The Wideness of the Sea

by Katie Curtis

  As she walked up to the gallery, she saw the Open sign was hanging in the window. She climbed the front steps and pushed open the door, which creaked loudly. The inside had a narrow white staircase to the left.

  She followed the stairs and found herself in a large loft with pictures hanging on three walls, the fourth wall being a large window looking out at the road behind her. She didn’t see anyone inside. She walked up to the first section of paintings and took them in. After working in a gallery for so long, she trained herself to go from left to right around a room, paying attention to the images that grabbed her attention. She already felt a painting of a large brown and white cow hanging in the center of the second wall pulling at her, but she tried to stay focused. She was immediately taken in by the artist’s bold, round brushstrokes and use of color. The pastoral and landscape images were touched by an exaggeration of color that made them feel electric—the green was too green to be real, the eyes of an elderly man were too blue. She could see that the beauty of the coast called to this artist, as images of Monhegan Island, the lighthouse, and the rocky shores were mixed with images of a city.

  Her dad had told her that the artist lived in New York, and she began to notice images that looked like Brooklyn and Chinatown, perhaps Central Park. As she went around the room, along with the brown cow, an image of a woman sitting on a porch with the sun setting on the ocean behind her grabbed her attention. Just then, she heard footsteps. A tall, dark-haired woman came up the stairs. She wore a loose white oxford, jeans, and moccasin slippers, and she had a stylish layered bob. She somehow exuded elegance and comfort at the same time.

  “Hi there,” she said, her voice deep and gravelly. Anna detected years of smoking had added the patina to her voice.

  “Hi there. Hope I didn’t intrude,” Anna said. “The sign said you were open, so I let myself in.”

  “Of course, the gallery is open. Let me know if you have any questions,” the woman said.

  “Are you the artist?” asked Anna. She still had on jeans and her navy hoodie and realized she must look very young—too young to buy artwork, or at least too poor.

  “Yes, I am. My name is Abigail Perinault. And you?” Anna was struck by her formality. She had a complexity that was part sophistication, part intelligence.

  “My name is Anna. Anna Goodrich.”

  “Oh my word. I know you!” Abigail looked shocked. “Or I should say, I knew your mother well, and I knew you when you were a little girl. And I know your father too.”

  “Really? You were a friend of my mother’s?” Anna was surprised. She used to know many of her mother’s artist friends, but she couldn’t remember ever meeting Abigail.

  “In fact, this one . . . yes, this painting right here was one I painted of your mother years ago.” She pointed to the picture of the woman on the porch. “She was pregnant with one of her children, not sure which. I think she had a toddler at the time.”

  “Then it was Stephen. She would have been pregnant with Stephen.” Anna looked at the painting, and her eyes took in the line of the woman’s face. It was so nondescript, just the outline of a woman’s form, that it would be impossible to be certain it was her mother, but somehow the scene and the ambiguous figure seemed familiar. “I wonder why my mother never mentioned you.”

  “I moved to New York shortly after that. I came back to visit here and there, once when you were little. I remember your long dark pigtails.” Abigail laughed. “But we lost touch. She was an extremely talented woman.”

  “Thank you. She was.” Anna smiled. “Your art is beautiful. I love how you capture the color in the rocks. And your sky here”—Anna pointed to the picture of Monhegan Island—“it’s really breathtaking. You know, I could bring some of these back with me. I work in a gallery in Manhattan, the Genevieve Keller Gallery.”

  Her face revealed some resistance, then softened. “Thank you for the flattering offer. I’ll think it over. I sort of came up here to escape all that. I don’t paint well when I think of the art as a commodity. But here, take a card, give me a call when you get back,” she said, handing her a card from the nearby table.

  Anna found herself wanting to tell this woman yes, she knew what she meant. She wanted to show her the painting she was working on and discuss her technique on the rocks and sky, and tell her that she agreed with her that art for sale was spirit-crushing at times. But all she said was, “Sure. I’ll be in touch, though I don’t know exactly when I will be back in the city.” Anna smiled and took the card. She waved goodbye as she headed down the stairs.

  When she reached the outside air, she was met with her thoughts of her earlier funk—Andrew, her father, Raphael. These were now mixed with a strange optimism after meeting Abigail. She was a fine artist and would be a great discovery. But more than that, Anna was reminded of her mother. They would be roughly the same age. Being around another strong female artist—one who rejected the “noise” of the city and art scene—reminded Anna of something she had gotten from her mother. That same strength. That sense of painting for oneself.

  She thought about what it would be like if her mother was still here. How she would feel about Anna’s life in New York? Would she be as disappointed as her father was? Anna thought that maybe the answer was yes, though for different reasons.

  As she walked to her car, she remembered how her mother had stood next to her after Anna showed her a painting she had done.

  It’s beautiful, darling. But keep going, keep going. Push yourself to match up what you see and feel as closely as possible. How do you see? That is what the picture should tell us.

  The answer always made Anna a better artist. It also made her thick-skinned. She expected a critique, first from herself, then from some trusted source, for each painting. She wished she could have the same perspective on her life, the ability to ask someone, Have I made the right choice, living in New York? What is the next brushstroke? There was no answer, she knew. She was a big girl now.

  She drove back to her uncle’s house, and settled her bags. She decided to have tea first and grabbed a mug off the shelf, looking at it and realizing it was her uncle’s favorite mug, with the faded logo of Hardy Boat Cruises on it. They ran the boat that took everyone from Shaw’s Wharf to Monhegan Island. Almost every time she was over he was sipping coffee with extra cream out of it. Even if it was hours old, with the cream hardened in swirls on the surface, rings left at different levels, he would still sip it. She put it back on the shelf and grabbed another. While the tea steeped, she called Marie to say that she was going to try to sleep there, and would it be okay if she kept the truck. Her sister didn’t mind, she said, as long as she was careful – Anna rolled her eyes once again - and reminded her that their dad was coming over for dinner tomorrow. Anna said she would be there.

  She headed out to the Adirondack chairs at the top of the dock with her tea and sketch pad, wearing a fleece over the navy hoodie. It was impressive how being in Maine for a short time had taken her desire to be fashionable out with the tide. The Earl Grey tasted wonderful but it didn’t help her stop feeling annoyed for some reason about her lunch with Andrew. She was mad at herself for going to his class. It was humiliating, to say the least. And he was different than the other day. He was more guarded, closed off. Maybe it was the fact that she was on his turf. Or that he was very busy. But she had a feeling it had to do with Raphael.

  She had to admit that there was a part of her that came alive around Andrew. It was just that she had worked so hard to bury that part of herself when he didn’t choose her. Her head hurt thinking about it.

  She looked out at the churning ocean waves, soothing in their rhythmic dance, and took a deep breath. She thought of Raphael. He hadn’t called her in a few days. I think he is mad at me for being here, Anna thought. She worried about it for a minute and then remembered that the last time they spoke, he said he was going to use the time she was away productively. Catch up at the gym, with his friends and family. She looked at her phone fo
r a minute, then dialed his number and got his voice mail. It was still 4:30; maybe he was still at work. She left a message. She dashed off a quick email to Genevieve about Abigail, and then headed into the house.

  Anna wanted to sketch some ocean pictures for her next painting, but her head was too unsettled. She stared out at the trees around her uncle’s house. An idea occurred to her – she had not yet visited the forest near Pemaquid State Park. The quiet in the woods might be the closest to knowing quiet in her heart. She grabbed her running shoes from her bag and jumped in the truck.

  It was a few miles from her uncle’s house. As she turned into the familiar parking lot at the edge of the park, she took a deep breath. God, she loved it here. She had come to these woods often after her mom died. It was a space that was both insulated in the trees, but vast too, for when the woods ended, it turned into dunes and then the enormity of the ocean. It felt both big enough and intimate enough to handle her sadness then. Surely it would be able to handle her confusion now.

  As she walked along the dirt trail, going deeper into the woods with each step, she thought of her life back then, and her life now in New York. The city seemed so far away. Raphael, Genevieve, parties and amusing friends. It was so different being here. She had built a life in New York over time. But it wasn’t like she had dreamed of a life there. She wasn’t sure she was cut out for the competition. Everyone had a constant need to impress with more money, better positions, more influence, more contacts. It was convenient to hide among workaholics who partied hard. Like them, she was purposefully ignoring parts of her life.

  But from this distance, she could see how anxiety-producing that life was. It was one of the main reasons she struggled to let herself become known as an artist. It would get even faster, and she wanted to avoid that at all costs. Being a lowly gallery girl meant people around her could feel important at her expense. She would rather hide in her apartment than live a public artist’s life. Why? Partly because of her father. But mainly because she had learned from her mother. Art had a simple and pure path. As long as she had been able to follow that in the mornings, while she worked, she had held on to all that her mother had taught her. She had held on to the girl from Maine. But she could see how much she had wandered from it.

  From this distance, deep in the woods in Maine, she could see clearly that she let things that didn’t matter fill her mind and her heart by living in New York. The pace of the city, once so helpful when she was trying to forget, seemed hectic and noisy now. Something about this trip, this time here, had opened her eyes. It had to be her uncle dying. Her grief opened up feelings she hadn’t considered in a long time. She stepped on the wet, dead leaves and looked out at the spring green woods, noticing the green ferns peeking up between the leaves, still curled. She remembered a painting her mother had done: Spring Ferns.

  She looked through the pine trees and stared out at the ocean. The endless steel gray reminded her of her grief. The grief she had left right here, in this space. She preferred to ignore it, close the door, run away from it. The problem was that in doing so, she kept shutting off those parts of herself. They were knocking, clamoring, calling at her. They had started the second the plane landed in Maine.

  Some of her grief rose up as anger when she thought of Andrew. She sat down on a rock and closed her eyes. Okay, just feel it. Feel all of it. And then a thought rose up.

  I still have so much love for him.

  She opened her eyes in shock when she realized what she had just admitted to herself. When I’m around him, I feel this happiness just because he exists, that someone so beautiful exists. And yet my head says he’ll hurt you, disappoint you, because he didn’t choose you. But then there is the look on his face when we’re together. Part of me thinks he feels the same way. That he still cares.

  Her heart swelled at the thought. Then she remembered how guarded he was after his class. Don’t be silly, her head told her heart. You are loving someone from the past. She knew nothing about his life right now. Nothing about his feelings. And he knew nothing about hers. You’d better move on from these feelings. It was a long time ago.

  Right. It was a long time ago. So what mattered in her life right now? At 28, what did she really want?

  Walking back to the truck, listening to the crunching of dead growth under her feet, she felt the first few drops of rain on her cheek. Once she was safely inside the truck, her cheeks flush from the cold, she turned up the heat and checked her phone. She had three messages—one from her father, one from Raphael, and one from Genevieve. All three wanted to know the answer to that exact question.

  Chapter 11

  Anna picked up the phone and heard her dad’s voice first. “Anna, it’s your father. I could have talked to you tomorrow at your sister’s at dinner, but I didn’t want to sit on this that long. One of your uncle’s neighbors called me. They’re interested in the house. Said if you wanted to sell it, they could offer you more than the market price for it. Make it worth your while. So think it over and let me know tomorrow, okay? Bye.”

  Anna put the phone down and stared out the window. The rain was coming down harder now. Sell the house? She was just wrapping her head around owning it. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to think about selling it right now. On the other hand, if she had any doubts, she should contemplate this offer. It would be comforting knowing it was going to a local who really wanted it. She wanted to talk to her sister and brother before she could really decide what to do.

  As she started to drive toward the house, thinking it was time to open the wine she had bought now that she had that issue to think through, she listened to Raphael’s message.

  “Anna, it’s me. Call me when you get this, but most likely I’ll be free after five so call me then. I miss you. I was thinking of coming up that weekend if you want me to. Think it over and let me know.” His voice sounded sweet, full of the charm that he used on her that was so persuasive. She was touched by his message and found herself missing the comfort of him too. She dared herself to hope that seeing him here in Maine might help put her doubts to rest, that he would see her for who she truly was here.

  Before she called him back, she listened to Genevieve’s message.

  “Hi, honey, it’s me, Genevieve. Listen, when you get a free minute, call me. Something big has just come up and I need to talk to you about it ASAP. Don’t wait even two minutes to call me, call me right now. Okay? Did I mention call me right away? Okay, love you, sweetie.”

  She waited until she pulled into her uncle’s driveway to call her back, a place she knew she’d get decent reception. There were a million dead spots along the coast. Probably why she was just getting the message now, at a little after five. That or she had been too consumed about her morning with Andrew. It was Monday; whatever it was it must be important for her to open the gallery on a Monday. She heard the phone ringing; then Sarah, the other gallery worker, answered it. “Hey, Sarah, it’s me, Anna. How’re you doing? Listen, Genevieve just left an urgent message on my phone, said I had to call her back right away? Okay, sure, I’ll hold.”

  Anna listened to the hold music. She was a full minute into Mozart’s “Dies Irae” when Genevieve picked up.

  “Genevieve Keller,” she said quickly, with a slight New York accent.

  “Hey, Genevieve, it’s me, Anna. You called me about something urgent?”

  “Okay, God, Anna, what took you so long to call me back? I’ve been on the edge of my seat all day. Are you sitting down?”

  Anna looked at her denim lap. “Yes, what’s up?”

  “Three words for you, honey. Art. Basel. Miami.”

  “The American version of the European art show. Lovely, what about it?” Anna’s eyebrows smushed together, confused.

  “We are invited. You and me. The gallery and you. I need you there, to represent us, this December. What do you think?” Genevieve said, her voice staccato in its excitement. “My guess is the success of the new artist at my gallery threw our hat in th
e ring. There is a buzz about you.”

  “God, Genevieve, are you kidding? Seriously? The Art Basel show, us showing in it?” Anna felt the blood rush to her head. She felt almost like she was under water. With the tide coming in. She put her forehead in her palm, trying to absorb the information.

  “First of all, you cannot say no. I won’t allow you to say no. This call is not to see if you are interested, it is purely to discuss logistics, how many pieces, what do you want to show, what are you working on up there?”

  “Yes, but, God, Genevieve, I really do need to think it over a bit. This would change everything. It would change the way I do art. I need to think it over.”

  “Um, sorry, I don’t think you heard me correctly. Art Basel Miami.” She said these three words very slowly, like she was talking to a child.

  “I know. But I am working on . . . a lot right now . . . and I need some time to think it over. Just give me a chance to sleep on it. I like showing in New York – it’s far enough away from my father to fly under the radar, right? I need to think about what it would be like to change that.” Anna ran her fingers through her hair. She tried to breathe slowly but she could feel her anxiety creeping around her heart like vines. “I’ll call you back tomorrow morning, ok? And don’t worry, I know how much this means to you. I know you are offering me a big opportunity.”

  “At least that is clear,” said Genevieve. “Okay, call me tomorrow. Bye hon,”

  “’Bye Genevieve. Thank you.”

  She sat in her car, the windshield wipers still going, the heat on full blast, making her start to sweat. Or maybe it was the news from Genevieve. If she said no, she could possibly be taking away the biggest opportunity of Genevieve’s life. But she would also be irreconcilably changing her life. She wished she could talk it over with someone. Raphael didn’t get it; his head was too far up in the stock-market clouds. He would blindly say yes to making money. That was the reason she hadn’t told him about her other openings. The specialness of each piece would be lost and he would just equate each title with the price it fetched. He would start to brag to all of his friends about it. Art Basel Miami would be the same thing, more bragging rights. Why would there even be a question?