Take My Hand

by Missouri Vaun

  “You’re sweet.” Clay tried to smile and mean it. “I’m no good today. Maybe another time.”

  “Okay, sugah. I’ll take a rain check.” Lynette released Clay’s hand. “But are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

  “Nah, but thanks.”

  Clay had struggled to find her way back to herself ever since she’d returned to Pine Cone from New York. That had been a few months ago now, and still she couldn’t seem to reset her life. Veronica Mann had fucked her, literally and figuratively. Casual sex hadn’t helped. A menial job with no stress wasn’t helping. Home-cooked meals weren’t helping. Time with her besties, Trip and Grace, hadn’t even helped. She’d buoy just a little, breaking the surface of her malaise briefly, and then sink again. And she definitely wasn’t painting. The naked canvases leaned, stacked along the walls at her place mocking her daily.

  Within a half hour, Lynette’s Chevy was running and Clay was headed back toward town. It was only around eleven o’clock, but she needed food. She spotted Trip’s truck parked at an angle in front of the Dogwood Diner. The tow truck was too big for a standard parking slot so Clay turned into the church parking lot a block away and walked back to the diner. The bell chimed brightly as she pushed through the swinging door. The aroma of a burger on the grill made her stomach growl. She spotted Trip in a booth next to the window.

  “Hey there, Clay.”

  “Hi.”

  “I’d say you look like you just lost your best friend, but I’m sittin’ right here.” Trip smiled up at Clay.

  “I’ll bring a menu over, hon.” Jolene waved to Clay from behind the counter near the register.

  “No rush.” Clay spoke over her shoulder to Jolene. Clay pushed her hat back and rested her elbows on the table.

  A quick minute later, Jolene showed up with Trip’s omelet in one hand and a menu in the other. The diner served breakfast all day, and that sounded good at the moment. It was still officially morning anyway since it was only eleven o’clock. “You want a coffee?” Clay nodded as she accepted the menu.

  “Clay, I expected you to be a little tired, but a happy sort of tired.”

  “What are you talking about?” Clay looked up from the menu. She wasn’t sure why she was even reading it. She always ordered the same thing.

  “I called the shop looking for you, and Eddie said you were out at Lynette’s place. I know she’s carrying a big torch for you.” Trip sprinkled hot sauce on her omelet.

  “Her battery was dead.” Clay frowned.

  “And the only thing you jumpstarted was her car? I’m starting to worry about you, friend.” Trip took a big bite, smiling around her mouthful of breakfast.

  Clay was in the process of constructing a clever retort when the bell over the door rang, distracting her. River paused as the door swished closed behind her. She was looking in Clay’s direction but made no move to say hello and neither did Clay. But that didn’t stop Trip from waving River over. She swallowed and stood up, motioning for River to join them. Clay tried to signal frantically with her eyes. No, no, no, but Trip was clearly not getting the message.

  “River, would you care to join us? Clay hasn’t even ordered yet, so your timing is perfect.” Trip made a gallant show, completely ignoring Clay’s glare, extending her arm to the empty half of the bench seat on her side of the table.

  “Hi. I wouldn’t want to intrude, uh…Trish.” River gave Clay a sideways glance, the expression on her face signaled uncertainty, and Clay made no real move to make her feel welcome.

  “Trip. Short for Tripoli, but that’s a long story. Please join us. I insist. Maybe you can help me cheer up my friend here.”

  “Oh, yes, Trip. Sorry.”

  “Completely understandable given the situation, you know, and bouncing your head on the steering wheel and all.” Trip was gracious, not making River feel bad for forgetting her name.

  Clay was in a bad mood, that was probably obvious, and now Trip had gone and called attention to it in front of River, which annoyed her even further. She was considering her escape when Trip switched sides, moving her plate across the table and sliding into the seat next to Clay, blocking her escape.

  “Are you sure I’m not interrupting something?” River seemed to be picking up on Clay’s unease.

  “Not at all. Please, sit.” Trip swiped the menu out of Clay’s hand and handed it to River. “They serve breakfast all day and the burgers are good.”

  “Thank you.” River accepted the shiny, tri-folded menu as she slid into the empty bench seat across from them.

  “If I’d known I was going to have company I’d have waited to order. Y’all don’t mind if I start without you do you? This omelet won’t be good if it gets cold.”

  “Don’t wait for us.” Clay figured the sooner Trip started eating, the sooner her mouth would be full, and the sooner she’d stop talking.

  Trapped, Clay did her best to look everywhere but at River. That was a tall order. River was hard to ignore, and every time she glanced up at Clay, a tiny tingle darted through Clay’s innards. She reasoned those twinges were simply hunger pains and ordered eggs with chicken fried steak and sawmill gravy as soon as Jolene came back to take their order. She expected River to order something annoyingly sensible like a green salad and was surprised when River asked for a cheeseburger and fries. First MJ’s homemade bread and now this. A beautiful woman who actually liked to eat. Hmm, interesting and unexpected.

  “So, River, I overheard you say to Grace that you live in New York City. What line of work are you in?” Trip was infuriatingly curious about River.

  Clay already knew the answer to that question. The spinning ceiling fan reflected in the shiny chrome cap of the sugar canister held more interest for her than where this conversation was headed.

  “I own an art gallery.”

  “Really?” Trip took a swig of her sweet tea. “Did you know that Clay is a painter?”

  River watched as Clay tilted her head, her eyes shadowed by the brim of her hat, as she glared at Trip.

  “What do you paint?” River half expected Clay to say that she painted houses, because aside from the brooding intensity, she didn’t really give off an artist vibe.

  “I don’t paint anything.” Her expression signaled that this discussion topic was finished, which made River even more curious.

  The food arrived, giving River a few moments to regroup. She daintily hoisted the huge burger and took a bite. Trip had been right. It was great. First fresh baked bread, then hot cinnamon rolls, now this. She was definitely going to have to hit the gym hard when she got back to New York if she kept eating like this.

  She looked over at Clay’s heaping plate of grays and browns, and before she could stop, she blurted, almost to herself, “I finally get it. There is no chicken in chicken fried steak.”

  Clay simply stared across the table at her, fork full of battered meat, midair. Trip was laughing so hard she had to dab tears at the corner of her eyes.

  “That is the funniest thing I’ve heard, maybe ever.” Trip continued to chuckle in between sips of iced tea.

  River felt her Northernism, her otherness, utterly exposed. She swallowed, feeling her cheeks flame under Clay’s scrutiny.

  “I can’t believe I said that out loud.”

  “I’m so glad you did. That was priceless.” There was humor in Trip’s words, but no ridicule.

  “It’s just that I’ve heard of that dish before, but never quite understood what it was, until now.” It seemed so obvious now. Chicken fried steak was simply steak, covered with batter and fried, like chicken.

  Trip smiled broadly. “I’m sure some wise person once said, you don’t know till you know.”

  River liked Trip. Her manner was open and friendly. She didn’t seem to have a judgmental bone in her body. However, the player vibe was alive and well. Trip would be easy to flirt with and likely fun to date, but River didn’t read her as the serious type, and Trip and Clay were obviously friends. Maybe it was true th
at opposites attract, in friendship as well as in romance. Her shoulders relaxed and she took another bite of her very tasty cheeseburger.

  The conversation was pleasant and affable as they continued to eat. River tried to regain her composure after having blurted out something she’d meant for internal monologue. Clay didn’t contribute much. Trip did most of the talking about new renovations at her clinic. Trip sounded like someone who loved her work. She was easy to talk with and was clearly doing her best to compensate for Clay’s noticeable silence.

  “Well, I better get going. Duty calls.”

  “Oh, so soon?” River wasn’t looking forward to finishing her meal while getting the silent treatment from Clay.

  “Yep, afraid so. I have to go tend to two of Virginia’s prized Friesian mares I’m boarding at the clinic for the final weeks of their pregnancies.” Trip dropped a twenty on the table and folded her napkin under the edge of her plate. “Virginia is meeting me there, and it’s best not to keep her waiting.” She winked at Clay.

  Clay swallowed hard and gripped her fork as if her life depended on it as Trip stood to leave. She gave her a look that she hoped said I’m gonna kill you. Trip was clearly leaving her stranded with River on purpose. She’d practically inhaled that omelet. This was twice her friends had set her up. First, when Grace dropped River off at the shop for a loaner, and now this. Half eaten chicken fried steak, swimming in gravy, mocked her from the plate, her stomach suddenly south of queasy.

  “Catch you later, Paintball.”

  “Paintball?”

  In the background, the bell over the door signaled Trip’s exit.

  Clay swallowed. “It’s a long story.”

  “Maybe you’ll share it sometime.”

  There was nothing she could do now. She was trapped by her Southern upbringing and her unfinished brunch. Anything less than polite or friendly in this scenario would be an epic fail. She smiled weakly at River. The silence became awkward as River finished her cheeseburger. Jolene scowled curiously at Clay as she refilled her coffee as if she was scolding her for not being more sociable to Pine Cone’s newest guest.

  “I’m sorry I ruined your meal.”

  She coughed into her napkin.

  “You didn’t ruin anything. I’m just not in a very good mood.” Now she felt bad.

  “Just today? Or ever?” River smiled thinly.

  “Most days lately.”

  River left Clay’s response hanging out there.

  “So, you’re a painter who doesn’t paint?”

  “Something like that.”

  “How do you just stop painting?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, for the artists I’ve known, creating is almost a compulsion…something they can’t stop doing.”

  “More like an affliction.” Clay heard the flat tone of her own voice and hated it. River was right. It hurt almost as much to try to paint as not to paint. She’d stare at a blank canvas for an hour, waiting. Waiting for the veil to lift, waiting for a moment of clarity, waiting for her artistic voice to return, only to be greeted by deafening silence. Her spirit felt caged in a dark place, alone. She sipped her coffee and looked out the window. She felt like crying. What a loser.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you again.”

  River’s light touch on her hand surprised her and she flinched.

  “What do you mean, again?”

  “Well, I obviously upset you in the truck yesterday and you seem upset now.”

  “I’m not upset. And even if I were it’d have nothing to do with you.” She met River’s unwavering gaze. She found she couldn’t look away. They held each other with their eyes, and an unexpected warmth settled deep inside. Don’t go there. This is how you got in trouble in the first place. Clay averted her eyes and cleared her throat.

  When she looked back, River was still watching her.

  Clay reclined against the high back of her seat and sighed.

  “Do you ever have such strong feelings about something that there are no words for them?”

  River seemed surprised by Clay’s question. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but she didn’t.

  “What if you had only one language to express the unexplainable and that one language was taken away from you?”

  “Clay, I didn’t—”

  “That’s why I don’t paint.” Clay stood and pulled crumpled bills from her pocket and dropped them on the table. “I don’t think I’ll ever paint again.”

  She didn’t wait for a response from River. She pulled the brim of her hat low and angled quickly for the door. A knot rose in her throat as the door swished closed behind her. Clay shoved her hands in her pockets and strode briskly down the sidewalk to where she’d left the tow truck.

  Chapter Nine

  By one o’clock, River had checked out of the B and B and by two o’clock was looking through inventory in the back of her aunt’s gallery. She assumed that the work stored in narrow wooden slats in the back room were simply paintings waiting for rotation space on the gallery walls. It would be smart to rotate inventory every three months to refresh the space for repeat customers but also to protect the original work from overexposure to sunlight. The space had two large windows at the front and track lighting strategically spaced to highlight various works along each wall.

  Most of the paintings in storage were what she’d expect to find in a small, provincial gallery. And although the subject matter was rather pedestrian, the level of craft was high. There were obviously some talented local painters in Pine Cone. Assuming these were from local artists.

  There were a few canvases stored at the far end of the space, away from the others for some reason. River slid the first canvas out for a better look. Her breath caught in her chest and she reflexively took a step back. It was almost as if something in the work had physically shoved her. Intimacy clung to the canvas, and River shivered at the thrill of stumbling upon a gem of such authentic artistic vision.

  The second painting in this group was equally strong. She placed them side-by-side and stepped away from them for a better look. All together, it seemed there were three paintings by this same artist. River searched the piece for a signature of some kind. She finally found it along the bottom edge of the stretched canvas, on the narrow strip folded around the bottom of the frame.

  Surely she’d read the name wrong. River held the canvas bottom side up to the light for a better view. Clayton Cahill was written in dry brush, on all three canvases. Her stomach flipped over on itself. This couldn’t mean what she was thinking it meant. There was no way.

  Her laptop was in the house. She dug it out of her bag and used her cell phone as a hotspot. It took a moment for the browser to come to life. Searching for Clayton Cahill, painter returned a list of results, including images, some of which looked similar to the canvases in her aunt’s gallery storage.

  She clicked to enlarge the photos, and an image of Clay and photos of her paintings filled the first page of the search. Clay was in a black fitted T-shirt and jeans. Her hair was slightly longer than it was now, but that was definitely her. River squinted to read the caption: Clayton Cahill in her New York studio.

  “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” River bit her lower lip as she pulled up other photos of Clay in her studio, Clay painting, Clay dressed in a dark suit at some gala event with Veronica Mann leaning intimately against her arm.

  How had River not connected the dots? She knew Veronica Mann professionally, but didn’t really like her. Still, the woman did have impeccable taste, and her gallery was well regarded. She was known for recruiting hot new talent for shows. She was known for bedding those rising stars as well. River’s stomach clenched at the thought that a predator like Veronica had gotten her claws into Clay.

  River scrolled down the list pulling up reviews of Clay’s solo show at the Veronica Mann Gallery.

  Critics obviously loved her. They raved like Clay was some sort of lesbian Jackson Pollack
. One wrote that Clay painted with candor and perception. That her work was severe and penetrating, with an unnerving harmony of balance and tone. Words like originality popped up repeatedly as River read other reviews. Self-assured, candid, surfaces enlivened with texture and color. Cahill’s canvases depict an emotional narrative that engages the viewer beyond the mere surface. A sensitive viewer will find that the work continues to gradually reveal itself upon repeated viewings of the strikingly evocative compositions.

  One critic’s interpretation was that Clay had an innate ability to express loss and yearning.

  Loss and yearning. Was this the language Clay was trying to describe during their lunch? River sank back into the sofa feeling like a jerk. She’d made a lot of assumptions about Clay, and so far, all of them had been wrong. How had she never crossed paths with Clay in New York? Probably because she avoided Veronica.

  River had the overwhelming urge to share this discovery. She reached for her phone and dialed her assistant, Amelia, who picked up almost immediately.

  “Hi. When did you get back to the city?” Amelia sounded upbeat.

  “Um, I’m not back yet.”

  “You’re still stuck in Georgia?” River could almost hear Amelia’s laser focus through the phone.

  “Yes and no.” River leaned forward, fixed on the artistically cropped black-and-white photo of Clay standing in her New York studio. “Are you near your laptop?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Google Clayton Cahill.”

  “Okay, is there a reason I’m looking up this guy…oh, not a guy.”

  “No, definitely not a guy.”

  “Clayton Cahill, the painter. And P.S. completely gorgeous.”

  “Okay, focus.” River knew Amelia wasn’t even interested in women, but the comment still triggered some small sliver of protectiveness. “Are you looking at the review in the Times?”

  “Yeah, they love her work.” Amelia was quiet for a moment except for the clicking of computer keys. “This is a very positive review for a first solo exhibit. So, why am I caring about Clayton Cahill?”