Perilous: A Ripple Novel (Ripple Series Book 7)

by Cidney Swanson

“What?” asked Sam, wringing her hands. “None of these? I thought they were the best. I mean, I know they’re … unconventional, but—”

  “Not at all,” said Will, interrupting her. “They’re just all so … gorgeous. How am I supposed to pick? Mick would love any of them.”

  “You think so?”

  Will’s mouth broke into a grin. “Oh, trust me, I’m sure. She was complaining about having nothing up on their walls yet, and I asked if she liked your painting style and she said she wasn’t sure she could afford you.”

  Sam uttered a single laugh. “As if.”

  “Hey, I’m just repeating what she said,” replied Will.

  His head tilted to one side and he walked to the last painting in the row. “This looks familiar.” He ran a hand absently through his hair. “Is this … are these those rocks in Illilouette Creek?”

  Sam grinned from ear to ear and clasped her hands, holding them just under her chin. “Yes! I was worried no one would be able to tell what it was supposed to be.”

  “The painting’s amazing,” said Will, shaking his head.

  “I used that photograph you and Mickie gave me for my sixteenth birthday, remember?”

  “Oh, I remember your birthday,” said Will. He crossed the room to stand in front of her. “I remember how much I wanted to kiss you that night, when we were watching all those sparks fly up into the air.”

  “You can kiss me at tonight’s fire,” she said. “But right now you have to tell me which painting I’m giving them for a wedding gift.”

  “This one,” said Will gesturing to the rocks in the creek. “Absolutely this one.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I mean, they’re all gorgeous. Geez, Sam, where did you get the idea to use so many colors in one painting? And how do you make it all work?”

  Sam smiled softly. “Well, I don’t know about making it all work, but the use of color is something Mom used to try to teach me.”

  Will shook his head, staring at the pictures. “I’d say she did more than just try to teach you.”

  “I wish you could have met her,” said Sam. For once, she said it without an ache.

  She simply wished Will could have known her mother.

  “Me, too,” replied Will, taking Sam’s hand.

  From behind them, they heard a soft, distinctive, and oh-so-very-French ahem.

  “Sir Walter,” said Sam, turning and smiling.

  “Pray forgive the interruption,” said Sir Walter. “Your dear belle-mère would like to know if you would be so kind as to make some lemonade.”

  “Oh my gosh! I totally forgot. Yes, yes, of course.” She turned to Will. “I’ve got to pick the lemons. Would you put a bow on the painting?”

  As Will nodded, Sir Walter spoke.

  “Ah, fresh lemons. Alas, mine are all overripe, but the second bloom promises to yield something in another few months. I wonder if I might accompany you to view the lemon trees.”

  “Of course,” said Sam, leading Sir Walter out of the breakfast room, out of the house, and down the railroad tie staircase to Sylvia’s garden.

  Sir Walter spoke approvingly of Sylvia’s lemons, but he seemed to have something else on his mind.

  “Is everything okay?” asked Sam.

  Tugging at his beard, Sir Walter frowned. “I must confess to having overheard you, just now, in the breakfast room.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Sam, trying to remember the last thing she’d been talking about before she had noticed the old gentleman. Oh. Her mother.

  Sir Walter continued. “I have recently become apprised of some information which, I confess, surprised me greatly.”

  Sam plucked a last lemon from the tree, snapping it gently where it attached at the stem end.

  “What?” asked Sam.

  “It would seem I once had the honor of hearing your beloved mother speak,” said Sir Walter.

  “You mean … my mom? Or Sylvia?”

  The old gentleman’s eyes softened. “I mean your own dear mother, Kathryn Elizabeth DuClos Ruiz.”

  “Really?” asked Sam. “How? I mean, when? And how?”

  “She once exhibited her paintings in Louisiana,” said Sir Walter.

  “That’s where she was from,” said Sam. “We used to have a book from a gallery exhibit she did at her alma mater in Louisiana. It burned in the fire.”

  “Ah, I am sorry to hear it,” said the old gentleman, with a small bow.

  Sam shrugged and looked across the canyon. The sunset was going to be gorgeous tonight. The valley was clear and the sky was speckled with row after row of tiny clouds.

  “At the time I encountered your mother, I did not know she was a descendant of my own dear, lost Elisabeth,” said Sir Walter. “Your mother signed her paintings ‘K. Ruiz’, you see.”

  “But you really met her?” asked Sam, her voice soft.

  “I had not that honor,” said Sir Walter. “However, I heard her deliver a few words on the subject of her paintings. I wonder … but perhaps it would be too much….” The French gentleman frowned.

  “What?” asked Sam.

  “If you would like, I could share my memory with you,” said Sir Walter. His frown deepened, as if he was afraid he might have offered something Sam wouldn’t have liked.

  “That would be … that would be amazing. Would it be like the time you showed us that childhood memory in the Well of Juno?” asked Sam.

  “Yes,” said Sir Walter. “It would be much the same. But perhaps—”

  “Yes!” said Sam, cutting him off. “Yes, I want to see what you saw. And I want Will to see, too.”

  Sir Walter smiled softly. “Very well. Let us prepare the lemonade, and then perhaps this evening, when the festivities have concluded….”

  “Yes,” said Sam, nodding. “After the party. Definitely after.”

  The lemonade was popular in the warm evening, and Sam was carrying a third batch out to the group gathered around their fire-pit. Her dad’s barbecue sauce was the best, but it had been a bit on the spicy side.

  “No two batches are ever alike,” her father had said, shrugging and smiling.

  The group, consisting of Sam and Will, Sam’s family, Bridget Li, Chrétien and Gwyn, and Sir Walter, were all given fresh goblets of lemonade. When everyone had some, Sylvia stood up and spoke.

  “I am honored tonight to present to you Mickie Baker and Johan Pfeffer, husband and wife, and I’d ask you all to raise your glasses with me to wish them well.” She paused, waiting for everyone to hold up their goblets. “We wish you many joy-filled years. In the words of Walt Whitman, ‘the strongest and sweetest songs yet remain to be sung.’ To the happy couple!”

  Sam and Will clinked glasses and drank to Mick and Pfeffer.

  After that, the fire was allowed to die down, and the party started breaking up.

  Sam and Will waved as Mickie drove Pfeffer away in her Jeep.

  “You wanted to talk to me about something?” asked Will, once the car disappeared around the bend.

  Sam explained what Sir Walter had offered.

  “Wow,” said Will. “I mean, just … wow!”

  Sam nodded. “What do you think?”

  “Oh, absolutely. I mean, if you want me there….”

  “Of course I do,” said Sam.

  “What was Sir Walter even doing in Louisiana in the first place?” asked Will.

  “Oddly enough, he was looking for descendants of his Elisabeth—the one Helmann married,” replied Sam.

  “The one who left Helmann,” said Will.

  Sam nodded.

  “So, Sir Walter goes to Louisiana, looking for relatives, and he sees your mom, but he doesn’t connect the dots?” asked Will.

  “I guess he didn’t ask the right people. Plus her name deceived him. She was doing the exhibit at her alma mater as ‘K. Ruiz’.”

  “Well, I’m ready when you are. We’re going to Sir Walter’s, I take it?”

  “I asked him if he would mind
doing it here,” said Sam. “Down at my lookout spot, below Syl’s garden.”

  Will grinned mischievously. “You mean, down at your lookout spot, the first place we ever kissed.”

  Sam felt her cheeks warming with color. “That kiss doesn’t really count.”

  “Oh, it counted,” said Will, his eyebrows raised as he nodded his head. “It totally counted.”

  He placed a warm kiss just below her ear.

  At that moment, Sir Walter joined them and the three took the path that led down from the back side of the pool past Sylvia’s garden and on to Sam’s lookout.

  “A most beautiful spot,” said Sir Walter, removing a handkerchief from his pocket and placing it on one of the log-rounds that Sam used for seating. “Mademoiselle?” he said, pointing her to the newly covered stump.

  Privately, Sam thought Sir Walter was the one who should sit on the handkerchief as he wore the fanciest clothes, but she took the offered seat rather than offending the old gentleman.

  Will sat beside Sam on one side, pulling his stump close, and Sir Walter sat on her other side. And then, surrounded by love, Sam saw her mother again for the first time in over ten years.

  As at the Well of Juno, Sam was amazed by how real the memory seemed. It felt as if she was in the small, packed room of people gathered to hear her mother’s remarks. Several were cooling themselves with handheld fans, and Sam could almost feel the sweltering Louisiana summer.

  Kathryn’s former advisor introduced her, and then she turned to address the group.

  “I don’t have much to say. Everything I want to say is already spilled on these canvases. But Professor Collier is a hard person to say no to….”

  The audience laughed.

  “And she asked me to say a few words about my life as an artist. At the risk of sounding either pretentious or just plain stupid, I’d like to argue that painting isn’t so different from something all of us have hopefully experienced: loving another person. Both activities impress onto our very souls so much about seeing beyond our own interests, and about humility, and about taking great risks.”

  Kathryn reached absently for her belly, moving a hand gently over the bump that would become Sam.

  “As for seeing beyond our own interests, I think this happens organically when you love, or when you engage in art-making. I wasn’t concerned about conserving water until the year I painted Yosemite Falls once every month. During that year, I saw, first-hand, what effect a below-average snow pack could have on the falls. I’m grateful for every glass of water I drink in a way I would never have been without that year of painting Yosemite Falls.”

  She reached for her glass and took a sip, smiling.

  “Alongside broadening my interests, painting has taught me humility. I run up against my weaknesses and limitations on a daily basis. In high school, I thought I was a pretty good artist, but that was because I hadn’t yet experienced failure. And if you work in oils, trust me, when you fail, you fail big.”

  The audience laughed.

  “Not to mention, expensively.”

  More laughter.

  “But unless you’re willing to take that risk, you won’t get very far as a painter. Which has led me to think a lot about risk-taking. It’s very much like with falling in love. Or choosing to start a family.” Here, she paused and rubbed her belly affectionately. “The risks are huge. They are literally of life and death proportion. But you do it anyway. You fall in love. You try for that child. Because these are the things that make life worth living.”

  She paused and her brows drew together in a way Sam recalled so clearly. “In life, as in art, the biggest rewards are tied to the biggest risks.” She gave a small shrug. “That’s all I really have to say. Broaden your vision. Embrace what keeps you humble. And take risks.” Giving her belly a gentle pat, she turned to look at the three canvases behind her. “That’s where you find the good stuff.”

  After that Sam’s vision followed Sir Walter as he walked around the perimeter of the room, examining the paintings. Sam saw her mother’s confident hand in each; the bold use of color, the delicate sprays of water and mist. It made something inside Sam want to sing, or maybe dance, or … paint. Her mother’s work was beautiful. Before the memory ended, Sir Walter’s eyes rested once more upon the painter, surrounded by her friends, laughing and rubbing her belly affectionately.

  Sir Walter sighed heavily as the memory drew to a close.

  “Thank you,” said Sam, tears spilling down her cheeks. She didn’t remember when she’d started crying. Sir Walter handed her yet another handkerchief, pressed and starched so that it stood to attention. She dabbed at her eyes to show she appreciated the gesture, but really, it was hard to understand why anyone would want a poky handkerchief to wipe their eyes.

  At her side, Will wrapped an arm around her shoulder and squeezed softly.

  “If you will excuse me, my dear friends,” said Sir Walter, “I should now like to retire because it is, as they say, past my bedtime.” He gave a wink to the pair of them.

  Sam said thank you again and tried to return the handkerchief.

  “No, no,” he said. “You stand in greater need than do I.”

  And then the old man vanished into the darkness, leaving only Will at her side.

  56

  THE THINGS THAT MAKE LIFE WORTH LIVING

  “Wow,” said Sam, snuggling in closer to Will now that Sir Walter had departed.

  The moon was casting soft light over the canyon at their feet, creating pockets of contrast: light and dark, in a thousand pewter variations.

  “Yeah,” agreed Will. “That was pretty wow.”

  “It was.”

  “I’m glad I got to see her,” said Will.

  “Mm-hmm,” murmured Sam.

  “Was it … hard for you?”

  Sam mulled the question over, running her gaze along the canyon and across the myriad rows of hills, down to the valley glowing softly orange from sodium street lights.

  “Well, it made me cry, obviously,” she said at last. “But I don’t think the tears were sad tears, you know? I mean, even though it felt like we were really there, it was also a lot like watching our home movies from Christmas and stuff.”

  “I liked how she was so … aware of you, growing in her belly. You could tell she already loved you.”

  “Mom used to say she thought I was trying to kick my way out or something.”

  Will grunted in laughter and then took Sam’s hand. “What she said just now—or back then—that was amazing.”

  Sam nodded solemnly, gathering her thoughts before she spoke. “It was like she knew … she knew what I needed to hear.”

  Will turned to her, curious, and Sam continued.

  “These past weeks, well, these past months, really, I couldn’t figure out what was wrong between us.”

  Will squeezed her hand tightly. “It’s okay.”

  “No, I want to explain. Somehow, when I thought of us, of the future, it triggered very old feelings. Things I felt after Mom was killed. A loss like that colors how you feel about everything. In my case, I created this … unconscious association, where I figured that if I loved someone as deeply as I loved my mom, they would be taken away. Like she was. And I didn’t want to risk having that kind of pain again. It took us breaking up for me to figure all of this out.”

  “Oh, Sam,” said Will. “I’m so sorry.”

  “But, my mom was right. The risk is huge, but you do it anyway.”

  “‘Because these are the things that make life worth living’,” murmured Will, quoting Kathryn’s words.

  “Exactly.”

  They sat in silence after that, watching the sky as star after star appeared overhead.

  At last Sam sighed and spoke again. “It was so good to see Mom’s face. I used to worry I would forget what she looked like. I don’t worry about that anymore, but still, it was lovely to see her smile and how it went right up to her eyes, just like I remember.”

 
“You have your mom’s eyes,” said Will, turning slightly to look at her. He ran the side of his hand gently along the edge of her face.

  “And her nose,” said Sam.

  “Yeah. That perfect French nose.” Will’s eyes narrowed as he examined Sam more carefully. “That mouth, though….” he said, running his thumb over her lower lip.

  Sam sighed and closed her eyes, shivering at the warmth of Will’s touch.

  When Will spoke again, he’d moved his face much closer to hers. “I don’t know whose mouth that is. Not your dad’s….”

  Sam opened her eyes and smiled. “Silly boy. It’s yours, of course.” And with that, she leaned forward a hair’s breadth to where their mouths met, and she kissed him, long and slow. His mouth tasted like the spearmint leaves she’d seen him slip into his lemonade earlier, from Sylvia’s patio planters. His hands wandered up her forearms, up to her shoulders, and then tangled softly in her hair.

  At last, Sam pulled herself away to whisper in his ear, “I love you, Will Baker.”

  “Me, too,” he murmured. And then he turned to face the San Joaquin Valley and shouted, at the top of his lungs, “I love Samantha Ruiz! Do you hear that, world?”

  Sam laughed. “I’m pretty sure my parents heard, anyway.”

  “Good,” said Will. “I want everyone to know. I don’t know what I was thinking, letting you get away like that, last month.”

  “We were both idiots.”

  “I did get a lot of wood stacked, though,” said Will.

  “Wood … stacked?”

  “Yeah. Over at Camp Midgard. I had to do something or I’d’ve gone crazy.”

  “I know what you mean. I don’t know if I would have picked up my paintbrushes again if I hadn’t been so miserable.”

  Will kissed her cheek, the spot below her ear, the side of her neck. “Let’s be better at never making each other miserable, ever again.”

  “Okay,” said Sam. And then she kissed him some more, inhaling the scent of mint on his breath and the faint aroma of pine that always clung to his clothes. Sam leaned forward to close the gaps between their bodies and then, the next thing she knew, they were both tumbling as the stumps tipped sideways, dropping them onto the ground.

  They laughed until their bellies ached, lying on the ground with their faces to the stars.