“Because Clay is here.”
“In Pine Cone, Georgia?” The pitch of Amelia’s voice notched up.
“My aunt had a few of Clay’s pieces in her gallery storage. I came across them today.” River paused. “Listen, I need to stay here for at least another week, maybe two.”
“Two?”
“If I could convince Clay to let us represent her work…maybe even do a show…this could be really great for the gallery. We’d instantly be on the radar of every major reviewer in New York. This could finally give us the attention we need.” River tried to temper her excitement. “Amelia, this could be big for us.”
“I get it. I agree with you. I’m just sensing there’s a but in there somewhere.”
“At the moment, Clay isn’t painting.”
“A painter who no longer paints? How’s that going to help us?”
“Leave that to me.” River closed her laptop and leaned back. “Can you handle things while I’m away?”
“Sure, no problem.”
“And wish me luck.”
“Good luck, River.” Amelia paused. “Although, I’m not sure you’ll need it. You are lethally irresistible. I don’t know how anyone, including this Clay Cahill, could possibly resist you if there’s something you really want.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Don’t mention it, boss.”
River clicked off. She felt excited and restless. Maybe she needed to go for a run and burn off some energy. A long run would also help her think. She closed the laptop and headed toward the bedroom to change into shorts, but a photo on the wall in the long narrow hallway caught her eye. She stepped closer. There was a black-and-white image of her aunt with her arm around a much younger version of Clay, probably in her early teens.
The hallway was full of small personal photos. River had walked past them a few times but hadn’t stopped to really study them. Now she saw that there was a whole group that included Clay. Was it possible that her aunt had been a mentor to Clay?
The letter. She looked back toward the brightly lit kitchen. The letter from her aunt was still lying on the kitchen counter. She’d opened it earlier, but her phone had rung before she’d gotten to read it. And then she’d forgotten because her friend Jillian had been in crisis and had kept her on the phone forever. She’d gone to the diner and then back to the B and B to check out and forgotten the envelope.
River leaned against the counter as she pulled the folded ivory paper free of the envelope.
Dear River,
If you’re reading this letter, then I missed the opportunity to share any of this with you in person, and for that, I’m truly sorry. I have many regrets in my life, and not knowing you may be the biggest one of them. It was your father’s wish that I have little or no contact with you, because of the choices I’ve made. I have honored that request. But as you get older, you realize the social constraints we set for ourselves and accept from others are sometimes cruel and unnecessary. And time wasted cannot be recaptured.
Reflexively, River dropped onto a nearby kitchen stool. The contents of the letter felt more personal than she’d expected.
Your father is a good man, and as my only brother, I loved him. But I let him keep me from getting to know you. Once I realized I had feelings for women, that I was a lesbian, I left home and made a life for myself elsewhere.
Like many women of my era, I married young, right out of high school. David Gardner was a nice man and a fine person, but I could not make him happy because I was not happy. Your father thought I should have stayed in the marriage, made it work, overcome my desires for a different life. Obviously, I made a choice not to do that. David and I separated after two years, and I could not stay in Canton.
I think your father was afraid my choices would influence you or your brother in some way. He didn’t believe in divorce, and he certainly did not understand what it was like to be a lesbian.
Imagine how proud I was to read of your successes in New York. If I’d been well enough, oh how I would have loved to visit you there and see your gallery. But if you are reading this, then I waited too long. Your father is gone, and now I am gone and you will only have the words of this letter to tell you the truth of it all.
Your mother was a kind woman, a generous woman, and she wrote letters and sent photos all along. I was able to feel at least a little part of your life, even if it was from a distance.
River wiped at a tear on her cheek as she shuffled the paper to read the second page.
Please don’t be angry with your father or with me. Times were different. We lived in a conservative rural community. I left there when I could hide my true self no longer, and I never returned. Luckily, I eventually found a new community here. One that would support me throughout the rest of my life. I found love here and friendships, and I discovered my love of art, our shared passion.
You may decide to sell the house and the gallery. Feel free to do whatever suits you. Everything is now yours to do with as you wish. There are only three paintings I hope you will not sell. They were done by a local artist named Clay Cahill. Those I would like for you to keep or return to Clay. They are the only ones of real value to me. And knowing what I know of the shows you’ve curated in New York, I think you might like them. The details for how to contact her are in the ledger in the gallery. I have contact info for all the artists whose work I’ve shown should you be curious.
I’ve tried to make peace with my regrets. I’m a frail, old woman now. If I might give you some advice that I’ve learned from the mistakes I’ve made it would be, live your own life.
Live it fully, live it fearlessly, and live it for love.
—Eve Gardner
River let the pages rest on the countertop. The final line of the letter bringing tears to the edge of her lashes unexpectedly.
She loved her mother and father, but she’d always known they struggled with her sexuality. Her brother was completely at home in small town America. He never chafed at the restrictions her parents had placed on them as kids. But she had. And in her teens she’d begun to realize she was a lesbian.
Her father had struggled with that. Even as an adult, he’d always referred to her lovers as friends. As if he could never bring himself to accept fully who she was. Now some of that made sense. He’d had his own personal struggle that he’d never shared with her. How could he? And yet, if he had, things might have made more sense.
River thought of her mother. Her mother had obviously felt it was important not to completely isolate Eve from the family. And maybe on some level her mother had thought Eve would be, could be, a mentor for her. Now, like so many other times when she had something to share, she missed her mother. She wanted nothing more than to be able to talk to her mother, but she’d died a few years before her father, no doubt hastening his decline.
Slowly, she surveyed the contents of the house, every small item now taking on new significance and meaning.
Chapter Ten
Clay drove back to the garage, planning to fill the rest of her day with mindless mundane tasks. She didn’t want to think about blank canvases waiting to be filled. She didn’t want to think about that luminous patch of existence she’d left behind in New York, that moment of glory. And she most certainly did not want to think about River Hemsworth.
Willing time to pass quickly was more difficult than she’d imagined. The afternoon seemed to drag on forever. Customers stopped in for gas or a soda. Her grandpa had never updated to automated pumps. In fact, these pumps were so old they only showed the cents. They’d been installed during an era when not as many digits were required. A time when it would have been absurd to think a gallon of gas would cost even a dollar. There was a handwritten sign on both pumps adding two dollars to the price that showed on the pump. Locals knew this of course, but tourists were always amused by the vintage pumps and the price per gallon, a throwback to simpler times before cell phones and Twitter and reality TV hosts thinking they cou
ld be president.
She lingered in the front office, near the register, taking her time to restock the drink cooler and replenish the candy bar display.
“I gotta drive over to Andy’s and pick up some parts.” Eddie talked to Clay through the open door from the shop.
She nodded.
“Bo is working on that Pontiac. At a snail’s pace.” He muttered the last part under his breath.
Clay nodded again with a frown and leaned over so that she could see Bo past Eddie’s shoulder.
“You might want to check on him after I leave.”
“I will, although a lot of good that’ll do. He pretty much ignores me.” It didn’t seem to matter to Bo that Clay’s grandpa owned the place. He tolerated her, and that was about it. The sooner he was gone the better she’d sleep at night.
She waited about twenty minutes before she nonchalantly took a stroll through the triple bay garage. Bo was nowhere near the Pontiac he was supposed to be working on. She heard a scuffling sound from the back storage room and headed in that direction. Before she reached the door, Bo suddenly appeared. He had a sheepish expression, a new look for him, as if he’d been up to something and she’d almost caught him.
He took several long strides toward the raised hood of the Pontiac. His mousy light brown hair was pressed to his head by sweat and humidity. Some might have thought his pupils were misdirected, but in reality, he was simply shifty and rarely made eye contact. A physical feature that only added to Clay’s distrust of him.
“You almost finished here? I’d like to give the owner a call by the end of the day with the status.” She crossed her arms and attempted to make herself taller.
“It’s comin’ along.” He shrugged.
“Does that mean I should call them to pick it up before we close?”
“Probably not till tomorrow.” He seemed to have no sense of urgency about either the customer or the repair or her questions about his progress.
If she owned the garage, she’d have fired him right on the spot. She was sure he was taking twice as long to do the repair which was basically replacing hoses and plugs.
“What were you doing back there?” She tipped her head in the direction of the small dark storage area. Not that she thought he’d tell her what he was up to, but she was compelled to ask.
“I was looking for a wrench. I thought I might’ve left it back there.”
His answer sounded plausible and fishy at the same time. She decided to drop it for now.
Clay walked outside and took a few spins around the front parking area to let off steam. Just having to look at his shifty, unshaven face set her off. It was even worse when she had to interact with him or needed something from him. She suspected that he didn’t like gay people. He’d called her a damn dyke more than once in high school when he didn’t think she could hear him. Probably because she had better luck with girls than he did.
She was grateful that mostly Eddie was Bo’s direct supervisor in the shop, because her grandpa was rarely around these days. He’d come in the morning for a couple of hours but then manage to disappear in the afternoon. He was definitely leaning to part-time retirement.
Clay slid a bottled Coke out of the cooler and popped the top. She took a long swig and sank into the old rolling chair behind the desk and surveyed the room. A room she’d been in a million times but hardly took time to notice. The whole place could be a set for a movie. Perfectly vintage calendars that had not been replaced in twenty years hung along the wall behind the desk. Probably because her grandpa or Eddie liked the images of the women in bikinis lounging across car hoods. She didn’t blame them, although she was surprised the calendars and posters had survived the past decade of political correctness.
One of the models reminded her of River. Long legs, dark hair, lithe, subtly curvaceous with a confident smile. A swirl of heat ignited in her stomach and spread. She held the cool soda bottle to her cheek for a minute.
Clay walked to the drink cooler, opened the swinging glass door, and stuck her whole head inside. She lingered there until the glass fogged up completely, which is why she didn’t notice Bo standing in the doorway giving her a curious, unfriendly look.
“What?” The door closed with a swish.
“The Pontiac is ready if you want to make the call.”
“Thanks.”
A little unbalanced from being caught cooling off by Bo, Clay bumped the ancient spiral magazine rack near the front window. Populated with sun-faded periodicals, the most recent of which was Time magazine from six months ago. This was the perfect place to hide out because it seemed immune to the passage of time. But not immune to reminders of River, apparently.
Clay glanced up at the dingy wall clock over the door. Bo wasn’t the only thing that moved at a snail’s pace. Time in the shop, life in Pine Cone, traveled at the speed of a creeping glacier.
Just before four o’clock, Mrs. Eldridge’s plump silhouette filled the doorway. Mrs. Eldridge had been Clay’s third grade teacher and had long ago retired. But as always, she was dressed as if she had a very important meeting with the school superintendent. Her white hair tightly curled around her face, her blouse and skirt neatly pressed, and her pudgy feet stuffed into sensible low-heeled pumps.
“Hello, Mrs. Eldridge. What can I do for you?” Clay stood up and walked around the counter from the register.
“Hello, Clayton. The Bonneville is making a funny noise. I was hoping Eddie could have a look. My George always took care of the car, rest his soul, and I’m afraid something terrible is wrong.” Her husband had passed on about ten years earlier. Died quietly in his sleep.
“Eddie ran to pick up something, but he’ll be back within a half hour. I’ll pull the car into the bay so he can take a look first thing when he gets back.”
Mrs. Eldridge handed her large bundle of keys to Clay as they walked toward the 90s era powder blue road yacht. It was Clay’s habit to take a visual survey of a vehicle before she parked it in the repair bay. She circled the car but stopped dead in her tracks when she reached the rear right wheel. Mrs. Eldridge was clutching her handbag, watching pensively from the other side of the car as if she expected the worst.
“Do you see something?”
“Mrs. Eldridge, what sort of noise is the car making?”
“Whenever I accelerate, it starts to make this thumping sound. The faster I go the more rapid it bangs.”
“I may have discovered what is causing the banging noise. Your tires are so badly worn that the steel cords are showing, and it seems that one of them hooked a sock.” Clay covered her mouth with her hand so as not to burst out laughing. She was looking down at the disintegrating tire where at the end of the cord hung a dirty, tattered red-ringed tube sock.
Mrs. Eldridge scurried to the far side of the car and stood next to Clay.
“Well, I’ll be.” She acted astounded as if Clay had discovered the most miraculous thing. Like a cure for cancer.
“I think when you pick up speed the sock thumps against the inside of the wheel well.”
“I never thought to walk around to this side of the car.” The passenger side of the car might as well have been on the dark side of the moon as far as Mrs. Eldridge was concerned.
“Don’t feel bad. This could happen to anyone.” Although for the life of her, Clay couldn’t imagine who. “I’ll check and see if we have tires in stock. I think you need all four replaced.” This tire had hardly any rubber left and the other three were almost as bad.
“Dear me.” She dabbed at perspiration on her rosy cheeks with a linen handkerchief. “Maybe I’ll just leave the car and call my sister to come pick me up.”
“That’s probably a good idea since it’s pretty close to the end of the day.”
They walked back to the office where the air conditioner that hung slightly askew in the window strained to cool the room. By the time Eddie returned, Mrs. Eldridge’s sister had arrived to rescue her.
* * *
As R
iver suspected, her aunt’s car wasn’t worth repairing. The insurance adjuster called to relay the news. It was just as well. She’d probably have ended up selling the car anyway so the insurance payout would save her the trouble. Hopefully, she could negotiate to keep Clay’s truck for the remainder of her stay in Pine Cone. That would be one headache off her to-do list.
Clay? Every time River was around Clay, she was more confused. Did Clay simply not like her? Clay had opened up just the tiniest bit at the end of their lunch at the diner, but then shut down almost immediately.
Regardless of whatever else was going on, River decided to call the garage and ask about keeping the truck. She was reading way too much connection into a loaner car. She shook her head at her own silliness. The rumpled paperwork from the day she’d crashed the car was in the very bottom of her large purse. Everything had to be excavated and piled onto the counter to find it. Seriously, did anyone need this many lipsticks?
The number for Cahill Towing was at the top of the wrinkled form. Her finger hovered over the call button on her phone, but before she could touch it someone knocked at the front door. River opened the door to find an elderly, silver haired woman dressed as if she were on her way to church, standing on her doorstep holding a casserole dish.
“Hello.” River leaned lightly against the edge of the open door.
“Hello, dear. I’m Lucille Witmark, a neighbor of Eve’s.” The woman smiled up at her through vintage lavender cat eye glasses, bedazzled at the corners with sparkly clear stones.
“Hi, Mrs. Witmark. I’m Eve’s niece, River.”
“It’s so nice to meet you, dear. I figured you must be a family member when I saw you here with the Realtor. And please, call me Lucille.” Her expression grew suddenly serious. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Losing Eve was a loss to us all, frankly. She was a fine woman and a good neighbor all these many years.”
River realized she’d kept Lucille standing on the stoop in the late afternoon heat.
Take My Hand Page 7