by Irene Hannon
“Thank you, BJ.” Michael rose and gave her another encouraging smile. So did the clergymen and most of the board members.
A couple didn’t.
And it took no more than one or two naysayers to deep-six an idea like this.
Holding tight to the portfolio, she stood and walked out the door. Closed it behind her. Sagged against the wall. At least she’d given it her best shot. The polished, professional written proposal represented hours of research and thought. Her verbal presentation had been fine too. To-the-point and articulate.
The outcome was in the hands of the board.
But a final entreaty to a higher power couldn’t hurt.
Please, God, let them decide to give this a chance. I know I failed Gram, but with your help, maybe I can give some Hope Harbor residents a brighter future than I gave her.
The studio, like the man, looked the same as it always had.
Eric paused at the rear of Charley’s modest clapboard cottage to examine the rectangular, weathered-wood structure fifty yards beyond the house. Except for the large expanse of glass that covered the top half of the north wall, it could be mistaken for a tumbledown storage shed.
But once you entered, there was no question about its purpose.
And if fate was in his corner today, Charley would be inside, seated at his easel. It was too early on a Saturday morning for the taco stand to be open, and if the artist wasn’t cooking, he was usually here.
Eric strolled over to the door, admiring the expansive view of the sea from the secluded acreage two miles outside town. The primo location, however, was the only indication he was standing on high-end real estate. Charley might be able to afford more upscale digs, but he’d always steered clear of elaborate trappings, preferring a simple life.
“Come on in, Eric.” The artist’s muffled voice percolated through the wooden door.
He grinned at the summons. That, too, was like the old days—though he had no more idea now than he had years ago how Charley had always been able to detect his presence.
Eric opened the door, entered the spacious studio, and did a slow sweep.
Natural light spilled into the high-ceilinged structure from the north window, providing the consistent illumination prized by artists. The familiar scent of oil paint mingling with the faint, piquant smell of solvents tickled his nose. As always, the walls were bare except for shelves brimming with well-thumbed art and philosophy books, records, and painting supplies. Canvases in various stages of completion were propped against the far wall, below a small octagonal window that afforded a glimpse of the sea. Music poured from the vintage turntable, filling every corner of the room. Ravel’s Boléro today.
Eric inhaled. Slowly exhaled.
It was great to be back.
“I wondered when you’d get around to paying me a visit.”
At Charley’s comment, he regarded the artist. The man was sitting where he always sat while painting, angled so the light from the expanse of glass above him spilled over his left shoulder, palette in one hand, brush in the other, a half-finished canvas on an easel in front of him.
It was like stepping into a time warp.
“I only arrived Wednesday.” He strolled over to examine the work-in-progress. It was in the early stages, but there was sufficient paint on the canvas to see that the finished piece of weathered fishermen watching a foreboding squall form on the horizon would be a powerful, evocative character study rather than one of the bright, playful scenes of whimsy and innocence Charley sometimes favored.
“What do you think?”
“Impressive, as usual.”
The artist dropped his bristle brush in some solvent and leaned back. “You paint at all these days?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Eric shrugged. “I was on the partner track at my firm. That meant sixty-plus-hour weeks. A schedule like that doesn’t leave much time or energy for anything else.”
“Hmm.” Charley stood. “Want a soda?”
“Sure.” He trailed after him to a small refrigerator near the bookshelf. In the old days, Charley had always kept a few Dr Peppers on hand for him, though the artist’s preference was Coke.
“Let’s see what’s in here.” The man bent down to rummage through the contents.
“Whatever you have will be . . .”
Charley swiveled around and held out a Dr Pepper.
“I didn’t think you liked these.” Eric took the cold can.
“I don’t—but you do.”
“You were that certain I’d come by?”
“It never hurts to be prepared.” He ambled over to the record player and lifted the arm from the vinyl disk. Silence descended.
“You know . . . technology has advanced beyond that.” Eric waved his can toward the turntable.
“Newer doesn’t necessarily mean better.” The man popped the tab on his drink. “Take Coke. After a hundred years, some genius decided he could improve the taste. Disaster ensued, and the classic formula was resurrected. Moral of the story? Never tinker with perfection.”
A pall crept over Eric as the events of the past few days looped through his mind. He took a swig of soda and tried to shake it off. “Very few things in life are perfect.”
“Was your job one of them?”
Where had that come from?
“Is any job perfect?”
“Some are closer than others.”
Naturally he’d say that, given how life had worked out for him.
“That’s true—but most people don’t get to follow their passion, like you did.”
“Why do you think that is?” Charley strolled back to his work-in-progress.
The man’s tone was curious rather than confrontational, yet for some reason Eric’s defenses kicked in. “Because people need to eat. It can be hard to earn a living doing what you love.”
“There are ways to make it work, though.”
“If your paintings sell for thousands of dollars.”
Charley studied the canvas, then turned to Eric. “Mine didn’t always bring in big bucks. The early years were lean—although running a taco stand did keep me from being a starving artist.” One side of his mouth hitched up.
The man’s attempt at humor didn’t alleviate the sudden tension knotting Eric’s shoulders. “But your work eventually caught the attention of the right people. You were lucky.”
“Or blessed.”
Eric took another drink of his soda. Odd. While Charley had always struck him as a spiritual person, they’d never discussed faith. Nor did the man attend church, as far as he knew.
“You attribute your success to God?”
Charley finished off his Coke. “What do you attribute it to?”
“I’ve never really thought about it. Talent, I suppose.”
“Which was given to me.”
By God.
Charley didn’t say the words, but the implication was clear.
Strange that he’d never talked of this in all the hours they’d spent together in the studio.
“But how did you know in the beginning that you were gifted enough to paint for a living?” Eric swirled the liquid in his can.
“I didn’t. That’s where trust comes in. Besides, while my art provides a comfortable living, I’m not rich by most people’s vaulted definition of that term.”
That was news to Eric. “In that case, don’t you ever worry about tomorrow? What if . . . what if people stopped buying your paintings? What would you do?”
“Sell more tacos.” He offered a gentle smile. “There are always options. One lesson I’ve learned—worry doesn’t change tomorrow, it only robs today of its joy.” He sat back on his stool. “Why don’t you take a few supplies with you, dabble a little? You enjoyed playing with paints as a teenager.”
Eric finished his soda and crumpled the empty can in his fingers. “I’m too old to play.”
“No one’s ever too old to play. I do it every day. It refreshes
the soul and opens the mind to creative possibilities.”
“For artists, maybe.”
“For everyone.” He retrieved a sable brush from the container of solvent. “I always hoped you’d finish that.” Charley pointed the brush toward the far corner.
Eric stared at the canvas angled slightly away from them. It had been more than a decade since he’d seen it, but he had no problem recognizing the seascape. The water was bathed in the rosy hue of sunrise, a lone gull soaring overhead, a solitary figure in the distance looking toward the horizon. The colors, the composition, the perspective—all spoke of hope and joy and bright tomorrows.
It was the last painting he’d dived into the summer before he’d left for college—and he’d never completed it.
How had he not noticed it during his initial scan of the room?
“You’ve kept that all these years?”
“It showed great promise. I always hoped you’d finish it one day.”
“Not likely.”
“A pity.” Charley picked up his brush. “Would you start the music again as you leave?”
He was being dismissed.
In silence, Eric crossed the room, tossed his can in the recycle bin, and set the needle back on the vinyl disc. Once again, Ravel’s powerful Boléro filled the lofty space.
At the door, Eric looked back. Charley was already absorbed in his work, his attention riveted on the figures coming to life on his canvas. If he realized his visitor was still there, he gave no indication of it.
Eric slipped outside. The sun had vanished, and a spatter of rain struck his cheek as he wandered back to his car. Appropriate. The dreary skies fit his mood.
Yet this wasn’t at all how he’d expected to feel after his visit. In the past, an hour or two . . . or three . . . in the studio had given him comfort and peace. Now, he felt unsettled. Charley’s manner might have been easygoing and nonjudgmental, but Eric sensed he’d disappointed the man who’d always welcomed him to this place. Who’d taken the time to instruct an amateurish teen in the finer points of painting. Who’d encouraged him to experiment with color and form, to let his imagination run free and follow where it led. Who’d always counseled him to trust his instincts and let his brush go where his heart took it.
Those heady hours in Charley’s studio had been addictive. Nothing else he’d ever done had given him such a rush—or as much gratification.
But no matter how Charley might romanticize painting, it wasn’t a practical career. It was important to have a job you could count on to pay the bills and provide security.
Ironic how in the end, law had proven less reliable than Charley’s painting.
Still . . . he’d find another position. With his experience and credentials, it wouldn’t take long once he began sending out feelers on LinkedIn and through his network of contacts. Perhaps not with a firm as prestigious as the one in Portland, but a solid company with excellent salary and benefits.
First, though, he’d take the vacation his dad had suggested. Walk on the beach. Sleep in . . . on weekends, anyway. And see what he could do to help a bereft Cuban immigrant find new purpose in life—a far bigger challenge than anything he’d tackled during his career as an attorney.
And he had a feeling that if he succeeded at that, it would provide more satisfaction than any case he’d ever won in the field of law.
White bag in hand, BJ pushed out of the door of Sweet Dreams Bakery. The cinnamon roll was a splurge, but after this morning’s Helping Hands board meeting, followed by hours in the high school scene shop constructing flats for the benefit show, she deserved a treat.
As she circled her truck, gearing up to head home and work on the design for Tracy and Michael’s house, the window on Charley’s taco stand rolled up.
She hesitated. All the fixings for a chicken Caesar salad were in her fridge, but why not have that tomorrow and indulge in an order of tacos today? Fish was healthy, and all the other ingredients Charley stuffed into those corn tortillas were nutritious—for the most part.
Besides, it was providential he was opening up the very minute she was getting ready to leave. Was it a stretch to think the timing was more than coincidence?
Maybe.
But she wasn’t going to overanalyze her good fortune.
After depositing the white bag in the truck, she crossed the street and hustled toward the stand.
“What’s your rush?” Charley arched an eyebrow as she drew close.
“I didn’t want that window to roll back down in my face.”
“I just opened.”
“True—but I wasn’t taking any chances. Your hours aren’t exactly predictable.”
“They keep life interesting, though. You eating alone?”
“Yep. At home, on my patio, with my feet up while I enjoy the view.”
“Sounds like a perfect Saturday.”
“The second half will be, anyway. I had other commitments this morning—including some work at the high school. I finished constructing the flats, so whenever you’re ready to . . .” Her voice trailed off as he pulled back his right sleeve to reveal a bandage around the lower part of his arm and his wrist. “What happened to you?”
“Long story. It won’t slow me down much with my regular work—but all the wrist action needed to paint that huge backdrop?” He shook his head. “That could be tough. I was going to call you later.”
BJ caught her lower lip between her teeth. It wasn’t that she was unsympathetic to Charley’s plight. But she’d only agreed to be in charge of sets and scenery after securing a promise from him that he’d paint the backdrop.
“I’m sorry to have to back out, BJ.”
“It’s okay.” Not really, but what else could she say? It wasn’t Charley’s fault he’d injured his wrist. “I’ll have to ask around, see if I can find someone else to help. I’d do it myself, but while I might be able to draft a mean set of AutoCAD blueprints, I have no artistic talent . . . and I’d hate for this to be amateurish after all the work being put into the show.”
Charley pulled some fish out of the cooler with his left hand. “There have to be other options.”
“Do you think I could round up a few of the art students from the high school to take over the job?”
“That’s a possibility.”
“Any recommendations?”
“I know most of the kids, but I can’t speak to their painting aptitude. The majority of them take art because they think it’s an easy elective. The most talented student I ever knew was . . .” He stopped tossing the vegetables around on the griddle. “You know, now that I think about it, you’ve probably met him at his dad’s house. Eric Nash.”
BJ blinked. Eric the attorney was also an artist?
“Are you certain he paints?”
“He used to.”
“I don’t think he’ll be hanging around long, though.” Even as she responded, her mind was racing. Was there a remote chance she could convince him to take over for Charley?
“Doesn’t take long to paint a backdrop if you have talent.”
“You think he could handle this?”
“Not as well as I could, of course.” Charley winked at her and flipped the fish. “But you know the old saying about beggars.”
“I suppose I could ask.”
“Couldn’t hurt.” He pulled out three corn tortillas, set them on the counter beside the griddle, and went to work filling them, his back to her.
While she waited, she leaned a shoulder against the side of the white truck and lifted her face. The morning rain had given way once again to blue sky, and warmth seeped into her pores. It was a perfect moment.
If only it could last.
But now, instead of being able to soak up the sun on her patio while she gave Tracy’s design project her undivided attention, she had a new worry on her plate.
“Here you go.” Charley set her bag on the counter. “Enjoy.”
She dug out some bills and passed them over. “Thanks.�
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“And don’t fret too much about that backdrop. I have a feeling Eric will come through for you.”
“I hope you’re right.”
He gave her a thumbs-up with his left hand and greeted a group of tourists who were about to get their first taste of the world’s best fish tacos.
Bag in hand, BJ returned to her truck. It was possible the new Eric would agree to help out—although painting a backdrop was a much bigger commitment than fixing a motorbike. Meaning she’d have to come up with a compelling plea. Fast. Who knew how long he planned to hang around Hope Harbor?
She pulled into the flow of traffic and aimed the truck toward home. She wasn’t going to change her afternoon plans; she owed Tracy and Michael some preliminary designs.
But while she worked on those, she’d also work on the pitch she planned to make the next time she and Eric met.
8
Was that BJ?
Eric tried not to stare as he and his father slipped into a pew at Grace Christian for the Sunday service—but it was hard not to. The woman seated three pews ahead of them, on the other side of the aisle, was stunning.
He craned his neck.
Yep . . . it was BJ.
Except the worn jeans, T-shirt, tool belt, and baseball cap had been replaced by a silky dress that draped oh-so-nicely over her slender curves. Gone, too, was her customary ponytail. Today, her hair hung full and loose, the blonde strands shimmering in the rays of sun peeking through the windows that lined the walls. When she shifted in her seat to greet a new arrival, he also caught a touch of lipstick and whisper of blush.
Boy, did she clean up nice.
“Eric.”
At his father’s nudge, he retracted his neck like a turtle. “What?”
“Would you hand me a hymnal?”
“Oh. Sure.” He fumbled for one of the books at the end of the pew and passed it over as the organ struck up the opening song.
“Aren’t you going to join in?”
“Uh . . . yeah. I guess.”
He picked up a book for himself and opened it to the correct page, but the melody was unfamiliar. Some new song that must have been introduced in the past few years, after he stopped attending services.