CHAPTER 22
What happened when I got back? On the surface, nothing. Absolutely nothing. Underneath, though, my world had shifted on its axis.
I pulled into the Center parking lot and Jase came out to greet me staying on the cleared area but using only one crutch because he was getting better. The single crutch was more for moral support than because it was needed.
He smiled and welcomed me home. A good start?
Then he hobbled to the door and opened it because I was carrying my luggage and, with a grimace, acknowledged that he couldn’t yet help much. As I went through, though, his free hand grazed my hair.
A shock went through my entire body, electricity that made me jump and Jase quickly pulled his hand back and I couldn’t tell him how much I wanted it to stay there because what would I have said next? That I loved him? The words would most likely scare him to death.
So I said nothing and simply let the moment pass and dragged my suitcase to my bedroom. But as I walked I thought about that touch. That accidental touch. I took that mini-second gesture apart in my mind.
Was it truly accidental? Could it have been intentional? Was such a thing possible? Could it be that, miracle of miracles, he was in love with me? Or, if not in love, at least in the kind of ‘like’ mode that can lead to love?
I thought about it so much that I got a nasty headache even before my things were back in closets and drawers and even with all that thinking I was no wiser than before though I stared at myself in the mirror and gave myself a stern lecture on foolish thoughts.
I returned to the kitchen because Jase had mentioned dinner, rubbing my forehead and wishing life was as simple as when mere survival was at stake. Compared to being in love staying alive and getting us to the Center through a deadly winter forest had been easy.
Still as I entered the kitchen I realized that I was starved and maybe that had something to do with my headache. The smell of still another of Jase’s gourmet meals drew me across the kitchen and into the tiny alcove with the huge table and the bulletin board. We ate and then went to bed as usual and I didn’t fall asleep until almost morning.
Darn love anyway. It’s hard on sleep. How could I continue? Would I die of insomnia?
I managed. The days flowed into one another as before I’d known I was in love. I adjusted and kept busy and tried to act normal and sometimes I actually succeeded. But I did notice one difference from before I went to New York.
One really odd thing. I wasn’t the only one striving for normalcy. Jase, too, had changed.
He was different. It was hard to know exactly what that difference was but I finally figured it out. He’d forgotten how to smile and Jase, as I already knew, was the eternal optimist who saw the good side of everything and everyone and smiled even when the sun forgot to shine.
He wasn’t actually unhappy. He didn’t go around in a fog of despair but the smile that had come so easily and so often now appeared only on occasion and there were times – many times – that I caught him staring out the window or at a blank wall. Just staring.
At such times I’d call out and he’d start, look my way, color a bit and hobble off, swinging his crutch so fast I feared he’d take a header. And all the while he’d mutter something unintelligible.
He smiled when guests were present but my gut said it wasn’t a genuine smile though no one else seemed to notice. At other times when he thought he was alone the smile disappeared completely and his mood could only be described as melancholy.
Other days his smile would return full force and rival the sun and I’d bask in its glory and we’d have such wonderful times that I’d go to bed giddy with happiness and hope.
I wanted to ask him what was going on but didn’t because what if my question made things worse? Not to mention that I didn’t trust myself. I’d probably ask how he was feeling and then spill out that I just happened to be in love with him and so was concerned for his welfare.
If that happened I was sure that being the nice guy that he is he’d say something guaranteed to make me feel good about being in love with him when he wasn’t in love with me and then he’d get rid of me as fast as possible, never mind that he’d have to do everything alone.
So I said nothing. Did nothing. Tried to smile. Failed miserably. Was glad when my former agent in Minneapolis called. “What about another show?” Donaldo’s voice was pure honey, which meant he wanted something.
“I thought we no longer had a contract.”
I heard a ppffft as he blew through his nostrils, a ploy he uses when he wants something, which, together with the honeyed speech, meant this was important. “A contract is a mere technicality.”
“Okay. So what do you want that has nothing to do with a contract?”
“I have a gallery and I want pictures to display in a show I’ve decided to put on to welcome spring and I happen to know that you have some fairly decent pictures of the spring forest. That’s why I’m calling” He waited for that to sink in. “Unless you sold out in New York.”
A joke. Artists almost never sell out, at least not until they are world famous or dead. “I sold a few.”
“So you do have spring pictures.” The honey in his voice thickened. “Want to sell a few more? Make some money? Get rich?” A slight pause was followed by another ppffft. “Pictures are meant to be seen.”
“Yes, they are.” Did I want to resume relations with Donaldo? Maybe if things with Jase got worse and they seemed to be headed that way.
“You are an artist, even if you don’t know how to talk to potential buyers.” A sigh. “I’ll have someone follow you around so when you don’t know what to say she’ll say it for you.”
I thought. Wondered if the Jase thing would work out or whether I should start looking beyond my life at the Center. Realized I didn’t have a clue but our current emotional roller coaster didn’t bode well. “When is the show?”
Donaldo sensed my mood. “Soon. Give people something to think about. Spring and buying spring pictures.”
My thought grew. Take a break. Get away. See what it would be like living elsewhere. A practice run. Go somewhere else even if only to Minneapolis and Donaldo’s gallery. “I’ll think about it.”
I talked to Jase, asking if the Center could function without me for another show and I wasn’t sure if I should be happy or cry in my pillow because he didn’t seem concerned with my leaving.
I was so desolated by his uncaring attitude that I brooded in my room and decided to do the show and stay with my parents long enough to think about my life. Afterwards maybe I’d still work at the Center. Maybe not.
Jase once again helped me get ready. We went from picture to picture on the walls of the Center and in the studio that used to be a bedroom. “It’s a spring show, you say?” I nodded and Jase looked at them all with a critical eye before pointing to one of pink Lady Slippers in a tiny, secret glen. “That one for sure.”
Eventually more pictures were chosen than I’d expected. I debated whether to invite him to the show and finally did because not doing so would be rude. “Will you come?” Wolf would be fine with a neighbor looking in on him. “There’s no one booked for that weekend.”
His forehead wrinkled. “Yes there is.”
“There’s nothing listed.” I’d checked the reservation book and there was nothing on the bulletin board.
“This morning I got a call from a group. They come every year about this time. Most people come in the winter or the summer. Spring bookings are rare so I never turn them away.”
“Should I stay?” It was my job, after all.
That smile appeared, the one that was now a rarity and he put aside that single crutch and walked across the room just to show that he could. Slowly but steadily. “I’ll be fine.” The smile didn’t dim. “I know that all they truly want is privacy and solitude. No trips, no effort. So go to your show.”
His words hit hard but his tone of voice said he meant it. He didn’t need me. He didn’t want m
e. Not at all.
That night I cried into my pillow because not being needed is horrid. Not being wanted is even worse. And it looked like both applied to me.
CHAPTER 23
What passes for spring in northern Minnesota arrived about the same time as the show. It took over the landscape, turning pristine, white snow into something that more closely resembled dirt while turning actual dirt into mud.
What had been snow drifts melted into small piles of snow streaked with brown and wherever the sun touched the ground for more than a few minutes green grass and weeds popped up sometimes through that very snow that was already sprinkled with bright yellow wild flowers. A typical north woods spring.
I love spring in the north woods and stopped crying into my pillow because no one could be completely unhappy with the lovely turn of the seasons, not even lovelorn wusses like me and I found myself looking forward to the upcoming show. To a break from wondering what was wrong with Jase because his roller coaster moods continued and probably had something to do with me. That depressing thought made me want to cry all over again even with the sun pouring down and tuning the world into a vision of golden mud.
Maybe I should just ask Jase what was going on.
I spent the better part of a week dithering like a lovelorn maiden before coming up with what I hoped was a sneaky but valid approach. I spoke as we sat down to a breakfast that I’d made following the instructions on the wall and I’d only had to cut the portions ninety percent to reach the perfect amount for two people.
“I’m worried about you.” A bald statement but it was a start.
“Huh?” He stopped eating. “Why? What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing. You didn’t do anything wrong.” So maybe it wasn’t a good start after all but I plowed ahead anyway. “You’re so moody lately that I’m concerned.”
Jase managed not to speak for a long time by pretending to savor bacon and eggs, though I was sure he was beyond knowing what he was eating. So much for my culinary skill. “I’m fine.” Another bite but he saw that his answer wasn’t enough so he added, “Nothing’s wrong.”
Then he stared at me. Glowered would be a better word. “As a matter of fact, though, I’ve been worried about you.” I pulled back in surprise. “Don’t talk about me. Consider yourself. You’re --- You’re ---” He thought and then plowed ahead. “You’re moody.”
“Me?” No I wasn’t. I was as relaxed as a limp rag. Except, of course, when Jase was around and then I’d get jumpy. Irritable. Unable to control my feelings. Because I was in love but wasn’t about to admit it.
And, yes, there might have been a few times I’d dashed from the room to hide tears that threatened to appear because I didn’t want Jase to see me cry especially as the crying was for no reason. But that didn’t mean I was moody. Maybe a smidgen out of sorts but that was different than moody. Wasn’t it?
Okay maybe it was the same thing. Maybe I was acting the same way that Jase was acting. Maybe we were both moody.
We finished the meal in silence, after which I shoved the dishes into the dishwasher while he stomped into the main room on legs that didn’t seem to bother him at all in order to answer the phone that had chosen that moment to ring. When the dishwasher was going, and the call was done, he returned.
“We just got another reservation.” He stared at the wall behind me. “Summer is filling up nicely.” Then, in a neutral voice, “It’s a good thing you’re here. Even with my leg better the place is getting busier. It’s getting known.”
He continued, still staring at the wall. “I appreciate your help. Will appreciate it more in the summer when things really get busy.”
He turned at last to look at me and we stared at each other until he waved an arm nowhere in particular. “If you stay, that is. If this work suits you.” He glowered at no one. “You can leave, you know. If you wish.”
Did he want out of our agreement? Was that behind his comment? Did he hope I wanted out too? I rubbed my forehead because another headache was starting. And then, horror of horror, I felt tears coming. Again.
I disappeared. I pretended to rush to my room on still another errand for the upcoming show looking out over the soggy world beyond the many windows of the Center as I ran and wondering whether we would be speaking to one another when that view was wrapped in summer green and the outside was full of people enjoying vacations as the birds in the nearby trees made nests and taught their young to fly.
How much longer could I not cry in his presence? I wasn’t sure but somehow I managed until I left for the show. As I climbed into the truck Jase had the good manners to say goodbye. He even lingered in the doorway and waved and called a goodbye as I gunned the engine and headed out.
The warmth in his voice and the almost tragic expression in his eyes went straight to my heart and a few other parts of me that were lower down and ached just as much. Was his expression because I’d be gone? Or was he already dreading my return?
As I peeled onto the highway and made myself slow down before getting a speeding ticket, I wondered that I’d never known until then that a heartache was a real, physical thing. Like the wuss I decided I was I treasured that ache for the entire trip to Minneapolis. I wallowed in self-pity for a couple hundred miles and decided that a realistic future might consist of a million or so pity parties.
I reached the city and the Donaldo gallery and turned into the familiar parking lot as if it was an old friend, which, considering what was going on between Jase and me it might become once again if I quit my job at the Center and returned to my former life.
Donaldo loved my pictures. He said that misery must have matured me as an artist because I physically resembled a warmed-over, soggy, dead fish. He was probably right. “Get some makeup, Laurie. No one will buy anything with you looking like you lost the love of your life.”
I winced and he noticed. “I’ve been sick.” I coughed to prove how ill I was.
He harrumphed. “Lovesick.” He sighed, sounding just like Paul. Was sighing an artist thing? “I recognize the symptoms as if those portraits you painted last winter hadn’t already said it all.” Another sigh as he helped lug my pictures inside. “I take it the love thing isn’t going well, otherwise you’d be bouncing all over the place.”
I didn’t answer. His eyeroll was followed by, “Love. Oh the drama of it all. Sounds good until you consider the arguments, the shouting and flinging of objects and then the community property thing when you get a divorce. I’d never share my gallery with another person so love is not in the cards for me. Ever.” But after he put the pictures away he tousled my hair in a way that was as close to sympathy as Donaldo is capable of before leaving to yell at one of his assistants.
The evening with my parents was much the same. My father asked if I was coming down with something while my mother, who knew what was wrong, clucked sympathetically and said nothing except vague statements about things working out for the best if you give them time.
Then I went to the room where I’d grown up and wished I was still that little girl with a paintbrush in her hand and a grand scheme for her life.
CHAPTER 24
The show went well as such things go. The young, blonde, overly eager and unpaid intern that Donaldo ordered to shadow me and take over whenever I threatened to kill a sale did her job well, cutting in numerous times with a toothy smile that charmed everyone and a spiel that made me resemble Monet. My pictures sold as well as those of the other artists and I learned that enough people knew who I was that I must be getting known in the Minneapolis art world.
I pasted on a smile and followed the intern about the room until I zoned out and the clock said it was time to close down so I could retreat to my parents’ house and more questions by my father about what was wrong with me and more clucking by my mother.
I repeated that routine each day of the show.
On the last day I awoke near noon with time to shower, eat, and return to the show for the last, shorter day. The da
y that many people who’d dithered about whether to buy or not would return for a picture after which I’d pack up all the unsold paintings except those Donaldo thought might still sell because people had shown interest in them. Meanwhile I’d return to the Center and Jase.
In the shower as water poured over me, I failed to convince myself that things would be fine. I dressed carefully and went to the gallery and spent the afternoon following that overly-happy intern all over the place while wondering how my life had gone so completely off the rails and ignoring everyone who actually liked my work and wanted to buy something. Good thing the intern was there. Donaldo was a genius when he found her.
When the last of the buyers had left and the remaining coffee, wine and snacks were being devoured by the staff, Donaldo cornered me. “Dear Laurie.” He sighed as if fatherly advice was not a job requirement and hard for him but he’d do it anyway. “Go home. Go back to the forest and that place you call the Center. Tell that man in the portrait how you feel.”
He gave me a kindly look, something I didn’t know he was capable of as he continued. “Give it time. Don’t rush love. Maybe things will work out.”
He shook his head as if wondering how he’d ended up in the supportive uncle role and said still more. “Go home and marry him and have babies or whatever it is that married people do. Just find time to paint a few pictures.”
Then he gently turned away, took a glass of wine that one of the interns handed him, downed it in one gulp and sighed in sheer bliss as everyone pelted him with congratulations on a good show while I stumbled out into the fresh, spring air. It wasn’t the north woods but there was a freshening breeze and I watched a rabbit scoot across the driveway chewing a sprig of green grass as it ran.
The next morning I slept in my childhood bed until the sun forced me awake and then I packed my things, said goodbye to my parents, and swung by the gallery where the pictures that hadn’t sold and weren’t likely to sell were packed and waiting. Donaldo was there. On purpose?
The Snow Queen Page 14