“I’m…” Brenna searched for the best word, “thunderstruck.”
“I like how the true artist comes out of you when you’re excited about a piece.”
Brenna looked away from the window. “That’s one of the most unique pieces of artwork I’ve seen in a long time.”
“Are you getting bored with me already?”
“Of course not, Nina. Just wait for the opening of From the Hand of the Artist. You’ll be the belle of the ball.”
“Will you be my date?”
“Nina, I’ll be there but it won’t be a date. You know we’ve already had this conversation.”
“Yes, yes. I’m not your type or some such drivel. But I don’t plan to give up that easily.”
“Nina—”
“Can’t we just date a little? I’ve got such a crush on you. And I know you’re not attracted to the shy type.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I know the women you date.” She counted off on the fingers of one hand. “They’re artists, they’re beautiful, they’re mysterious, and they need lots of attention.”
“And you’re going to say that describes you to a tee.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“There’s much more to it than that.”
“You also date women who state their desires directly.”
All those things were true, but so far that combination hadn’t proved too successful. She certainly didn’t want to date someone who was introverted and antisocial, but someone in between had to exist.
Brenna sipped her drink a little quicker because the conversation wasn’t going anywhere. Just like the possibility of the two of them being together.
She looked back at the window. She had to find that artist. Hopefully no one else represented her. An exhibition of her work would be a smash hit in Manhattan.
Chapter Three
“She doesn’t have a phone?” Brenna looked up at Lucy, who sat at the gallery’s front desk.
“Nope. Not a listing anywhere. I’ve been on the computer for almost an hour. Her name doesn’t come up at all on the Internet.”
That could be a real coup for Brenna, since she seemed to be the first one to pursue the seemingly unknown artist. But she wouldn’t be anonymous for long.
“How else can we find her?”
“I’m not sure. It looks hopeless.”
Brenna pointed her finger upward, punching the air decisively. “Never give up. There’s got to be a way.”
“Did Nina meet the artist?”
“No, she bought the piece at a small gallery.” Brenna smiled. “Nina said the place is called Breakers and it’s in New Harbor. She said the artist was a local.”
“They should know where to find her.”
“I need to do this quickly. Shanks Gallery might have seen it too, and I’m going to get to this artist before they do.”
“Our big bad boss has spoken,” Lucy said, smiling.
“Carl.” A wave of promise washed over Brenna. “I’ll be taking a couple of days off to travel up to Maine. Can you handle the installation for a while?”
Carl stood with his back to her, his head tilted to the right, surveying the placement of three paintings for the Hands exhibit.
“That’s what you pay me for.”
“Good. Lucy, can you book me a room up there somewhere, please?”
“You’re going without a solid plan. What if she’s not there? What if you hit a dead end?”
She pointed her finger back up and Lucy cut her off. “I know, never give up.”
Brenna could make the drive in eight or nine hours. It was better than flying because she could bring back some pieces in her car. If she spent two nights there, she could find this Sinclair Grady, contract her for a show, and be back in Manhattan before the bagels in her favorite bakery cooled down.
She felt the immediate thrill of a new discovery. While she spent most of her time negotiating shows with established artists, every once in a while she located fresh talent. Some with raw and original things to say in their paintings, sculptures, and mixed media, colored with the raw passion of love, struggle, or political opinion. Many provoked ardent critiques, some positive and some odious, but both types of assessments usually made their way to the nation’s leading newspapers and online forums.
Brenna loved provocative shows, where the art would enrage some. And with just as much enthusiasm, she sought out shows that portrayed groundbreaking and innovative new forms of artistic expression.
Sinclair Grady fell firmly into the latter.
Collectors and critics alike were hungry for anything original. The freshness of the offerings seemed to act as a rush of oxygenated blood that would clean out their systems of the same old seen-it-before cookie-cutter phases that the art world was prone to fall in to.
When one artist’s work exploded in sales, scores of others would flood the market with similar pieces. Brenna didn’t dislike the deluge these trends caused; she profited very well. Certainly without periods of like-art, the world wouldn’t have seen the beauty of Neoclassicism, the surprise of Surrealism, or the open composition of Impressionism. Mankind expressed religion, politics, and the human element through each of these periods, one influencing the next. Each era was extremely significant, and each variation within it could be exhilarating and valuable.
It seemed that the current movement remained stuck in a sort of relational art period where human relations and their social context influenced the art, and although the scene was full of versatility and vibrancy, it was also heavy with political commentary.
Sinclair’s work, however, with its purity of shape and color, as well as the beauty of profound emotion, manifested an innovative and fresh artistic expression.
“I know that look.” Lucy was staring at her. “You’ve found someone special.”
“I haven’t exactly found her yet, but yes, she has potential.”
“New Harbor has a few places to stay. I’ll book you a room. When are you leaving?”
A buzz of energy coursed through her at this new prospect. Her lungs filled with expectation and her fingers tingled with restlessness. Tomorrow’s trip would prove that she’d made a memorable decision.
*
Sinclair stopped by the Seaside Stop, the local bar in Pemaquid Point. She’d collected supplies and food on her once-a-week trip into town and wanted to have a drink and a chat with Donna, her ex.
The bar celebrated a life at sea, with nautical instruments and seafaring paintings decorating the walls. A dim, golden light glowed from ships’ lanterns hung throughout, while music played softly in the background.
A television, hung over the small seating area, played a silent game of football, and the only other patrons, an elderly couple, watched and drank from large schooners of cold beer.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy. Nice to see you.”
“It’s good to be seen, Sinclair. How are you?” the elderly man said while his wife smiled broadly.
“Doing well. Did you survive the nor’easter?”
“Was but a small spit compared to other storms.”
Sinclair chuckled and made her way to the bar.
“Hermy has arrived.”
Sinclair sat on a bar stool, its back wrapped in weathered rope. She ran a hand across the bar top, feeling the cool smoothness of the lacquer that had been applied as generously as on a ship’s trim. “You know I don’t like that nickname, Donna. I’m not a hermit.”
“Sorry, honey. Old habits, as they say.” Donna towered over Sinclair. Her still-strong high-school-basketball legs were clad in black jeans, and she wore a green T-shirt emblazoned with the Seaside Stop logo. “But it’s not far from the truth, you know.”
“That’s why I come in here, Donna. I don’t get enough nagging at home.”
“Missed me, didn’t you?” Donna smiled as wide as a Cheshire cat.
“Actually, I did.”
“Whiskey?”
“Please.
” She watched Donna pour a shot, and when she handed it to her, she said, “I’ve sold a few windows recently.” She tilted her head back and shot half of the whiskey, which made her close her eyes and purse her lips. “Nice,” she said, after blowing out a stout breath.
“That’s great. Looks like you’ll be flush with heating oil for a while.”
“Better than that. Two went to Los Angeles and one to New York, from what Kay said.”
Kay ran Breakers, the gallery that sold her art. She chirped with excitement every time someone bought one of Sinclair’s pieces. She lovingly supported the local artists and Sinclair’s sales were increasing.
“Well, I’m happy for you.”
Sinclair drank the rest of her whiskey, closed her eyes again, and shook her head. “Man, that’s gonna warm my toes.”
When she opened her eyes, Donna was watching her with an expression that Sinclair recognized. “I suppose now you’re going to ask me if I’m happy.”
“Something like that.”
Sinclair didn’t answer so Donna said, “Well, are you? Happy, I mean?”
“Compared to what?”
“Compared…” she said, the side of her mouth curling up in what looked like frustration. “My lord, Sinclair, you’ve always been a difficult one. Compared to as happy as you want to be, of course.”
That was a tricky question. What did that mean—as happy as she wanted to be? She could imagine what being as rich as she could be was like. She could also imagine what being as rested as she could be felt like. But happy? What did she have to compare it to?
Donna lifted the whiskey bottle but Sinclair put her hand up. “Water, please?”
While Donna reached for another glass, she said, “I was happy when we were dating.”
“Well, that’s nice to hear. Especially since we remained friends afterward.” She handed her the water.
“And I’m grateful we’re friends. Do you know that?”
“I do, sweetie. That’s why I’m asking you how you are.”
“Does your wife know you’ve hung a therapy shingle?”
“She says it comes with the bartender’s towel. Seriously, tell me how you are.”
“I’m fine. But you’re starting to worry me. What’s this all about?”
“You.”
“Well, I know it’s gotta be about me since the Bellamys are too busy watching football.”
“Sinclair, listen to me. You’re one of the most wonderful women I’ve ever met. You’re an amazing artist with more talent than pretty much any other oil-paint splasher or clay thrower around these artsy-fartsy parts. And that wide, bright Irish smile of yours can melt the polar ice cap. You’re a catch, honey. Still, I worry about you.”
“What’s to worry about?” But she knew. And what Donna said next was pretty much word for word what she understood about herself and just couldn’t remedy.
“You’ve lived alone for two decades and you’re only thirty-five years old. Yes, we dated for a little while, and I was crazy about you.”
“I was crazy about you, too.”
“And I know you wouldn’t allow yourself to go…deeper with me. I could see it in your eyes, honey, but you just wouldn’t. Couldn’t, I suppose. Do you know what I’m saying?”
Sinclair did know.
“And it’s okay that it didn’t work out. And since then, you’ve been out with a couple of others around town, but that’s it. And I know you want more than that. You’re capable of so much love, Sinclair. I know that for a fact.”
She did, but what could she do about it? It wasn’t that she didn’t think about that very same subject herself, but when she did, nothing better than sadness and frustration came from it. And then she’d have to make a huge effort to shoo the uncomfortable feelings away with a swift, rain-soaked walk by the water or a log-splitting session out back, behind her house.
“Well, I think I’ve dated all three available women in town and Mrs. Bellamy is taken, so I’m back to square one.”
“You could widen your circle.”
“Why are you bringing this up, Donna? You’re stating the obvious about my life. I don’t choose to live in some bustling metropolis where I’m sure the girls dance four deep at the bars. I like my calm, quiet life here. I’ve got calm with no dates, okay?”
“I’m just saying that you could have both. A lot of people come through town, you know. You miss most of them because you’re way off the beaten path, but they pretty much all stop by here.”
“I know your intentions are good, Donna. But I’m fine, I really am.” Sinclair stood and deposited a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “And I’ve gotta run along.”
“I apologize,” Donna said. “I’m being nosy. And I know you won’t tolerate that.”
“No, you aren’t.” And she wasn’t, actually. All those people who came through town, however, they could be nosy.
That’s what she couldn’t tolerate.
Chapter Four
Turning off Highway 1 at Damariscotta, Maine, Brenna drove south along route 130 toward the village of New Harbor in the Pemaquid Peninsula. She tapped a beat of hopeful anticipation, knowing that within the hour, she would have Sinclair’s address and, with a bit of luck, would be speaking with the artist.
Breakers Gallery, just past Indian Trail Road, was housed in a two-story board-and-batten house with weathered yellow paint and light-blue trim.
A stained-glass piece that had to be Sinclair’s hung in the front window. It featured a magnificent tree overlooking the ocean with green and yellow glass and foamy white accents highlighting the blue water. Brenna’s pulse quickened as it would if she’d spotted a gold vein in the old gold-panning days.
Inside, four or five tourists wandered around, looking at paintings and photographs, but with her tunnel vision Brenna saw only their blurry features as she searched out the owner.
“Are you Kay?”
A slightly plump woman in her mid-fifties looked up from organizing a countertop display. “Yes, I am.”
“Hi. My name is Brenna Wright and Nina Leone sent me. She purchased a Sinclair Grady piece a while back.”
“Yes, I remember her. From New York, right?”
“Yes. And I noticed you have another one of her windows.”
“Would you like to see it?”
“I’d like to buy it.”
Kay’s face lit up. “Well, that’s great! It’s my last one. I’ve been pestering Sinclair to bring more in and now she’ll just have to.”
Brenna helped Kay retrieve the two-by-three-foot window, which proved quite heavy. As Kay wrote up the purchase, Brenna said, “I’d like to meet Sinclair. Do you have her address?”
Kay paused, her pen stopping its forward motion. Looking up she said, “She’s not that crazy about visitors.”
“Really?”
“She’s the sweetest girl but keeps to herself mostly.”
“I’d like to talk to her about showing her artwork in my gallery in New York.”
“That sounds very exciting.”
Brenna knew not to be pushy, but she hadn’t come this far to be turned away. “I think her pieces are fantastic, and I believe an exhibition would do very well. So could you tell me where she lives?”
Kay hesitated. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.”
She helped Brenna carry the window out to her car and provided directions. “If you go down the road a few more miles, you’ll turn right on Bristol and then make a left on Pemaquid Loop. When you get to a yellow mailbox on the right, go down that gravel road, but go slow because you may see some wild turkeys.”
“Yellow mailbox, wild turkeys. I’ve got it. Thank you, Kay.”
“She doesn’t like surprises, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
*
Turning at the yellow mailbox, Brenna rolled the window down and a fresh, salty breeze filled her car. Living in New York afforded her many aromas, but most were the smells of ethnic restaurants, exhaust, and damp concrete. Her
wheels crunched on the gravel road, and she watched for wild turkeys but didn’t spot any. An opening appeared through the trees, and she could see light-gray fog enveloping a white clapboard house.
She parked close to the front door and got out to take in the panorama. The expanse of ocean stunned her. From the bluff right behind her house, Sinclair had a hundred-and-eighty-degree view with no other houses close by.
The wooden steps to the front door creaked as if they were tired. Not seeing a doorbell she knocked. No sounds came from inside, or at least none louder than the waves crashing against the rocks below.
After a few minutes, Brenna walked around to the back of the house. French doors and large, wide windows revealed a beautifully decorated interior. The design was simple and efficient, with light-blue and white walls and a kitchen space that overflowed into the living room. An informal collection of teak and bamboo furniture looked very inviting and large, and a bookcase, overstuffed with mostly hardbacks and a few paperbacks, sat under a sizeable brass tide clock that hung from the wall. A light-blue wicker rocking chair faced one window, which Brenna imagined would be the perfect spot for contemplating the hypnotic roll of the ocean over coffee or tea. Speaking of coffee, it had been hours since her last indulgence on the road. Her nerves were beginning to jangle, and she really didn’t want be on edge when she faced a potential client.
After knocking on the French door, she realized no one was home.
She turned around to watch the waves while she contemplated her next move. Sinclair could be in town buying groceries or art supplies, for all she knew. Heck, she could even be on vacation, which would lengthen her wait time quite a bit.
It was nearing dusk since the drive north had taken a large portion of the day. She supposed she could check into her hotel and wait until morning. But first, she wanted to take a quick walk to the sparkling water, which was light years superior to the Hudson River.
Climbing down the bluff’s staircase, she realized that getting to the water would be more difficult than she’d thought. Large boulders looked as if they had been poured out of God’s big bucket and tumbled in gargantuan piles between the bluff and the ocean.
Fugitives of Love Page 2