by Mary Daheim
Judith and Renie did. Uncle Corky had come up to the cabin to replace part of the roof that had blown off in a severe November storm. In the process, he had managed to avoid his waspish wife, Aunt Toadie, for almost three blissful, solitary weeks.
“Well…” Judith hedged.
But Riley Tobias’s decision was final. The threesome resumed drinking their beer and reminiscing. As usual, the subject of Tobias’s mentor, Ward Kimball, came up. Renie’s inquiry was met with a sad shake of Riley’s head.
“Ward hasn’t painted for some time. He’s feeling his age, his eyesight is poor, he’s pretty shaky. It’s a shame.” Tobias sighed, shifting around in his chair as if he were uncomfortable with the idea of age overcoming talent. He opened another can of beer. “He was brilliant, a real genius of the Northwest school, right up there with Tobey, Graves, Callahan.”
Renie inclined her head and went straight to the bottom line. “But he never made a lot of money. That is, the others didn’t command huge prices in their day, either, but Ward Kimball came along just enough later that he could have rung up some big sales if he’d…” She paused, apparently trying to figure out the economics of art. “What, Riley? Promoted himself? Had an aggressive gallery behind him? Curried favor with the critics? How have you done it?” Renie’s frequently feigned ingenuousness was now sincere.
Tobias frowned, stood up, paced a bit, and scratched at his beard. “Who knows?” he said at last in a musing voice. “A lot of it’s luck. Sure, Clive Silvanus has worked his butt off for me. I got sick of haggling with galleries and having to suck up to people. Now I’ve got Clive, and I couldn’t ask for an agent who would have my interests more at heart. But Ward never wanted to be bothered with any of the business side—he wanted to be left alone to paint in peace. That’s why he moved up here to the river in the first place. That was what—forty years ago?”
“More like fifty,” Judith replied. “I can’t remember a time when Ward Kimball didn’t live down by the Big Bend.”
Renie was nodding in agreement. “That was one of my father’s favorite fishing holes. He used to cut through Ward’s property from the road. They were buddies.”
Riley nodded, a small smile on his face. The image of Cliff Grover carrying his expertly wrapped trout rod, hefting his wicker creel over his shoulder, and moving easily in his fishing boots over the rock-strewn riverside had been as familiar a sight as Ward Kimball with his basket of paint tubes, his easel, and a glass milk bottle full of brushes.
“It’ll be the same old story,” Riley said with a deeper, sadder sigh. “When Ward is dead, the prices of his paintings will skyrocket. It always happens.”
Judith finished her beer. “At least Lark will benefit,” she remarked, referring to Ward Kimball’s daughter. “A good thing, too, since she’s almost blind. Has she ever worked?”
The mention of Lark Kimball’s name seemed to dispel the gloom that had momentarily hung over Riley Tobias. “Oh, sure. She got her degree a long time ago in special ed. She’s taught off and on in Glacier Falls.”
“Good for her,” said Judith. “I’ve always thought it was the greatest of ironies that Ward Kimball should have a daughter who couldn’t see his paintings clearly. You know, like Beethoven going deaf. Sort of.” Indeed, Judith remembered young Lark vividly, a beautiful child with wisps of curling ash-blond hair and big, unfocused blue eyes. “She must be thirty by now,” Judith mused.
“Thirty-two,” said Riley, reaching into a picnic hamper and taking out a bag of pretzels. “Want some?”
Judith declined, but Renie couldn’t resist. “What was it?” Judith asked. “As I recall, Lark’s mother was in her forties when she had their only child.”
Riley had surrendered the pretzels to the always-ravenous Renie. “They married later in life, at least for those days. Lark was premature, which is what caused the vision problems. She never could see well, even with glasses. Light, color, vague shapes—that’s about it. To make things worse, Mrs. Kimball died before she was fifty. Cancer.” The artist had turned very solemn. “Ward didn’t paint for two years. In fact, he almost sold the place at the Big Bend. But Lark felt at home there, she was familiar with everything, inside and outside, and Ward decided not to uproot her. Losing her mother was a big enough blow. More change might have ruined a seven-year-old.”
Judith got to her feet, anxious to return to their own cabin. She was always a trifle nervous about leaving a fire in the stove when it hadn’t been used for a while. “I haven’t seen the Kimballs for some time. Seven, eight years ago, Dan and I ran into them up at the Green Mountain Grocery. Ward was still painting then.”
Riley Tobias also had stood up, though Renie continued to devour pretzels. “He probably was. It’s only been in the past couple of years that he stopped.” Riley picked up the painting he’d given to Judith. “Let me carry that. You two have to tote the bucket and the milk can.”
Judith gazed at Renie, who suddenly looked guilty, set the half-empty bag of pretzels on the floor, and tried to smile at their host with her mouth full. “Don’t bother, Riley. We can manage. I’ll carry the water. One in each hand will give me balance.”
Riley Tobias offered only a token argument. Five minutes later, the cousins had drawn their water and were about to head back for the cabin when a whirring noise ruptured the forest calm.
The sound grew louder. Judith and Renie both looked up, since the sky seemed to have come alive with ear-shattering resonance. Hovering over the river was a helicopter, its gleaming cockpit sparkling like silver in the afternoon sun. It veered to the right, over the mountain ash, alder, and cottonwood that bounded the meadow, and descended onto the wildly stirring grasses. Hair blowing in their faces, the cousins were forced to brace themselves.
The roto-blades slowed, flickered, and stopped. Judith rubbed at her ears, relieved at the cessation of sound. She and Renie watched curiously as a man in a shiny black helmet and a gray Armani suit got out of the copter. He was carrying a leather briefcase and a huge bouquet of flowers.
“Hi,” Judith said in a small voice as the man strode briskly toward Riley’s house.
The man nodded, an absent gesture. He was tall and lean, with prominent cheekbones and a sharp nose. Large brown eyes gazed soulfully from under heavy dark brows. His brown hair was combed straight back and hung just above his collar. Judith guessed him to be in his early forties.
Riley had come out of the studio. He was beaming through his beard and waving a hand in effusive greeting. “Lazlo! You came! I thought you were headed back to Budapest!”
The newcomer stopped and saluted Riley with the bouquet. “How could I stay away? I am drawn, as the Danube is pulled to the sea.”
With a hearty laugh, Riley rushed to embrace his guest. The big bouquet of mums, lilies, and baby’s breath rocked in the stranger’s grasp. In his effusiveness, Riley didn’t notice. “You’re a crazy man, Lazlo. Come in, have a beer. Oh!” Remembering the cousins, Riley hastened to introduce them. “Lazlo Gamm is my favorite Hungarian émigré. We met years ago in the Haight. He was a starving oboe player when I was a starving artist.”
Judith resisted the urge to remark that Lazlo’s thin frame looked as if he were still starving. But the helicopter and the Armani suit clearly indicated otherwise. “Do you play the oboe nowadays, Mr. Gamm?” she asked with a smile.
Lazlo Gamm’s lean face grew morose. “I only play sad songs of love. Alas, I play them often these days.”
Riley Tobias clapped Lazlo on the shoulder. “Don’t believe a word he says. If Lazlo ever really fell in love, I’d keel over! Meanwhile, he’s bringing decadent American art to his newly enlightened homeland. Lazlo is a top-notch international art dealer.”
Lazlo nodded in glum acknowledgment. “It is, as they say, a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.” He spoke with only the faintest of accents. “I’m not certain the former comrades are ready for Riley’s latest works.”
Judith tended to go along with the comrades,
but she held her tongue. The cousins exchanged a few more pleasantries with Riley and his new guest, then took their leave. Lazlo Gamm still looked gloomy.
“He flew that sucker himself,” Renie noted as they passed the empty copter. “That’s pretty tricky, landing in this meadow.”
“I take it that Lazlo is a man of many talents,” Judith replied. “Having fun isn’t one of them, from the looks of him.”
Renie walked slowly along the trail behind Judith, careful not to spill any of the water. “I wonder what Lazlo would think if he knew you were lugging a Riley Tobias around the woods.”
“I don’t know what he’d think, but I’m flummoxed,” Judith announced as they opened the front door. “How in the world did I end up with a pricey painting that looks like Sweetums? I’ve got enough trouble hiding his ugly little hide now that he’s back home from your mother’s apartment.”
Judith’s cat and Judith’s mother had both ended their exile at Aunt Deb’s apartment the previous autumn. The plan to have the cousins’ mothers live together had proved disastrous. Although the two sisters-in-law possessed a grudging affection for each other, they had waged an ongoing war that would have taxed the ingenuity of a United Nations peace-keeping force. Judith had said as much to both her mother and her aunt. Deborah Grover had assumed her most martyred air; Gertrude had snapped, Why not?—they’d both been around a lot longer than the UN. Judith had shut up.
“Maybe you could sell it,” Renie suggested, carefully putting down the full water containers next to the faucetless sink.
But Judith was shaking her head as she placed the painting against the far wall. “Riley would hear of it. I wouldn’t dream of hurting his feelings.” She reached behind the drape that matched the curtains and pulled down the Murphy bed. “I think we ought to ditch this for now. It’s too unwieldy to haul up to the loft, so behind the bed will have to do. Even if we think the picture’s gruesome, somebody else might not. And it’s sure worth a lot with Riley’s signature.”
“Good thinking, coz,” replied Renie, pouring herself a glass of well water. “You want some help with that bed?”
Judith, however, had the situation under control. She wedged the big painting between the mattress and the pad that covered it. “It’ll just barely fit. Up we go.” The bed swung back into place and Judith rearranged the blue-and-white-plaid drape. “I suppose I could forget to take it home with us.”
Renie gave Judith a wry grin. “Like fun you will. Once you get used to it, you’ll be glad to have a Riley Tobias original. It’ll impress the hell out of your B&B guests.”
“You’re right.” Judith sighed, then went to the stove to check on the fire. It was out. She swore softly, crumpled more newspaper, threw in more kindling. “For all I know, Joe might actually like it. After all,” she added as she struck a match, “it’s a work of art that serious connoisseurs would kill for.”
“Right,” agreed Renie.
The newspaper caught; the kindling snapped. Judith replaced the cast-iron stove lid once more. And, standing next to the fire on a mild May afternoon, wondered why she suddenly felt cold.
TWO
ONE LOAD OF garbage, a sackful of mildewed linen, and two dead mice later, Judith and Renie had the cabin clean as well as aired out. They had used a machete to hack down the tall grasses that grew in front of the porch, they had done their best to sanitize the outhouse, and a pile of fallen limbs that could be used as firewood was stored under the porch. Lazlo Gamm’s helicopter had taken off halfway through their chores, causing Judith to look up from pulling out a large thistle by the porch, and Renie to glance through the window where she was scouring the sink. The emaciated art dealer had departed as noisily—and perhaps as glumly—as he had arrived. Now only the rolling river and the soft rustle of the trees could be heard outside the cabin. Meanwhile, the fire was crackling merrily in the stove, the Coleman lanterns were readied for the evening, and the twin beds were made up in the little back bedroom. The cousins had just poured themselves a drink and were sitting out on the front porch in matching metal deck chairs when they saw a doe across the river.
“Sweet,” murmured Renie, sipping at her bourbon.
“Mmm,” agreed Judith, admiring the animal’s non-chalant grace. “Remember the time Uncle Vince got chased by a porcupine?”
Renie laughed. “He swore it was six feet tall. After they went to bed that night, Auntie Vance stuck him with a hatpin just to scare him.” Renie stopped laughing and looked at her watch. “It’s almost five. I’m starved. We missed lunch.”
Judith gave Renie a look of mock exasperation. “That’s because we ate a late breakfast in Glacier Falls around eleven. Besides, you gobbled up about two pounds of pretzels over at…” She paused, turning toward the sound of snapping twigs along the bank above the river. The doe apparently heard it, too, and ambled back into the cottonwoods.
Among the ferns and vine maples, the cousins could see the slim figure of a woman carrying a large paper bag. She moved as gracefully as the doe, and with equal confidence. Judith frowned in the effort of recollection: The newcomer was no stranger. Judith got to her feet, almost spilling her scotch. “Iris! Hi! Remember us? The cousins?”
Iris Takisaki ascended the little knoll and glided across the grassy area that made up the cabin’s front yard. “Of course!” She gave the women a dazzling smile. “I hope you don’t mind my trespassing. I couldn’t get my car started up at Green Mountain. It’s been acting peculiar ever since I left the freeway.” She hugged the grocery bag. “I just got up here from town and figured that Riley was probably out of some basics. He usually is.” Her words were ironic, but the tone was fond.
Judith offered a chair, but Iris declined. “Riley doesn’t know I’m here. He probably expected me sooner, but I got tied up with a client who insisted on furnishing his new offices with the very worst examples of cubism. I’m still not sure I convinced him otherwise. I don’t understand why corporate executives hire art consultants if they’ve got preconceived notions.”
Renie nodded in vigorous agreement. “You must deal with the same morons I get. Bankers who want Grecian columns on the covers of their annual reports or public utilities that just have to show their workers struggling in an ice storm. I practically have to beat them over the head to get rid of all those clichés.”
Shifting the grocery bag from one arm to the other, Iris gave a merry little laugh. “How true! And colors! How these people get locked into combinations! Five years ago it was all teal and gray, then came the Santa Fe pastels…”
Judith only half-heard the professional exchange between art consultant and graphic designer. The other half of her mind focused on Iris Takisaki, a handsome woman of Nisei heritage in her forties, with jet-black hair securely held in place with a pewter clip. Her oval face was carefully, if lightly, made up, accentuating her wide-set, almond-shaped eyes and her meticulously plucked, slanting brows. She was tall for a Japanese woman, almost at eye level with Judith. She wore a tan trench coat over coffee-colored slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. Heavy silver bracelets decorated one wrist and a beaten-silver pendant in the form of a swan hung from a chain around her neck. The strap on a large brown hand-tooled leather bag was slung over her left shoulder. She had aged remarkably little since Judith had last seen her seven years earlier. Indeed, Iris’s looks had improved with time, from a youthful graduate student’s unsure prettiness to the mature woman of sophistication and self-confidence. It occurred to Judith that life as an art consultant had treated Iris kindly. Apparently, being Riley Tobias’s mistress for two decades had also been good for her.
Iris and Renie were winding up their mutual horror stories of clients gone wrong. “I’d better get these things to Riley before he sends out the sheriff to look for me,” said Iris, giving the grocery bag a hoist. “Come for a drink this evening, all right?”
The cousins accepted the invitation, then waved Iris off. For a few moments they watched her in silence as she made her wa
y over the uneven ground and then disappeared among the tall stand of cedars and Douglas fir that separated the Grover and Tobias properties.
“Preserved or pickled?” said Renie at last.
Judith shot Renie a reproachful look. “Neither, coz. She’s one of the lucky ones. Great bones. Model quality.”
Renie was unconvinced. “Face-lift. Cosmetic surgery. Went to Bags R Us to erase everything but her nose. Too thin.”
“Hey, quit griping,” countered Judith. “You aren’t exactly fat, coz. You can eat about four million calories a day and not look like Dan.”
Mildly placated, Renie leaned back against the top step. “Iris probably doesn’t eat much. Gee, I wish she’d asked us to dinner. Japanese food is about my favorite.”
Judith looked askance at Renie. “How can you possibly decide? I thought your favorite food was Aisle A to Z at Falstaff’s Market. Besides, I’ll bet she cooks from one end of the ethnic rainbow to the other.”
“Yum.” Renie licked her lips. “Still, there’s nothing quite like real yaki soba. Or tempura prawns. Then again, I’m extremely fond of beef teriyaki, medium rare…” Her voice faded away as she contemplated yet more Asian delicacies. Across the river, the cottonwoods and alders swayed in the late afternoon breeze. Crows cawed overhead, then soared from the evergreens, circling high above the rippling waters. Judith closed her eyes, soothed as always by the sound of the river and the scent of the forest. Fresh. Damp. Primeval. If only Joe would develop a yen for the cabin…The two of them could get away for overnights during the slack season. They could hike, make love, fish, make love, rusticate, make love…
Judith’s mouth had curved into a smile at the thought, when she heard an unexpected sound. Startled, she almost slipped off the middle step. “What’s that?”