As Young As We Feel

by Melody Carlson

  Of course, that response simply fed her old insecurities. As she drove home afterward, she was plagued with doubts. What if she really had no talent? Or not enough talent to buy groceries or pay the electric bill? What if she could find no one to purchase her pieces, no gallery willing to take a risk on someone unknown? What if she ended up peddling her wares on the street? She envisioned herself outside on a cold winter day, wearing a ragged overcoat, trading a painting for a loaf of bread.

  She knew enough about art to have great respect for the "starving artist" stereotype. It was no joke. In fact she'd seen these pathetic characters on a regular basis while working at Kevin's gallery. At first she didn't recognize them. Back in her early days, she would suppose them to be patrons of the arts and potential customers because they lingered so long. Many times she'd been pleased by their willingness to hear her explain unusual techniques. They would be equally eager to share their opinions on why a particular piece did or did not work for them. And then-the ah-ha moment-they would nonchalantly inquire about commissions, about having their own art displayed in the gallery, or perhaps a special showing just for them.

  At that point she would politely explain that the owner handled such arrangements himself, and that he was solidly booked for more than a year (which was partially true), and then she would ask the artist to leave a card that she would drop into an old coffee can in back, never to see Kevin or the light of day again.

  Some artists would get belligerent at that point, demanding to see the owner or going into some kind of rant about why their art was superior to anything and everything in the gallery. Sometimes they would blame politics or pop culture or even the pope for their own obscurity-anything but themselves or their talent. Sometimes they would simply blame her and stomp away angry, slamming the door behind them and causing real customers to wonder.

  Those were the easy ones to send packing. Others were not so easy-people with hungry eyes and shabby shoes. They had poignant stories about almost making it before being knocked down in defeat. They had tried and tried and were on the verge of giving up altogether. Marley didn't want to become one of them.

  Marley didn't sleep well that night. Haunted by images of starving artists and broken dreams, she finally got up at six and decided to take a road trip. She maneuvered around her maze of boxes, gathered up a few things, including her dusty portfolio, then went out and began driving south. She was going to Clifden. It was time to do more than just dream (or suffer nightmares). It was time to do some honest-to-goodness research.

  This time she skipped the hotel and drove straight to Jackie Day's bed-and-breakfast. To her relief Jackie had a room. "So what are you doing back in Clifden already?" Jackie asked cheerfully when Marley completed the registration form.

  "Checking it out." Marley glanced around the lobby. Oceanthemed knickknacks cluttered every imaginable surface.

  Jackie looked confused. "But you already know the town."

  "I'm thinking about relocating here," Marley confessed. "But I just need to be sure. It's a big decision."

  Jackie clapped her hands together. "Oh, how wonderful. Well, I hope you find exactly what you need. You know, Clifden is changing all the time. It just gets better and better."

  "So tell me, what are your opinions on the galleries in town?"

  She grew thoughtful. "Well, the One-Legged Seagull is quite popular with the younger crowd. And Dockside has been here for years. Then there's the Treasure Chest, my favorite since they've started carrying jewelry and gifts."

  "Thanks." Marley smiled and reached for her overnight bag. "That's helpful."

  "I hope you're comfortable here." Jackie handed her a brochure. "Breakfast is served between seven and nine. We have free Internet service and cable. And, well, it's all on the card."

  Marley got settled in her room, which was also filled with oceanthemed stuff. It wasn't that Marley didn't like nautical decor, it's just that she liked authentic pieces more than the cutesy ceramic bric-a- brac that Jackie seemed to prefer. In fact, if Marley ever did move back here, and if she ever did get a house, she imagined using large pieces of coral or real glass floats as accents. Now that would be nice!

  Marley had to purposely slow down her pace as she walked through town, reminding herself that she needed to observe and take things in. Once again, she was pleased by the easygoing feeling in this place. A couple of old men were sitting on a bench, contentedly looking out over the wharf. A trio of middle-aged female shoppers moseyed along the sidewalk, talking among themselves, pausing to smile at her. No hurries, no worries. Everyone seemed to be just taking their time. All in all, there was a refreshing feeling of relaxed congeniality in the air.

  She stopped in a couple of the somewhat familiar galleries but could tell right off the bat that they weren't her style. Without even inquiring, she made her exits. Finally she came to the edge of town, close to the wharf, where the One-Legged Seagull was situated. She pushed open the door, walked in, and was met by good jazz music and the sweet smell of cedar. Not bad. The gallery wasn't bad either. Old wood floors and well-lit displays showed that someone here cared. Someone knew what he or she was doing. Marley appreciated this.

  The paintings were a mix of modern, contemporary, and traditional styles in oil, acrylic, watercolor, and pastels. In her opinion some of it (not all, which was a relief) was quite good. Besides wall art, there were some metal and wood sculptures, as well as some glass and ceramic pieces. A little bit of everything. She slowly walked around for the second time, taking it all in, enjoying the sights and sounds and smells, thinking this truly was her kind of place.

  "I'm sorry," said a man's voice from behind her. "I was so caught up in finishing this framing project that I didn't hear the bell ring."

  She turned to see a gray-haired guy in a plaid shirt emerging from the back room. He was about her height and carried a framed picture in his hands.

  "That's okay," she assured him. "I was just making myself at home."

  His smile reached his warm brown eyes. "That's how it should be. Anything I can help you with?"

  "Are you the owner?" she asked cautiously.

  He laughed. "Is it that obvious?"

  "No, of course not."

  "But why else would an old codger like me be working here?"

  "No, not at all. The truth is, I used to work for a gallery in Seattle. So I probably have good instincts."

  He frowned slightly. "Oh, are you looking for a job?"

  She laughed now. "Not at all."

  He seemed to relax again. "Oh, good. I already have a pretty good staff. But I usually keep shop during the weekends. I like to give the others time with their families."

  "That's nice."

  "It also gives me a chance to catch up on framing." He set the painting, a nice seascape watercolor, on the counter, then looked back at her. "What's that under your arm there?"

  "Oh, this?" She made an uncomfortable smile.

  He chuckled now. "I know it's a portfolio."

  "Well." She focused her attention on the watercolor. "I'm not really that crazy about watercolors in general," she admitted, "but this is quite good. Is it a local artist?"

  "As a matter of fact, it is."

  She nodded. "I like it."

  "Why, thank you."

  She was surprised. "Is it yours?"

  "Guilty as charged. Yes, I'm one of those desperate artists who had to open his own gallery in order to sell his own art. Kind of like people who think they're writers and pay money to have their books published at those vanity presses." He shrugged. "I suppose this is my vanity gallery."

  "Except that you're really an artist," she told him. "A good one."

  He moved the watercolor aside and nodded toward her portfolio. "How about you? Are you a good one too? Let's see what you got."

  She wasn't so sure she wanted to do this now. "Are you sure this is a good time? I could leave my portfolio with you and come back tomorrow"

  "Would that make you feel b
etter?"

  A real customer entered the shop. "Yes," she said. "Immensely."

  "Do you have a business card in here so that I can reach you?"

  "No, I forgot."

  He slid a pad of paper and pen toward her, and she wrote down her name and cell-phone number. He looked at it, then stuck out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Marley Phelps. I'm Jack Holland and I'll be in touch."

  "Thanks." She self-consciously turned away and hurried out the door, wondering why anyone in her right mind willingly opened herself up for the kind of abuse she was asking for here. Oh, sure, Jack seemed like a kind person. He would probably be gentle in his rejection. But really, what was wrong with a person who went in search of new and clever ways to make herself feel inadequate?

  Chapter 22

  CAROLINE

  Caroline almost never worked Sundays at the restaurant. That wasn't for church reasons, although she wanted to become more regular in her attendance. Once she'd established some clout with the managers, she refused Sundays because the business was lighter, and tips were lighter too. After she returned from her reunion, though, she found herself on the Sunday schedule and felt as if she'd been demoted.

  "I'm getting too old for this," she had told Remo, the maitre d', on her first day back at work. The truth was, she felt out of shape and slightly lazy, not to mention offended that she'd been reduced to the bottom of the restaurant's food chain.

  "Then quit," he had said in a snooty tone, as if he really didn't care.

  She'd stood straighter then, adjusting her apron and tucking one side of her neatly pressed white shirt into her slim-fitting black trousers. And then she walked away with her head held high. Remo was smoother than silk with patrons, but he wasn't known for his sensitivity toward the wait staff. Still, as she picked up an order for an elderly woman who was dining alone, she considered his advice. Just quit. He made it sound so simple. Maybe it was. After all, she'd been praying about this whole thing ever since leaving Clifden two days earlier. But still. She wasn't ready.

  "Here you go," Caroline said pleasantly as she set the entree in front of the woman, taking time to refill her water glass.

  "I ordered it medium-well," the woman said curtly.

  "It is medium-well," Caroline gently told her.

  "This is not medium-well." The woman's voice got a bit louder.

  "Can I have the chef put it on the grill for you again?" Caroline kept her tone friendly and warm. "It's really no trouble."

  "Fine." The woman folded her arms in front of her. "I'll just wait."

  "Would you like a complimentary side salad while you wait?" Caroline offered.

  "If I had wanted a side salad, I would have ordered one."

  "Yes." Caroline removed the plate and returned to the kitchen to explain the situation as tactfully as possible.

  "If that filet mignon was any more well-done, we could offer it up to the gods of inedible food," he said.

  "I'm sorry, but the woman insisted."

  "Why do people like her come here in the first place?" he demanded as he stabbed the innocent steak with a meat fork, then flung it on the grill. He continued to complain and Caroline quietly exited, glancing at her watch and wishing that an earthquake would conveniently shake this day to an end. But as she stood there waiting for the chef to burn the poor steak, she seemed to see God's handwriting on the wall.

  Q U-I-T. Just like Remo had said. And quit she would. Her decision was made. Before her shift ended that day, she would write a resignation letter and mark the end of an era.

  "Your order's up." The chef had a mean twinkle in his eye. He was relatively new to the restaurant and had made it clear that he was unaccustomed to working with female wait staff. It was obvious that he considered her his inferior, even though they had barely exchanged more than a few words.

  "There you go." The chef nodded over to a shriveled piece of burnt meat in the corner of the square white plate.

  "But I can't serve-"

  "The customer is always right," he had snarled, waving a knife as if to drive home his point. "Give her what she wants."

  "Fine." Caroline picked up the plate and, holding her head high, marched back into the dining area and sweetly said, "Here you go."

  "What is this?" barked the old woman.

  "Your filet mignon." Caroline could hardly bear to look at the blackened steak.

  "I wouldn't give this to a dog. It's burnt to a crisp."

  Caroline heard snickering from the kitchen.

  "You take it back," the woman ordered. "And I want to see the management."

  Caroline nodded. "Fine."

  Of course, "the management" wasn't around on Sunday, which meant the chef was in charge. "The customer refuses to eat this," Caroline told him as she set the plate at his elbow. "And she would like to speak to you."

  "Tell her I'm busy," he said as he tossed some scampi into a hot pan.

  "Tell her yourself," she shot back at him.

  "I'm busy!" he shouted.

  That was when Caroline decided she'd had enough. She untied the strings of her short apron, then removed and neatly folded it, dropping it on the butcher block counter. "I quit," she told him. "Good luck with dinner." And then she left.

  She hadn't felt the least bit guilty as she drove home three hours before her shift was scheduled to end. And she didn't regret her hasty decision one bit. In fact she was happy. Almost deliriously happy. Once home she turned on some music, kicked off her shoes, and danced around until she was laughing so hard, she had to sit down.

  "Free at last," she had sung, quoting Martin Luther King, Jr., "Free at last. Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last." Then she got on the phone and called an old friend who was also a real-estate agent. "Sandy," she said joyfully. "I want to sell my condo."

  "Great!" Sandy sounded eager too. "I'd love to help you."

  "So what's the next step? What do I do?"

  "How soon do you want it listed?"

  "Yesterday." Caroline imagined herself running on the beach outside of Clifden as if she were in a scene from a movie. She could see herself in faded denim jeans rolled up to her knees, a soft white blouse, and running by her side was a gorgeous golden lab with his tongue hanging happily out as the waves splashed nearby.

  "Okay then." Sandy's voice had brought her back to reality. "Do you want me to bring over some paperwork today? I can do a walkthrough and make some suggestions, you know, things you can do to make sure it's market-ready. And we can go over the numbers."

  "Perfect." Caroline hung up, then scrutinized her condo. Her housekeeping, while not immaculate, was fairly tidy. She abhorred clutter, which was perhaps one reason she found her mother's hoarding habits so annoying. She fluffed a pale blue pillow, then tossed it back onto the white linen sofa. Noticing a stain on the arm, she ran for her handy spot remover, and within seconds it was gone. She continued going through her place, searching for flaws as if she were playing hide and seek.

  A little before seven, the doorbell rang. Before Sandy would come in, though, she made Caroline come out.

  "Get rid of that." Sandy pointed to a pathetic, misshapen fake palm covered with dust.

  Caroline blinked. "Wow, I didn't even remember that was there."

  Sandy laughed. "Homeowners can be so blind." She pointed to the worn-out welcome mat. "And replace that with something pretty."

  "Sure."

  "And how about some kind of live plant in a nice ceramic pot out here. Something with style. Match it to the new mat. Maybe a bench, too. Something that says, `Welcome to a wonderful place."'

  "Good ideas." Caroline had nodded as she opened the door wider.

  Sandy had even more good ideas. "The place is nice and neat," she told Caroline, "but it lacks color and personality."

  "I'm not much of a decorator."

  "Yes. I can see that." Sandy frowned. "I have a good friend who's just starting a staging business. We might be able to get a good deal from her."

  "Staging?" Carolin
e imagined a set in a Hollywood studio.

  "Don't you watch TV?"

  "Of course. I mean sometimes. What do you mean?"

  Sandy explained how an expert could come into Caroline's home, decorate it with furniture and other props, and make it look so wonderful that buyers would be lining up with offers.

  "Is staging expensive?" Caroline frowned. "Finances are kind of tight for me right now."

  "We can make a deal with her to be paid when the condo sells."

  Caroline brightened. "Then sure. Why not?"

  So they reviewed numbers, and Caroline was slightly disappointed to see that property prices were not as good as they once had been. "I guess I should've sold a few years ago," she said as they looked at the sale prices of similar condos that had closed in her neighborhood.

  "The good news is that if you buy something else, you should get an equally good deal," Sandy told her. "Where do you want to move to?"

  "My hometown on the Oregon coast." Caroline explained about her mom's need for care. "I actually quit my job today."

  "Wow, so are you planning on going up there real soon?"

  "As soon as I can get this place ready to sell."

  "That means you need to be priced right."

  So they kicked around possibilities a little more and finally agreed on a figure. Although Caroline felt a little nervous as she signed the contract, she also felt a huge relief. She was really doing this thing. No turning back. "This just feels right," she told Sandy when they finally shook hands. "It's time for me to do this."

  "Your timing is good as far as I'm concerned." Sandy put her paperwork in her briefcase. "We'll get the listing going, and I'll call Lindsey about staging. Then we'll just see how quickly we can get you out of here."

  Caroline had been so excited about her decision that she felt certain she'd be awake all night, but to her surprise, she slept peacefully. In fact she had one of the most restful nights she could remember. And then it hit her: She did have a sense of peace about this whole thing, just like she'd prayed-and just like Victor had said she would have if she was doing the right thing. Obviously it was the right thing.