoulders, square jaw, piercing eyes, and hair coiled into a no-nonsense French twist. “When you’re done for the night, we are having a soiree on the grassy expanse by the lobby, and you are all invited as my guests.”
Each of the artists said, “Thank you.”
“Now, if you don’t mind”—she swung her gaze around—“I’d like to peek at your work. I won’t say a word. I will show no bias. Promise.”
Slowly, she roved the verandah, taking an inordinately long time to study my piece. I might have done the same in a gallery and did my best to ignore her stare. She hummed as she neared Quade, rapped him on the shoulder, and crooked her finger, requesting that he follow her to one side. I could see them past the right edge of my canvas. Sienna said something I couldn’t make out. Quade’s face flushed, his gaze narrowed. Whatever they were chatting about was not making him happy.
Suddenly, Quade aimed a finger at Sienna.
Before he could say a word, a hip-looking middle-aged man with a thick mustache appeared on the covered walkway. “Miss Brown!”
Sienna made a closing remark to Quade and turned on her heel, chin held high. She met up with the man and together they strolled down the walkway and entered the lobby.
Quade lumbered back to his canvas, stared at it, and uninterested, descended upon Naomi. “Hey, babe,” he said.
“Don’t call me babe.”
“What may I call you then?” He offered a cockeyed grin.
“You know my name. Why don’t you use that?”
“Nao-omi,” he said, dragging out the word lasciviously.
She frowned and proceeded on to Keller to give him pointers.
Yardley strode to Quade and said, “Please keep your distance from Miss Genet.”
“My distance?”
“Yes. Cool it. This is not a hook-up event or one of your chat rooms. This is a group of artists seeking a goal. Act like you care. And FYI, the judges will accept a new submission from you, but this is the last night to put finishing touches on it, so—”
“It’s done. It’s perfect, as is, teach.”
“That’s it. Come with me.” Yardley tagged his arm.
She marched to the far end of the verandah. Quade followed. The two chatted heatedly for about two minutes, Quade hitting his left palm with the back of his right to make a point, Yardley leaning in to offer a rebuttal. Moments later, Yardley returned to the class and Quade refocused on his art.
“Let’s finish up,” Yardley said, the epitome of calm. “You have exactly twenty minutes to finalize your work. Then take them to the communal room, along with your easel, and I will make sure they are delivered to the judges in the morning. After you’ve done that, please convene on the grassy expanse. We’ll have a wine tasting, compliments of the Crystal Cove Inn, and I’ll make a toast. Paint on!”
The time flew by with each of us, other than Quade, tweaking, polishing, and adding a bit more. I felt like one of the cooks in a baking show hoping my cupcake creation was the best. Tick-tock.
When Yardley clapped her hands, time was up.
Naomi supervised as we placed our art in the communal room, making an effort to steer clear of Quade.
Quade, disgruntled, turned his ire on Keller again. “You. Let’s have a chat.”
But Keller wasn’t in the mood. “Bug off.” He slipped out of the room, offered his elbow to me, and guided me to the grassy expanse.
“How are you?” I whispered.
“Quade. What a joke.”
“He does seem to rile everyone.” I squeezed his arm. “Hey, whatever happens going forward, we should be super proud of what we produced. By the way, if you want, after the judging, I can hang your art alongside mine at the Nook Café and we’ll see if we can find buyers.”
Quade caught up to us and snorted. “If you really want to sell your work, you need a representative, and honestly, Keller, I think that’ll be hard for you to find, dude. They don’t rep amateurs.”
�
��You know what, buddy?” Keller said, a snarl consuming his face. “Stay far away from me tonight, okay? I’m on edge and I don’t want to punch you.”
“Yo! Tough guy. Okay.” Quade held up his palms like he had to Naomi and sauntered away snickering.
Keller was doing all he could to keep his anger in check.
“Wine?” I asked him.
“Yeah, sure.”
“This way, everyone.” Hannah Storm, who was dressed in black, stood in front of two tables draped with burgundy tablecloths and set with small tasting glasses and various bottles of wine, as well as handblown wineglasses that were for sale. A banner boasting Hurricane Vineyard as the sponsor for the soiree graced the front of the tables.
I drew Keller in that direction.
“Jenna!” Hannah said. “So good to see you. You know Destiny Dacourt, don’t you?”
“Sure I do. Hello.”
Destiny was a beautiful multiracial woman who owned Tripping with Destiny, a wine tour group that took day excursions from one vineyard to the next. I’d often see her driving around town in her eight-passenger safari-style Jeep accompanied by her black Labrador retriever while narrating on a microphone to her guests. Prior to opening her company, she had been a rising star in the beach volleyball world. According to an article I’d read in the paper, a shattered ankle had ended that career.
“Check out Hannah’s handblown wineglasses,” Destiny said.
I lifted an Aegean blue raindrop-patterned wineglass and inspected it, front and back. And then lifted a red-splattered glass. I whistled. “These are beautiful. Where’d you get them?”
“They’re not mine,” Hannah said. “They’re made by an artisan in Carmel-by-the-Sea. We’re going fifty-fifty. Each is completely different, though some might bear the same pattern or the same color.” Hannah was one of the nicest women I knew. I’d met her over a year ago when she’d become an aficionado of five-ingredient recipes, and then learned more about her during the Renaissance Festival. She’d recently married Alan Baldini, a quirky but delightful vintner who owned the vineyard next to Hurricane.
“Pour you some Hurricane pinot noir?” Destiny asked. “Or I have a Baldini Vineyard sauvignon blanc. It’s a new line for—” She paused and looked past me. Her gaze narrowed and her cheeks flamed as pink as the cropped sweater she was wearing.
Wining and Dying Page 2