© 2002 by Melody Carlson
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3913-6
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
About the Author
The isolation felt complete now. Snowflakes tumbled nonstop from a pewter sky, silently encompassing her like a living, moving fortress. Claire experienced a strange sense of comfort in being cut off from the rest of the world with such cold totality. She glanced over at her cell phone still securely plugged into the electrical outlet to recharge its battery, her only link to civilization if she were to be snowed in.
“It could happen,” Jeannie, her art rep, had warned with her usual sage type of wisdom. “You’ve got to be ready for anything up there in the mountains. We always keep the cabin stocked with nonperishables, candles, matches, and whatever you might need until you can be dug out, or the snow melts, whichever comes first. And either one might not be for weeks. So don’t let that November sunshine fool you, honey; you could get a blizzard at the drop of a hat.”
Claire dropped her black felt walking hat onto the old maple table by the window and sighed deeply. Hopefully this change in weather wouldn’t put a damper on her daily walks. Her hike through the woods seemed the only part of her day that she actually looked forward to, and she wasn’t about to give it up to bad weather.
She looked again at her cell phone, this time even picking it up and fingering the small buttons. It wasn’t too late to change her mind about all this. Maybe it was too extreme, or just plumb crazy, as her father had said from his home down in sunny Palm Springs. She quickly dialed Jeannie’s number then waited impatiently for the assistant to put her on the line.
“Oh, Jeannie, I’m glad I caught you,” she said finally, trying to disguise the tight feeling of unease that had crept inside her chest.
“Claire!” exclaimed Jeannie. “How’s it going? Produced any masterpieces yet? I saw Henri just yesterday and promised him you’d have something very special for him in time for his holiday exhibition.”
Claire groaned. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“Oh, come on, kiddo. You’ve got to break free from this little slump of yours.”
“Little slump?” Claire sighed deeply. “And, please, don’t start another pep talk—”
“It’s not a pep talk. It’s just the facts. You know that I, of all people, hate to appear insensitive to the delicate nature of a talented arteest, but it’s been over a year. You’ve got to move on, honey. Remember, you weren’t the one who died in that accident. You’ve got to keep living, kiddo. What would Scott think if he knew you’d quit your art like this. Or Jeremy for that matter—”
“Oh, stop, Jeannie!” The tightness in her chest exploded into hot, red sparks, and her pulse began to pound against her temples. “I don’t even know why I listen to you!”
“Okay, okay.” The voice on the other end instantly became calm and soothing. “I’m sorry, Claire, I really don’t want to push you too hard. It’s a good sign that you’re actually getting angry with me—a healthy emotion, as my shrink would say. Now, listen to me. I want you to walk over to your easel right now—it is set up, isn’t it?”
“Sure,” lied Claire as she stared at her still unpacked art supplies lying heaped against the wall by the door, right where she had dropped them several days before.
“Okay, now go over and pick up a tube of paint—any color.” Jeannie paused as if allowing time for Claire to follow her simple directions, although Claire did not. “Okay, now,” continued Jeannie as if speaking to a small child, “just squirt a little paint onto your palette. . . . Now then, pick up a brush—any brush—and just start wiping that paint around on the canvas. Don’t even bother trying to make it look like anything, Claire. Just start brushing it on—just swish-swish, free as the breeze. . . . You can even pretend that you’re painting the side of a barn if you like, as long as you keep moving that brush. Like the Nike ad says, just do it! Okay, honey?”
Completely ignoring Jeannie’s directions, Claire stared blankly out the front window, watching as white flakes floated down, filtering through pine trees, barely distinguishable against the sky. “It’s snowing here,” she said without emotion.
“Great. Perfect reflective light for painting. Now, you’ve got plenty of firewood and lots of provisions. Even if the electricity should go out you’ll be absolutely fine; just remember to bundle up and keep that woodstove stoked up during the night.”
Claire tried to remember why she’d called Jeannie in the first place. Certainly not for this. “Thanks, Jeannie,” she said flatly. “I’ll get right to work.”
“Good girl.” Jeannie paused. “And someday you’ll thank me for this.”
Claire sighed. “I sure hope so.” She hung up and walked over to her art supplies, trying to remember exactly what it was that Jeannie had told her to do. It wasn’t that Claire wanted to be difficult—and she knew that Jeannie believed she had her best interest at heart—it was just that Claire couldn’t help it. But she would give it a try.
Mechanically, she released the bands from her easel, unfolded its spindly legs, then set it at an angle by the south window. Then she set up a small card table and slowly unpacked her art supplies, handling each single item as if she’d never seen such a thing before. She carefully arranged all her materials, lining up the brushes by width and size, fanning the tubes of acrylic paint into a perfect color wheel. She hadn’t brought her oils with her. Perhaps it was laziness, or maybe she just wasn’t ready to face that smell again. She stacked the clean palettes and folded her rags and set her water containers in a neat row, until the card table looked like an ad for an art supply store. With everything meticulously arranged, she stepped back and surveyed her work, nodding her head in grim satisfaction.
“Very nice, Claire,” she said in a sarcastic tone. Never had she been so meticulous about her supplies. Usually caught up in the flurry of the creative process, she had been one to work like a chaotic whirlwind, surrounded by an incredible mess of squinched-up paint tubes, smelly rags, and dirty brushes soaking in grimy jars of mud-colored linseed oil. She remembered how Scott would step cautiously into her studio with a look of mock horror on his face.
“Oh, no, it looks like Hurricane Claire has struck again,” he would tease. But then he would peer over her shoulder and praise—no, almost worship—her work. Never a critic, Scott had always believed her infallible as an artist and as a human. As a housekeeper, well now, that was another story.
Determined to obey her rep’s directives, Claire opened a fresh tube of paint. Cobalt blue. She squeezed a generous amount onto her
clean white palette. It was a harsh, cold, sterile shade of blue, and she knew nothing in nature that was exactly that color—other than her heart perhaps. Then randomly she selected a brush, “any brush,” as Jeannie had instructed. And like a machine, she began to work the fresh paint back and forth across the clean palette. Swish-swish, swish-swish. Perfect consistency. Then she lifted the filled and ready brush, holding it just inches from the clean white canvas. And there her hand stopped as if her elbow joint had been flash frozen. She took a deep steadying breath and even closed her eyes, willing herself to move her hand forward, to make just one brush stroke.
“Do like Jeannie said,” she told herself through clenched teeth. “Just pretend you’re painting the side of a barn!” But her fingers locked themselves like a vise around the wooden brush handle, and the frozen arm refused to move. How long she stood there with her arm poised in midair she did not know, but finally she realized that the little cabin had grown dark and cold inside, and long, dusky shadows now stretched over the thin blanket of snow that had covered the ground outside. After cleaning the brush, she went to rescue the few small embers still glowing in the woodstove, throwing on some thin sticks of kindling and blowing fiercely until a tiny flame began to flicker at last. She warmed her hands over the tiny fire, then quickly added more logs, filling the stove and closing the door with a loud empty clang.
Without eating, she went to bed, pulling the thick eiderdown comforter up to her nose. And once again she dreamed of them. They were walking just ahead of her, close enough that she could recognize their straight backs and nicely squared shoulders; both had curly brown hair, the color of burnt sienna. And, although the boy’s head didn’t even reach the man’s shoulder, they both walked with that same loose-jointed gait that told you they were related. Father and son. But as close as they seemed to her, they were always just out of reach—out of earshot. And no matter how hard she ran after them, screaming and yelling their names, they never turned to see her, they did not heed her voice. Only this dream was slightly altered from her usual one; in this dream they weren’t walking on the beach, they were walking through the freshly fallen snow.
Claire awoke while it was still dark and wondered where she was, then realized by the chill in the air that this was the cabin. Too quiet and still and dark to be her loft apartment in the city. And far too cold. Across the room, she saw the small red embers, burned down low again, staring back at her like animal eyes. Hungry eyes. The fire craved more wood. She crawled out of bed, her bare feet cringing at the touch of the cold wood floor. Dragging the comforter along with her like a robe, she stuffed more wood into the woodstove, closing the door with a clank. Then she pulled the one easy chair over to the east window and, wrapping the comforter all around her, pulled her knees up to her chin and waited for morning to come.
At last she saw a sliver of golden light cutting through the dark silhouettes of evergreen trees. More snow had fallen during the night. It now looked to be several inches deep but not enough to prevent her from taking her daily trek to the little footbridge and back again. It was the one actual pleasure in her day. But she held it out for herself like a reward, her proverbial carrot for getting through what needed to be done.
It was upon arriving at the cabin that she’d made her detailed list of daily chores (things that Jeannie had told her must be done in order to survive). And then Claire had created a rigid schedule that, after only a week, she’d managed to stick to almost religiously. First she showered (whether she wanted to or not), then brewed a pot of strong coffee while she started herself some breakfast, usually oatmeal, canned fruit, and a piece of toast. These she forced down, mostly, reminding herself how the doctor had warned that to lose any more weight would seriously threaten her health. Afterwards, she would meticulously wash the dishes in the old soapstone sink, then carefully clean the small one-room cabin, plus bathroom, taking more time than she’d ever spent in her large rambling home before the accident, before she’d moved to her loft apartment.
When everything was spotless, she would go outside and restock the firewood box beside the front door as well as refill the copper washtub next to the woodstove. After this she split a small pile of kindling that went into the big wicker basket right next to the copper washtub—nice and neat. Finally she would carefully check her supplies to see if she needed to make the twenty-minute drive to the closest store for bread or eggs or fresh produce. And since she had made that trip just yesterday, the cupboards were nicely stocked. But today, thanks to the snow, she had two more tasks to add to her list. She picked up the old broom and neatly swept the powdery snow that had blown across the wide front porch. Then she found a snow shovel and shoveled through what couldn’t have been more than four inches of light snow to create a little path that connected the small cabin to the nearby garage and attached woodshed.
Going back inside, she shook out the heavy suede working gloves that she’d located in the shed, placing them close to the fire to warm and to dry. She glanced at her watch and sighed. Just barely noon—she was getting too good at this. And so far she had not allowed herself to take her walk before two o’clock, on a pretense that she was “working” until then. Although she wasn’t a bit hungry, she fixed herself a lunch of sliced apple and cheese and crackers, arranging them prettily on an old-fashioned plate of blue and white. This she set on the small maple table and slowly consumed, eating each bite slowly, yet barely tasting it. After brewing a small pot of green tea, she settled into the easy chair and opened a book on “igniting the creative spirit.” She would attempt to read the first chapter, again, until two o’clock.
All morning long she had managed to ignore the card table with her neatly arrayed art supplies as well as the waiting canvas still standing at attention by the window. And she sat with her back to these instruments now, distracting herself with the black-and-white pages before her. Yet the words and letters danced off the smooth paper, never reaching the interior of her mind as she absently turned the pages. The familiar tightness in her chest was returning, and she glanced once again at her watch. Only one-thirty.
Gritting her teeth, Claire closed the book and stared out the window at the tall pine trees, their long needles clinging like slender fingers to fresh clumps of snow just starting to soften and melt in the sun. She must adhere to her schedule, she warned herself. Otherwise her little world would quickly fall apart and go spinning out of control. She closed her eyes and tried to pray, but as usual the words would not form themselves, would not come to her, not even in thoughts. Her heart recoiled within her, blank and empty—numb, except for that usual burning ache that never seemed to lessen, never seemed to leave her at all. And if, in fact, the pain were to leave, what would she be left with?
At exactly one-fifty-six she slowly rose from her chair and began to prepare for her walk. She laced up her sturdy leather hiking boots, wound a soft charcoal-colored scarf around her neck, buttoned up her heavy woolen coat, and placed her black felt hat on her head. Standing before a foggy antique mirror by the door, she stuffed her shoulder-length blond hair up inside the hat, then pulled the narrow brim down lower, clear to her eyebrows.
In the mirror her small pointed face looked ghostly pale surrounded by the severity of the black hat, and her eyes peered out from beneath the brim like two gray pools of sadness. But her ghostlike appearance hardly mattered since she never met anyone on her solitary walks. And, although she knew there were other cabins somewhere in this vicinity, she had yet to see a single person since her arrival, other than someone driving a dark red Suburban down the road too fast a couple of times, and of course, the old woman who ran the store at Saddle Springs. Claire slowly pulled on her knit gloves and looked at the clock over the kitchen stove. Ah, exactly two. Finally, she could set out on her walk.
She followed the same path every day, the only path she knew. It had been easy to recognize the trail before the first snow had fallen, since the packed-down dirt clearly marked the way through the woods. Bu
t now all was white. Fortunately, she’d memorized the way by now. She knew exactly how the narrow trail meandered through the pine forest, curving to the left then taking a sharp right turn at the big dead tree. The first time she had seen this huge, fallen juniper tree, she had actually wept. Seeing it laying there so helplessly, like old bleached bones with each branch still intact, had touched some hidden nerve within her. Obviously it had been cut down, for the old gray stump was sawn smoothly through, revealing faded rings from forgone years. But why had it been so mercilessly toppled like that? It had once been tall and majestic, one of the largest junipers in the forest. Why had it been left behind—not even used for timber? The sad waste of it all had overwhelmed her that first day, and she had stood there and mourned for the better part of an hour.
But with each subsequent day and walk, she’d grown accustomed to the fallen tree and now actually looked forward to seeing it, like an old friend. Its narrow top pointed like a twisty old finger directing her down the path where the woods would thin a bit and the trail would grow straighter. This thinning, she decided, was the result of an earlier forest fire, for she had spotted some large blackened stumps in the clearing, hunkered close to the ground like dark gnomes keeping their secrets close to their chests. And all around these hunchbacked darkened creatures grew smaller trees, healthy and supple and green, planted by nature to replace what had been so cruelly lost.
But today, as she walked along the path, everything looked altered and changed, draped in its fresh blanket of snow. Clean and white, pristine. Almost invigorating. But invigorating was an emotion she could only imagine and barely remember. Still, while walking along the forested area, she couldn’t help but look around her in wonder.
Snow remained a novelty to one who had grown up in Southern California and only skied a few times in her life. Against the fresh blue sky, tall ponderosa pines stood like sentries, holding their rounded snowballs like artillery in their long, sparkling green needles. And fallen logs, previously dark and moldering, were now respectfully shrouded in clean white sheets, as if to rest in peace. She noticed sets of squirrel and rabbit tracks and some bigger tracks, maybe raccoon, crisscrossing each other here and there, and also the sharp two-toed spike tracks of dear. The pine forest wearing its first cloak of snow had become a new place. Strange and coldly beautiful.
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