The Wideness of the Sea

by Katie Curtis

  She also wondered if showing at Art Basel might reveal the fact that she was Therese McAllister’s daughter. She had so enjoyed everyone being unaware that her mother was a well-known artist. And of course, her dad would find out she didn’t just work at the gallery. She would call Stephen but her brother was super busy with the restaurant. Her eyes drifted down to the business card on the seat next to her. The Perinault Gallery. Abigail was from New York, and she knew her mother. Anna didn’t think she would tell anyone, least of all her father. Yes, she could talk to her. She would stop by tomorrow when the gallery opened. The offer on the house would have to wait until tomorrow.

  She went inside and built a fire, and opened the wine. She was glad she had picked it up, but she wasn’t sure even it could touch her stress now. She stared at the fire, wine in hand, for a long time. The truth she had realized about Andrew had put her into a fog. I tried so hard not to feel this. I had buried this. And there is no chance he feels this way. He does what he wants. If he wanted me he would have done something. Suddenly a jolt of guilt snapped her out of her thoughts, and she remembered she hadn’t called Raphael back. She reached for her phone and dialed his number.

  “Hello,” he answered. His voice sounded raspy.

  “Hi, Raphael, it’s me,” she said. “How are you?” She walked over and poured another glass of wine.

  “Hey, Anna, how are you, sweetie? I was just going over some numbers and practically falling asleep. One second. I am walking out now.” Anna heard him talk to someone in his office, and then he was back. “So how are you doing? It feels like ages since we talked.”

  “I know, I have been tied up at night with family stuff and you’re so busy during the day, I didn’t want to disturb you. But I’ve been good. How about you?” She sat down at her uncle’s kitchen table and stared out at the ocean, dusk settling over the waves, hypnotizing her. She pushed down her guilt about Andrew – he didn’t matter, she told herself. Raphael matters.

  “Good, good. The markets are crazy but we’ve had a few good days. I’ve been rocking the gym. Looking strong for you when I see you next,” he said with a laugh. “Speaking of that, what do you think if I take a flight up next Friday night? I could leave at four on the dot, grab the 6 o’clock flight, and be there by 7:30ish.”

  “That sounds great,” Anna answered. She felt hope rise up in her chest. Maybe this period of confusion would clear up once she saw Raphael. “I can pick you up anytime. Just tell me your flight info and I’ll make sure I’m there.”

  “Okay, I am meeting up for drinks with Dave and Mac, so I’ll look into flights when I get home and I’ll text you. It will be so nice to see you, Anna.” There was that charm. Anna wasn’t immune.

  “It’ll be great to see you too,” she said. “Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  She put the phone down on the table and looked out at the sea. She watched one of the lobster buoys rise and fall with the ocean swells.

  That night she had another dream about her mother. She was in the barn at home, where she had grown up and where her dad still lived. Her mom was painting with her when suddenly the barn caught fire. She and her mother ran around trying to pick up their canvases; then her mother grabbed her by the shoulders and looked at her intensely. “They don’t matter. They are inside you anyway.” She repeated this over and over until they headed for the door. Anna looked back to see a self-portrait curl up in flames.

  Chapter 12

  The next morning, Anna woke to the sound of ocean waves. She’d slept in the guest room, where she usually slept when she used to visit. She wasn’t ready to take over Uncle Charlie’s room just yet.

  The sound was so deliciously soothing, she was in a complete state of relaxation until she remembered her dream, and her task for the morning. To go to Abigail’s gallery, to discuss if she wanted to change her life as she knew it.

  She headed downstairs to brew some coffee and stared at the painting she had finally started the night before. The clouds needed a bit more definition, she decided. She grabbed her palette knife and added a few dark lines while she listened to the coffee pot gurgle and choke. Painting in the morning was such a habit for her. It was nice to be able to leave out her supplies at Uncle Charlie’s and get into her routine here.

  Marie called her after she had been working for a while, procrastinating her trip to talk to Abigail. “Hey, can you bring wine and some bread tonight? And also, dad told me about the offer on the house. What are your thoughts on that?”

  Anna wiped her hands with a towel and mulled over the choice. “I am thinking Dad and Aunt Catherine want me to keep it in the family. Don’t you think? But also, how much could I realistically come up? Three times a year? Five?”

  “I would talk to them tonight and see how they feel. I personally like the idea of seeing you three or five times a year better than what we were averaging, which was basically never,” Marie said. Anna felt a pang when she realized her sister was right. Her distance from her dad had put distance in their relationship too, and this time together was therapeutic.

  “I’ll ask them tonight. And we have to ask them about the picture -the one with the little girl in it,” Anna remembered suddenly.

  “Right. Lots to chat about. I better get cooking.”

  “See you tonight at 7?”

  “Yes, 7 sounds good, see you then.”

  She showered and dressed, putting on jeans and a long sleeved white T-shirt, her winter coat, and boots, and headed to Riley’s for an egg and cheese sandwich. When she got to the counter, there was Millie, the wife of the former owner and mother of the current owner. She had to be well into her eighties, but she still stood there as happy as could be, greeting customers and making their breakfast. Anna smiled when she saw her, remembering her from when she was little. The old woman smiled warmly at Anna and gave her the sandwich with a wink.

  “Hello there,” she said to Anna. She didn’t remember her at all, Anna thought, but why would she? It had been almost ten years since she last saw her.

  “Hi Millie, remember me?”

  She squinted at Anna. “Oh, my, you do look familiar. Aren’t you the Goodrich girl? At first, I thought you were from away.”

  “Yes, that’s me. It’s good to be back,” Anna said smiling. She didn’t know how she fit into the group that the locals gave to everyone not from Maine – they considered anyone not born here was ‘from away’. Did it apply to her now that she had been gone so long? Or was her childhood here enough?

  “Well, enjoy your breakfast, honey.” Millie seemed unfazed by her answer.

  She decided to walk down to the harbor and watch the boats while she ate. The day had started out warm, and the heat made the air foggy, covering the entire harbor under a gray blanket. Pea soup, the locals called it. The seagulls screeched as if trying to navigate by sound waves. There were a few lobster boats in the harbor, their skiffs tied to them like little children. One of them was the Christina Therese. Just the sight of it made her pulse quicken, her lungs tight. Andrew was surely at the campus today. She was surprised at how much she would have liked to see him here, waving to her from the boat, a familiar scene from so many summers in the past. She tried to push him out of her mind, and a twinge of sadness followed.

  All of a sudden, a thought occurred to her. The boat’s name was after Andrew’s mother, Christina. Could he have named it after her mother too? She couldn’t remember his mother’s middle name, but the likelihood that it was Therese was pretty small. The thought erupted like a geyser in her heart. He had cared about her then, when he named the boat. That was a huge honor to bestow on anyone. Had he really given that honor to her mother? She already knew the answer.

  Anna looked out at the harbor. Most of the other fishermen had been out since daybreak. There was no doubt about it, the fishermen worked hard. They were busy hauling and dropping traps before most people had even pulled back their covers. They were devoted to their labor. It was a lifestyle for them.
Andrew was right—cutting back their ability to make money would mean some of them would have no choice but to find a different job. But finding a different job was finding a different life for most of them. They certainly weren’t doing it for the large salaries. It was the honesty and integrity of hard work, and the love of the ocean, that kept them fishing. It was more than their own identities—it was the identity of their families and community, too. Anna thought about the Connecticut lobster boats she painted last summer. She wanted to capture the spirit of that quality of life. She knew it was possible to love a life such as fishing, and a place such as the harbor. She had loved them both through loving Andrew.

  She took off her coat, finished her sandwich, and drank the last sip of coffee before heading to Abigail’s gallery. She found herself feeling very free on the heels of thinking about the fishermen. She felt that way about her art—that it was a simple life she was after. Anna walked slowly along the rocks toward the gallery, her hands in her pockets, the wind whipping at her hair and chilling her despite the warm sunshine. Wouldn’t Art Basel take that away? The thought roared in, and Anna sighed. She could practically feel Genevieve waiting at her desk for Anna’s phone call.

  She looked toward Abigail’s gallery. She was relieved to see the Open sign posted. When she opened the door, she heard bells chime that she hadn’t noticed last time. She walked up the stairs and took in all of the artwork again. The brown and white cow still peered down at her majestically. The pastoral painting fit perfectly with her mood, and she had a desire to meet that cow more than anyone in New York. She stood staring and smiling when she heard Abigail’s footsteps on the stairs.

  “Can I help you? Oh, it’s you, Anna. Good to see you again,” Abigail greeted her warmly.

  “Hi Abigail,” Anna said. She noticed her black button-down shirt and jeans were covered in splotches of paint. Her studio must be right downstairs, and she had just come fresh from work. “I’m so sorry to bother you while you’re working. I’ve actually come with a question I wondered if you could help me with.”

  “A question? Sure, I’ll try to help if I can,” she said. She wiped her hands on a cloth as she spoke.

  “Well, you’re familiar with Art Basel Miami, right?” Anna asked.

  “Of course. I don’t know if there is an artist in America who doesn’t know about Art Basel. The shows in Miami are very exciting.”

  “Well, I have a dilemma, and I didn’t know who I could go to with it. I thought since you used to live in the city, you might be able to help.” Anna sat down next to the window “Like my mom, I paint quite a bit, and the last few years, I’ve shown my paintings at the Genevieve Keller Gallery, where I work. Have you heard of it?”

  “I think so, it’s in Midtown, right?” Abigail said, cupping her face with her fingers. Anna noticed how long and feminine they were, even without any polish. She wore a small gold ring with her initials on her pinky.

  Anna nodded, and felt confident she would understand her situation. But she was nervous too. What if Abigail told someone in the art world she was Therese McAllister’s daughter? What if she told someone here she was a professional artist in New York? She crossed her arms and took a deep breath. “Well, I’ve had two very successful shows, and the Keller Gallery has been invited to Art Basel Miami. And the owner, Genevieve, who is my boss and close friend, wants me to show. But I’m really not sure if I want to.”

  She had Abigail’s full attention. She silently walked over, sat down on a bench under the brown cow, and looked at Anna. “Well, dear. That’s a very big honor. You must have inherited your mother’s talent,” she finally said.

  Anna joined her on the bench. “Thanks. I appreciate you saying that. More than you know. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, I guess. Because I haven’t told anyone in New York that I am Therese McAllister’s daughter. My mother kept me all to herself when she was alive, and we just painted. I went to the University of Maine at Orono for many reasons, but also because I could stay close to her, and to Andrew – my boyfriend at the time who went there. After school, all summer, I got to study with her. She taught me so much. But after she died, my dad went crazy. He wanted me to be a success, to go to the best grad schools in the country. But I told him I was done painting.”

  “I see,” Abigail said, listening very intently.

  “I went to New York to be a gallery worker, not an artist. That world is night and day from this one here in Maine. The one I started painting in.” Anna gestured toward the window.

  “I understand. It’s why I moved back too,” Abigail said. She rubbed at the paint still on her hand distractedly.

  “Right. You know both sides of the coin. I don’t know if I can ever go from Art Basel to . . . this.” Anna held her hands up around Abigail’s gallery. “I’m afraid I will get stuck where there is a lot of noise. At the very least, the freedom I enjoy when I work would be gone. If I show, and if anyone finds out who my mom is, I’m not sure I’ll be able to go back to how it is right now. I’m afraid that the outside world will impact me more than I want it to. But how do I tell my friend Genevieve, who owns the gallery, that my answer is no? She has wanted to show at something major like this her whole life. It is her magnum opus. I just don’t think it’s mine. On the other hand, I know it is a great honor. Am I going to wish I took that opportunity?”

  “Well, I guess that is a dilemma. But I am confused. You say you don’t want the outside world to impact you. But as an artist, we are always talking. We are communicating with our images. We can’t help but have a conversation. Do you think you might be shutting off the outside world because of your mom?”

  “More like my dad,” Anna blurted out before she could keep it inside. “I mean, yes, it is complicated, and it is partly because of how hard her death was on me, on all of us. It was very painful to have that piece of her in me. I guess I don’t quite know if I want to bury it or share it.”

  “Well, what do you think that part of you has tried to tell you?” Abigail asked, taking Anna’s hands in her own. “Has it stayed buried?”

  Anna shook her head, and tears welled up in her eyes. “No,” she said. “That part is alive and well every morning, itching to pick up a brush.”

  Abigail smoothed out the wrinkles in her pants. “Well, that is something worth listening to. But there is one more thing you should know.”

  “What’s that?” Anna asked.

  “I have shown in some fantastic shows. But nothing is quite the same as having your own space. Your own gallery. Especially here in Pemaquid. Even if you are the toast of the town in Miami, you can always return here. The world will have other people to favor or despise. When you want to leave the limelight, you can. Anytime.”

  Anna stood up and rubbed her eyes with the palm of her hands. She sighed and looked up at the cow painting. “How much for that painting?” she asked, smiling.

  “Depends on how much you sell in Miami.”

  “See, that is exactly the kind of attitude that makes me not want to do it,” Anna answered, laughing.

  Chapter 13

  “Go pick some tomatoes from the garden, would you honey?” her mother said, laying down brushes and opening paints on the table in the barn. Her white linen shirt looked cool in the heat of the sun, and the humidity had made the dark hairs around her face curl up.

  “Yes, mom,” Anna replied, her eleven-year-old eyes shining brightly in anticipation of what was to come.

  She went behind the barn where the garden grew, and before she could even reach the lush, verdant postage stamp of earth, she could smell the tomatoes. The fragrance was like an invisible liquid in the air, heavy like golden honey, yet still ethereal, like a cobweb, like lace. When Anna picked the round red fruit, the scent intensified, and she loved that where her fingers had brushed the plant, the smell would linger for hours, allowing her the pleasure of drinking it in again and again.

  She brought the tomatoes around to the barn, and her mother set them in a bowl. “Ok,
sweetheart. We already prepped our canvases yesterday with the burnt sienna background and the white table cloth in the foreground. Now we’re just going to paint the tomatoes. First we’re going to mix our colors. Find the combination of red and yellow and white that matches what you see. And let’s do a little green for the stem, too.” Her mother held her palette and made tiny pools of mixed shades, circles of red and orange and dark green.

  Anna went into her head, focusing on the colors before her, and on the white spot on the fruit where the light hit it first. Her mother gave her pointers every so often, tips for capturing a feature of the tomatoes on the table. An hour passed in what felt like a minute to Anna. As she worked, she noticed the metallic smell of the paint mixed with the fragrance of the tomatoes, and the smell from the grass outside as the summer sun scorched it. This must be what happiness smells like, she thought.

  Anna drove past her old house on the way to her sister’s. She pulled over, and looked for a long time at the old barn, at the part of the backyard she could see where the garden had been. Her dad had kept up everything nicely. He was already at her sister’s house, she knew. Anna sat staring and thinking about the house and how many memories it held. It was amazing that eight years had passed since she left. It had all started in that little barn. And that little girl might one day show at Art Basel.