by Ann Warner
Clen came out of the cubicle wrapped in a towel. She set it aside as she slid into the tub, giving him only a brief glimpse of the figure she’d been hiding with bulky sweaters and chef coats. Her swimsuit was a navy one piece, utilitarian rather than provocative, but Clen looked good in it. More substantial than a girl but still long-legged, slim-hipped, and sleek as a seal.
“So tell me,” she said. “Before you moved to Wrangell, where did you live and what did you do?”
He was beginning to suspect she asked questions not out of true curiosity but rather to maintain her distance. This time, he wasn’t letting her get away with it.
“I was an attorney. In Seattle.” He anticipated her next question, which he could almost see forming on her lips. “I left because I was bored. So what did you do, before Wrangell?”
A brief shadow of something, possibly annoyance, crossed her face. “Financial analyst, Atlanta.”
“That’s quite a leap. From financial analyst to cook.”
“So’s attorney to fishing guide.”
“Good point. What’s your story?” he said.
“Oh, the usual, I suppose.”
When he remained silent, she glanced at him. He raised his eyebrows in inquiry.
After a moment, she shrugged. “I don’t know. Tired of being in a rut, I guess. I decided to do some of the things I dreamed about when I was younger.”
“You dreamed of working as a cook?”
She snorted softly. “Hardly. But I wanted to go somewhere new and not just visit, but be part of the community.”
“Where did you learn to cook?”
“The basics from my mother. Then I met this elderly woman who shared some of her secrets.” A smile played on Clen’s lips. “The sort of meals we serve at the lodge aren’t fancy. The biggest challenge is figuring out quantities, and John helps with that.”
Her gaze drifted to the meadow, and he grabbed the opportunity to examine her. Like the woman in the portrait, her eyes seemed sad. She lifted a hand out of the water and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, leaving droplets on her cheek that looked like tears. He tried to memorize it all so he could write it down later. The pale glimmer of water on skin, the way her mouth curved when she was silent, the dark feathering of hair framing her face, the faint lines beginning to form in the corners of mouth and eyes. If he painted, he’d call it Portrait of a Woman at the Threshold.
“Why did you pick Wrangell?” he asked.
She shook her head, as if gathering her thoughts from a distance. “I don’t know if I can explain.”
He waited, watching her hands. She had long fingers and she moved them unconsciously and gracefully in the water.
“Awhile back, I came for a visit,” she said, looking away from him. “Took the ferry, stopped in Juneau, Petersburg, Ketchikan, Haines. You know, the whole loop. It’s all beautiful, but there was something about Wrangell. I don’t know. It just felt...comfortable, I guess. Like a pair of jeans you’ve worn for years until they’re soft as flannel. I never forgot it. That feeling.” Her gaze remained unfocused for a beat then she blinked and glanced at him. “Why did you choose Wrangell?”
He pictured the skeins of morning fog floating along the narrow length of Petersburg’s harbor, the wooden walkways suspended over a Ketchikan slough, the quiet pace of the evening in Skagway after the tours had collected their passengers and departed. Then he’d arrived in Wrangell, and seeing the fishing boats tucked into the curve of Wrangell’s tiny inner harbor, he had simply known.
“Roughly the same reason, I guess.”
“And now it’s home.”
“Yes.”
Clen swirled her hands in the water, watching the pattern of ripples. “Do you ever miss the other? The big city, the hustle and bustle, having a professional career?”
The question felt more personal than her others, and so he framed his answer carefully. “Sometimes I do. The further I move away from it, the easier it is to focus on the good and forget the not so good. I think the trick is to remember both.”
She listened with a frown, staring at the patterns she was forming in the water.
“How about you?” he asked. “Do you miss Atlanta, your career?”
She gave her head a quick shake. “Good Lord, no.”
Her sharp response puzzled him because her question about his past had sounded pensive, as if she were missing something, or someone.
“What about Wrangell?” he said, determined to keep her talking. “Is it what you expected?”
“Not exactly. But most things turn out not to be what we expect.”
“Yet we continue to be surprised by that. So what surprised you the most about Wrangell?”
Her expression went from a frown to a rueful look. “I guess I expected people to be friendly. Just not so...” Her hands stilled their restless movements.
“I think the word you’re looking for is attentive?” Although he suspected she was more likely thinking “pushy” or “nosy.”
“More than. It’s taken a bit of getting used to. A big city is so...impersonal.”
He wanted to ask her about her marriage and the abbey then, to find out where they fit in, but he feared it might sever the tentative lines of communication they’d managed to string between them.
They continued to soak and chat, but he didn’t learn anything more about her, unless he counted the fact she said so little about herself. He looked toward the meadow to see a moose emerge from the woods at the far end.
He pointed it out to Clen, and they watched until the animal turned and sauntered back into the trees. He got another smile for that.
A good day.
Hailey left word with Marian that another of Clen’s pictures had sold, and Clen stopped by ZimoviArt to see which one.
“The one of Rolf Peterson’s boat,” Hailey said. “A young couple from Seattle bought it.”
“Two down, two to go.” Clen felt good about that, although the loss of Thomasina’s portrait was still a sore point.
“I really owe you that lunch,” Hailey said.
“That’s okay. I won’t hold you to it.”
“Really, I’d like to. Thursday? And why don’t you go ahead and frame another couple of harbor scenes. If you bring your portfolio by, I’ll let you know the ones I prefer.” Hailey fiddled with her checkbook. “Did you enjoy your day with Gerrum?”
Being expert at offhand questions, Clen could recognize one, and she suddenly felt like she was treading on eggshells. “It was a pleasant day. I ended up with a lot of sketches.”
“You sketched?” Hailey looked up, apparently surprised.
“Sure. That was the whole idea.” And given the sketches, she didn’t regret taking the trip, despite the increased teasing that followed. Gerrum had proven to be an easy companion, one who could be silent without fidgeting, and when he spoke, his comments were thoughtful and intelligent—a combination she’d always found appealing. Given different circumstances, they might easily become friends.
“That’s good to know. Since I want more of your work to sell.” Hailey handed Clen the check she’d written out. “Until Thursday, then.”
When Clen walked out of ZimoviArt she found Elmer Cantrell loitering by the display window. Kody had shifted to the other side of the doorway, away from Elmer.
“There’s something you oughta know about that there Gerrum Kirsey,” Elmer said, his lips lifting enough to show off a ragged row of brown teeth. “He’s a half-breed.”
Clen was angling to pass Elmer but, at those words, she paused and turned to face him. Good grief, did people still use that term? And look who was talking. “Half-breed?” she murmured, giving Elmer a cool stare and moving her eyes up and down the entire pudgy, unattractive length of him. In his case, a different genetic makeup could only be an improvement.
“Yeah. He’s part Tlingit.” Elmer spat out the word as if it tasted bad. “Best you don’t mess with him. You can’t trust them kind.”
�
�Your concern for my welfare is touching.” She felt her lip curling in disgust, but Elmer looked like she’d complimented him. So not only was the man repulsive, he was dumb as zucchini, not to speak ill of zucchini. “But you need to take the subject up with Gerrum.” Who, she hoped, would knock every one of those nasty-looking stubs down Elmer’s ugly throat.
“Hell, don’t do no good. Nothing gets to that man. Acts like you ain’t said or did nothing.”
Something she’d already witnessed and, actually, it did have a certain elegance her tooth-removal plan lacked. Deciding, she walked away. Kody scrambled to join her.
“Hey, lady,” Elmer yelled. “I’m doing you a good turn. So’s you know what you’re dealing with. Ain’t like you’re the only woman he’s stringing along.”
Kody turned and growled at Elmer’s aggressive tone.
Clen bent and touched the dog’s head. “It’s okay, boy.”
Kody licked her hand as if to reassure her he’d be happy to bite Elmer if she wanted him to, but she was now committed to Gerrum’s nonviolent solution. She continued walking, tapping her thigh to encourage Kody to follow.
Elmer’s odious comments had raised her hackles as well as Kody’s, and her first impulse was to find Gerrum and invite him to a very public lunch. But while that might send the right message to Elmer Cantrell and his ilk, it might send the wrong message to Gerrum—something she didn’t want to do.
She picked up her pace, leaving Elmer and his insinuations behind. Kody trotted at her side, whining to remind her to slow down. When they reached the lodge, she told Kody to stay and lengthened her stride to a jog as she followed the road leading out of town.
After a fast mile, she still hadn’t outpaced the restlessness released by the encounter with Elmer—a restlessness that intensified as the past swirled around her like one of Wrangell’s frequent rain squalls.
Racism. Bigotry. The reason she ended up married to Paul Douglas.
She turned onto a faint track leading to the water, found a rock to sit on, and let memory pull her under.
Paul had asked her to marry him, but she hadn’t yet given him an answer the night they went to the Segovia for dinner. The Segovia, as lily white as its tablecloths, was one of Atlanta’s most expensive and exclusive restaurants, the kind of place Paul liked. She’d considered it overpriced and pretentious.
After they ordered drinks, Paul excused himself to make a phone call. When he returned five minutes later, he was accompanied by an elegantly dressed young black couple. Behind them, the maitre d’ motioned frantically at one of the waiters.
“Clen, I’d like you to meet Tom and Candy Smithson,” Paul said. “I thought, if it’s okay with you, they might join us? The maitre d’ claims their reservation was lost, and he can’t seem to find another table for them, even though the restaurant is half empty.”
“It’s very okay.” Clen stood and held out her hand, first to Candy then Tom. “How lovely to meet you both.”
The maitre d’ hovered, wringing his hands and trying to get Paul’s attention. It was focused on seating the Smithsons. “Mr. Douglas, there’s been a mistake. I found the reservation. I can seat Mr. and Mrs. Smithson.”
“As you can see, they’re already seated.” When Paul used that tone, secretaries trembled. The maitre d’, despite his tuxedo, rose boutonniere, and highly polished shoes, was obviously a secretary at heart. He slunk away.
Candy turned a worried look toward Clen. “We don’t want to impose on you.”
“Nonsense,” Paul said. “If that man had his way, he’d seat you by the kitchen and ignore you. Much better to sit out here in the middle, where they can’t forget you.”
As if responding to Paul’s assessment, waiters appeared and, with a flurry, gave the Smithsons silverware and menus and took drink orders. When it arrived, the food was awful—the pasta mushy, the steaks tough.
Paul smiled at Tom and Candy. “In your honor, if I’m not mistaken.”
They ate bread and salads and picked at the entrees, taking their time, because eating was really beside the point. At first, Tom and Candy had been visibly nervous but they were also determined. They’d come to the restaurant, they told Clen and Paul, as their way of furthering the cause of civil rights.
By the time the evening ended, the four of them were chatting comfortably, as if sitting together in public, black and white, was the commonplace occurrence it now was, thanks to people like the Smithsons.
After that dinner, Clen, thinking Paul’s championing of the Smithson’s right to eat at the Segovia was a sign of a loving and generous heart, had finally agreed to marry him. Except...if she were totally honest, she’d have to admit it wasn’t the only reason. Perfect honesty required her to admit her mother also had something to do with it.
Her parents had come to Atlanta for Thanksgiving, and Paul joined them for dinner. Her mother was smitten. In the kitchen after dinner, she asked Clen avid questions about Paul.
“My, he’s attractive, Michelle.”
And Clen knew what else her mother was thinking, even though she didn’t say it: A woman with your looks doesn’t usually attract a man as good-looking as this one.
“As a matter of fact, he asked me to marry him.”
“Oh my goodness, Michelle! How wonderful. When is the wedding?”
“I haven’t said yes.”
“Why ever not? He’s handsome, he’s charming, and he has a good job with excellent prospects. What more do you want?”
Love. She wanted love. But she couldn’t tell her mother she was no more sure of Paul’s feelings than she was of her own. “He’s been waiting a month. Another couple of weeks shouldn’t be a big deal.”
“A month? You mean he asked you to marry him a month ago, and you still haven’t given him an answer?”
“I gave him an answer. I said I’d think about it.”
“Good Lord, Michelle. I’ve never seen you as a femme fatale, I’ll admit it. But this is ridiculous. You’re playing with him like a cat with a mouse. It isn’t right for either one of you.”
Her mother was correct in saying it wasn’t a good situation, but only partly right in her cat and mouse analogy. She had that backwards. More like Paul was the cat and Clen the mouse.
She didn’t believe, any more than her mother, that he really wanted to marry her. She figured as soon as she said yes, he’d lose interest and move on, and she’d be left with the empty life she’d had before he entered it. “I just want to be sure.”
“Well, you need to work on that.”
Later, Clen walked Paul to the door, and as she returned to the living room, she could hear her parents talking.
“Well, I certainly never expected Michelle to end up with a man like that.” Her mother.
“Our daughter has grown into a beautiful, accomplished woman and she’s lucky to have met a man with the intelligence to recognize it.” Her father.
Was that it then? She’d married Paul because her mother thought he was too handsome for her gawky daughter, and the gawky daughter wanted to prove her mother wrong?
Maybe, although that didn’t explain why she’d stayed married to him after the loss of delight and the deepening of indifference. After cross words became more than occasional and silences accumulated.
Had she been hoping it would work out?
No. Hope was one of the first casualties.
More likely it had been inertia along with the belief her life wouldn’t be any better without Paul. So why go through the upheaval of leaving him. At least, that was her thinking before she discovered he was unfaithful.
The sudden blast from a boat horn jerked her back to the present. The waters of Zimovia Strait were gray today under a low overcast. Summer in Alaska, indeed. For sure, nothing like Atlanta.
A splat of rain hit her cheek and another tapped her shoulder. She zipped her jacket against the chill and pulled out the waterproof poncho she’d begun carrying after she discovered how much it rained in Wrangell. Then s
he sat watching the rain pock the surface of the water, forming infinite, interlocking circles.
Everything affected everything else. It was never enough to take one thing in isolation without considering all that came before...and after.
Paul, only the tip of her personal iceberg.
But at least she’d finally addressed one of the questions Sister Mary John insisted she answer. The rest would have to await its own time.