Newness and Wonder

by Alexis Lynne

  This morning, she was at the school, fighting through the thickness in her head as she helped the students with their crafts.

  “That’s really good, Molly. Are you going to give that to your dad?”

  Tara stood beside the dark-haired girl who proudly showed off the 3D motorcycle she had carved out of clay the day before. Liz had graciously agreed to a two-part project, allowing the students to create their ornaments one day and paint them another, after the clay had been baked and cooled.

  “He usually lets us put up a tree in his shop and teases Alice and me about putting sparkly, girly decorations up for the bikers. My brother always brings some of his cars to hang on the tree, but this year, Dad will have one of his own.”

  Jesse owned a bike shop a couple of towns over at the end of the infamous Tail of the Dragon, a curvy, winding road that attracted bikers from around the world. Tara could only imagine what the place would look like if Jesse gave the kids free reign, which he probably did.

  “Tara, can you help me?”

  Marley was on the other side of her friend, and as Tara walked to her, she could see the frustration on her face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t get the colors right. I’ve already gone over the trees so many times that I’m not going to be able to fix them. I at least need to get the house right.”

  Marley had made a round ornament with a raised image of the farmhouse and trees in the background. Tara had been impressed with her skill and was saddened now to see her frustration take away from her enjoyment.

  “No damage is ever irreparable, Marley. The trees are still salvageable. What if you add snow to the branches?”

  “Does it snow here at Christmas? I want it to be realistic.”

  Tara smiled. At one point she, too, was focused on showing only what was real. She learned that sometimes covering up reality was the only way to manage the ugliness of it. Sometimes that required a lot of layers.

  “Perhaps the reality of this scene is that it snowed. It can be whatever you want it to be. This is a representation of the real thing. You’ll still be able to recognize it with the artistic touches.”

  Marley nodded and reached for a paintbrush. Tara looked around the classroom to see if anyone else needed help. Since no one seemed to, she stayed with Marley.

  “Did you get the light fixtures set up?”

  “Mmm-hmm. The electrician finished yesterday. They really do look great against the white walls.”

  “What do you have left to do up there?”

  “Justin and Brandon are building a seat and shelves under the new window, and then I’ll just need a door and furniture.”

  “We don’t have many places for furniture here in town. That might require a trip to Asheville.”

  “You’ll come with us, won’t you? I really don’t want to be alone with Justin in a furniture store. We’ll end up with something as ugly as the couch he ordered for the living room.”

  Tara smiled. “I doubt that. You have great taste, and Justin will let you have whatever you want.”

  Marley paused her painting and her voice became quiet. “Yeah, he will.”

  The girl’s eyes looked nothing like her brother’s, but just then, a brief flash of guilt crossed them that was identical to Justin’s.

  “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”

  Marley shrugged, and all emotion that had shown so plainly a moment before disappeared. She lifted her brush again and focused harder than before, seeming to give all her attention to the model of the farm, until it was as close to perfect as anyone could expect. For the rest of the morning, Marley only spoke when necessary, and her eyes remained hooded, hiding anything that might leak through. It made Tara inexplicably sad.

  The feeling stayed with her the rest of the morning as she finished with the kids, loaded her supplies into the car, and drove away from the school and toward Saint Mary’s, where she was meeting the planning committee for the community’s Thanksgiving dinner.

  The only Catholic church in Sylvan Hills was small, but their hall was large enough to host the yearly event. Each Thanksgiving saw a different church acting as host, but all faiths and walks of life were represented in both the gathered crowd and those committed to the planning.

  Tara was already thankful for at least one fellow committee member. Melanie Simms, the owner of Main Street Bakery and Coffee, always brought coffee and pastries to the meetings, and Tara could smell them as she walked through the door.

  “Hi, Tara! How’s it going?”

  Mel was in her early forties and already an empty nester. Her daughter, Ellie, was finishing up her RN studies in Raleigh. Mel had served on every volunteer committee and board that Tara had in the past few years, and in spite of their age difference, the two had become good friends.

  “Great now that I see you are here. What did you bring?”

  “Leftover donuts. Father Alex favors them, so we made extras this morning.”

  Tara pressed the spout on the large to-go box with the shop’s logo on the side, filling her cup with the best coffee in town.

  “I love coming to these meetings with you. The coffee is always fresh, and you bring real cream. There’s not a church in town who doesn’t buy the artificial stuff in bulk.”

  Mel laughed, sending her blond ponytail bouncing. “Well, I don’t think we’ll need to rely too heavily on the good stuff today. Seems like everyone in there is in a mood. The company might not be pleasant, but at least we’ll stay awake.”

  Tara groaned. The town’s volunteers were primarily made up of the unattached and childless like her and older people whose families had flown the nest, like her aunt, whom she could hear behind the folding doors of the great hall. If Lady was there, then so were her cronies and hangers on, all of whom were rather—interesting.

  “I swear it’s like some sort of reverse adolescence or high school for the elderly. They gossip and tease more than Ellie and her friends did when they were fourteen. I can’t believe I have to keep reminding them that we are in a church.” Mel’s voice was laced with amusement.

  “Well, hopefully Father Alex will join us soon and they will behave.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think a priest will intimidate them one bit.”

  Carrying a donut and sipping her coffee, Tara followed Mel through the doors to the long table set up by a row of windows. The view wasn’t spectacular, just of the parking lot and the small neighborhood behind the church. Tara saw two women standing outside, watching as three children, who must be preschool aged, rode their small bicycles around in a circle. Many of the neighborhoods in town weren’t bike friendly, and most kids came down from the hills to ride in the areas that had asphalt and sidewalks. A little pang rose in her heart as she remembered the times she and Shelby had torn through that very parking lot on their way to Charlotte’s. Of course, no mother was protectively watching over them. They were largely on their own.

  She placed her snacks on the table and gave her aunt a quick hug before sitting down. “Hi, everyone.”

  A chorus of greetings followed, and Tara smiled at each one of them, still attempting to shrug off the ache that continued to pester her after the experience with Marley. The table was filled with familiar faces. Dale Adkins was a widower in his late sixties and owned one of the local berry farms. Tara’s grandmother took Shelby and her blueberry picking every summer, and then the three of them would can and bake for weeks.

  Alma Gregory sat next to Lady and was her complete opposite in nearly every way. While Lady was petite and genteel, Alma was tall and rugged and in every way a mountain woman. She, too, was widowed, and her only son was one of the doctors in town. Shelby had dated him briefly before adding his carcass to the pile of unworthy men she had been amassing since high school.

  Will Hester sat across from Tara, and after draining the mug in his hand, he looked at her with raised eyebrows. Tara braced herself.

  “So, Tara, I hear you’ve been
spending time with that boy from New York. He going to take your attention away from our local boys?”

  Tara started at that. Not the comment about Justin, she’d expect that, but the idea that there were any local boys left in the area who weren’t related to her in some way or whom Shelby and Charlotte had not already gone through. Pretty much everyone her age was a transplant. She shook her head.

  “There’s no danger of that, I’m afraid.”

  He leaned in slightly. “So you two aren’t becoming friendly, taking advantage of some early mistletoe action?”

  “Will Hester, do not embarrass my niece with your insinuations. You are in a church. Do not use the same talk you would at the co-op.”

  “Now, Lady, I’m just concerned about the girl. I assure you, dear, that we do not say such mild things at the co-op. If you are interested in what we do say, I’d be happy to repeat some things as we drive home today.”

  Tara closed her eyes and shuddered as Mel snickered beside her. She knew that Will Hester talked a big game but, in the end, was as soft hearted as everyone else at the table. Still, watching him flirt with her great-aunt was disturbing. She suddenly felt the need for something stronger than coffee. Too bad she was in a church. All the wine there was probably consecrated, and she didn’t particularly want Jesus involved in the conversation, either.

  “You will not be driving me anywhere, you dirty old man. I don’t know what’s gotten in to the men in this town. Your wives died, and suddenly, you think you’re twenty again.”

  Alma snorted. “I blame it on those blue pills. Pop a few and suddenly they are all wrinkled Casanovas.”

  Will’s smile was lazy as he leaned back in his chair. “You won’t find those blue pills in my cabinets, I assure you.”

  Lady looked at him slyly. “Then I’m definitely not going home with you.”

  The entire room erupted in laughter, including Will, proving he was as full of shit as Brandon always said. Still, she had a soft spot for the man. Tara’s grandfather had been a regular among the men at the co-op. She didn’t know what went on when she wasn’t there, but when she accompanied her grandfather, the other growers and builders were kind and welcoming. Willie always had gum, and Dale would be quick with a lame joke, never failing to make her smile. After her grandfather died, several of his friends pitched in and made sure her gram and the farm were taken care of. While remembering the lack of concern her mother had shown, it was too easy to forget that there were a great many who did care.

  Her mind drifted back to Marley and that look of controlled concentration in her eyes as she focused on her ornament. Tara understood now why Justin was uncomfortable with Marley’s silence. She seemed to hide so much behind her lack of words. As Tara pondered this, laughter continued to surround her.

  “Well, now, it’s nice to see you are all in good moods. Did I miss a joke?”

  Father Alex walked in, carrying a plate of donuts and a smile that could warm the entire valley. Mel was the only Catholic among them, but everyone at the table looked a little guilty in the presence of the jovial priest.

  “No joke, Father, just the banter of old friends,” Will answered for everybody.

  “Well, I am happy to hear it. Shall we start with a prayer?”

  Father Alex thanked God for giving them the opportunity to serve the community and asked for continued good health and blessings for everyone present before closing with an Our Father, his Argentinian accent bringing a poetic feel to his words. When he was finished, everyone was focused and productive. Within an hour, a schedule was in place, and each member of the small committee had an assigned task and a group of volunteers to oversee. As everyone was saying goodbye and getting ready to leave, Father Alex pulled Tara aside.

  “Could I bother you for a moment, Tara? I’ve been working on something, and I’d like to get your opinion.”

  “Of course, Father.”

  Tara was not one of his parishioners, but she had interacted with the priest many times in the past few years. She knew that he was raised in Argentina and had been a truck driver there before immigrating to America and entering seminary. She also knew he was a gifted painter and would sell his artwork from time to time to benefit the parish.

  “I knew you would be here, so I brought this over from the rectory. I’ve been working on it for a month, and I think I almost have it.”

  They had entered his small office, and Tara’s eyes were immediately drawn to a large canvas leaning against the far wall. It was abstract, as all of his paintings were, with dark colors and almost violent strokes creating streaks and waves. The subject was pain, and the emotion of the piece made Tara’s breath catch.

  Father Alex squeezed her elbow. “Good. Maybe it is finished.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to see something so dark. It’s not like your usual work.”

  “Oh, there are plenty of pieces like this in my mother’s home. She kept everything I did when I was younger, before I found some hard-earned peace.”

  She turned to him. “Are you not at peace now?”

  He smiled kindly. “Perfectly so, but that does not mean the pain does not exist, is not integrated in there somehow.”

  Tara smiled. It was always odd, yet comforting, to see clergy as human. “Aren’t we supposed to pray the pain away?”

  He nodded. “Yes. We give it up to God, and sometimes he gives it back to us so that we can create something like this so that someone else can see it and feel what they need to feel. Then they can give up their own darkness, help someone else, and so on. Our gifts are not our own, Tara. We can use them selfishly, hide behind them, or we can have the courage to go as deep as we need to, even when it hurts like hell.”

  The curse didn’t surprise her, but the look on his face did. It was both warm and challenging, as if he knew something she did not. Uncomfortable, she turned her gaze back to the painting.

  “Will you give this one to Joe at the gallery?”

  “If he thinks he can sell it.”

  “I don’t think he’ll have any trouble. It’s beautiful work. Thank you for showing it to me.”

  “Thank you for taking a look. Your reaction was what I had hoped it would be. The opinions of fellow artists mean so much.” He guided her out of his office and through the hall. “I’ll see you at Thanksgiving if not before.”

  She nodded and mumbled, “Have a great day,” as she made her way down the steps.

  Driving the short distance up the hill to her house, Tara suddenly felt like a hack—a hypocritical hack. She had judged Charlotte’s clients harshly for being shallow and focused on the wrong things. Seeing the rawness of Father Alex’s painting made her feel as shallow and phony as the bland woman in the video Charlotte had shown them.

  Tara pulled into her driveway and grabbed her box of supplies and walked to her studio. Her clay work and landscapes were nice. They showcased her skill and the love she felt for her town. But when had she ever put herself on the line to create something that truly had meaning and not just beauty? Art moved her, deeply, so why had she not expressed that depth in her own work?

  The image of Marley’s hooded eyes focused on the representation of the farm pushed itself to the front of her mind. She let out a shaky breath and stood there for a moment. Her butt wasn’t in the seat, but the damn muse was there and was going to have its way, whether she was ready or not. Tara walked across her small space and looked down at her potter’s wheel. She pushed the heavy piece to the side to make room for her easel. She pulled a canvas from the closet and gathered paints—acrylics instead of watercolors.

  For years she had focused on the beauty of nature. Leaves, plants, and mountains were her favorite subjects. They made her happy and brought enjoyment to those who looked at them. This time, however, as she stroked the canvas with her brush, the beauty of nature was not represented. Instead, her strokes created a fierce and violent storm.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tara stood in the middle of a giant furniture
warehouse that was located off the highway between Sylvan Hills and Asheville and waved off the attention of the overeager sales girl—again. Tara wasn’t sure if it was the potential sale or the way Justin filled his jeans that kept the girl coming back. She really couldn’t blame her either way. As expected, Justin said yes to everything Marley wanted, racking up a sizeable bill in the process. The way he doted on his little sister only added to the large amount of sex appeal he already possessed in those jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt that showed the definition of his broad shoulders and arms. Nope, she didn’t blame the girl at all.

  Marley had long since picked out a lovely set of bedroom furniture and a funky side chair for her room along with rugs and wall prints and was now sitting with her phone in the customer lounge while Justin took his time looking at things for the rest of the house. He came well prepared with measurements and was methodical in his selections. They had been there all morning, and he had picked out one lamp.

  Now he was hovering around a dining table that looked like a prop from Game of Thrones. It had wolves’ heads carved on the legs and was obviously meant to go home with a vacation house owner who thought they knew what Native American art looked like.

  Tara shook her head. “Your sister is right. You have the absolute worst taste in furniture.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” He honestly looked surprised, as if it weren’t the ugliest thing ever carved out of a piece of wood.

  “It’s huge and far too ornate for a simple farmhouse dining room.” She smiled, feeling mischievous. “But, I get it. I grew up with plenty of boys who drove oversized trucks. I know what this is about. There’s only one reason a man would buy such a large piece of furniture for two people to use.”