Stony River (53 page)

She felt afraid. She could paint some things, it was true, but others not at all. Maybe she wasn’t a real artist, and all her dreams had been for nothing. With these thoughts weighing on her she went to bed, too discouraged to try any more that night.

CHAPTER 35

Further attempts that week only increased Sevana’s conviction that she had no business calling herself an artist. But at work she kept her trouble to herself, for Willy was occupied with more important matters. His friend in Medicine Hat, an art buyer who hunted up deals for him and split the profits, had called to say he’d found a steal at an auction. “It’s an early work of Adriel Thane’s,” Willy said in awe as he hung up the phone.

“Who’s he?” asked Sevana.

“Never heard of him?” Willy responded in amazement. “Only one of the most important artists in the country. He’s from Vancouver.”

“Oh,” she said weakly. “I’m afraid I’m not too up on such things.”

“I’ll say you’re not,” he agreed emphatically. “We’ll have to do something about that.” He set to work rearranging pictures on the wall to clear a conspicuous spot for his new prize.

It was almost closing time when Alexa flounced into the shop. At least Sevana assumed it was Alexa, from her youthful prettiness and the way her eyes sparked anger as she demanded to see Willy. Sevana knew there had been more phone calls back and forth that week. Willy emerged at the sound of her voice and escorted her to the back room. A heated argument ensued behind the closed door. At last the young woman came out alone with an exultant lift to her head, and exited the shop with a lustrous sweep of burnt-copper hair.

Sevana went to the classroom to find Willy slumped at his desk. “Well, she won,” he said. “I gave in, just to get her off my back. I’m letting her keep the money.”

“She might as well have robbed you at knifepoint,” Sevana said, very sorry for him.

“Yes, well—that thought crossed my mind, too. Her red hair and all. I figured it was easier—and safer—all around, if I just got it over with this way. It’ll set me back until I sell something, that’s all. I used to think she was a nice person, but I really didn’t know her at all. What if I’d married her?”

“Were you planning to?”

“No, but she talked about it all the time. Good thing I’m not one of those guys who rushes to the altar.” The look on his face suggested just the opposite. “Guess I can chalk it up to a close call, lesson learned.” But for all his rational arguments, he didn’t seem to have the strength to rise above it. He said he needed a drink.

That was the start of a drinking binge that lasted a week. He spent all his free hours and some of his obligated ones getting the sympathy of his buddies at the Roadhouse—even staying there overnight once or twice when he was too drunk to drive home. He came to work feeling sorry for himself, moody, and wanting attention. Once Sevana had to cancel class for him because he was in no shape to teach. Her patience was wearing thin by the time he pulled himself together; but she reminded herself of all the times he’d been there for her, and tried to do the same for him.

Over the weekend Willy drove to Medicine Hat to pick up his art piece and visit his friend. Sevana was also among friends, riding home after church with David and Krysta to the end of a quiet side road, where their older farmhouse stood hedged by trees and shrubs in rambling and untended abundance. They sat in the roomy kitchen with its worn but shining hardwood floor, and ate Krysta’s good pot roast and gravy and vegetables. There was food for three times that many people, but Krysta explained she’d made extra so David would have something to reheat during the week. Without being the least bit insulting, she managed to convey that David was quite a terrible cook. And Sevana knew why. It was the same reason their yard was in ready danger of returning to its native habitat. David’s head was in a different place, one that did not zero in on domestic matters. People and ideas—that was the plane on which he operated. And true to his nature, he kept her busy answering questions about herself. She did not feel under scrutiny by his interest, and answered his engaged inquiries as well as she could.

And over a delicious, syrupy cobbler made from the Johnsons’ plums, David asked—with what was perhaps a twinkle in his eye—if with Sevana in Lethbridge, they stood a better chance of seeing Joel over that way sometime that winter. She understood what he was implying, but simply acknowledged that he was indeed coming over to sell a few sheep. Her impression was that David did not know anything about Joel’s continued interest in Chantal.

After dinner David was leaving to check on an old man who’d been sick, and offered to take her home on the way. Sevana didn’t want to desert Krysta with the dishes, but Krysta told her to run along, and gave her a wrapped loaf of homemade nut bread to take with her. So Sevana thanked her and left with David. As he dropped her off with a wish for a successful week of class, she found herself wanting to do something to return his and Krysta’s kindness to her. She could have them over for dinner—but another engagement was probably the last thing they needed in their busy lives. She decided just to paint them a picture for Christmas. She spent some time that afternoon trying to decide on a subject, but couldn’t settle on anything.

Tuesday morning before the shop regulars were due to gather for the showing, Willy hung the Thane original proudly on the wall, where it sparkled as the centerpiece of his collection. Len and Ralf were on hand for the preview, arriving early in Ralf’s nondescript station wagon. The four of them admired the rich tones and old-world atmosphere of the mossy stone bridge. “That ought to create a stir, even in Lethbridge.” Willy’s tone implied he did not exactly regard the town a cultural mecca.

Ralf said he would write it up for the newspaper to give Willy some free publicity.
“Local Business Fills Lethbridge Cultural Gap,”
he proposed, fond of thinking up headlines.

“How ’bout,
Bridge Bridges
Leth
bridge’s
Cultural Gap,
” Len suggested, fond of annoying Ralf.

But no headline, serious or otherwise, was ever published—for due to word-of-mouth out at Vandalier’s, the picture sold to a visiting businessman within hours of its premiere. Ralf was provoked because Jillian, who had chosen that critical day to rent a sandblaster to take the more tenacious rust patches off the roadster she was restoring in her garage, hadn’t even gotten to see it. Willy, too, would have been miffed at not being able to harbor his crown jewel longer, if he hadn’t been pleased to the point of smugness at having sold it for more than ten times what he paid for it.

But his mood changed abruptly when Fredric, the disgruntled art student, came into the shop and approached him directly. Locking slender fingers on the countertop in front of him, Fredric announced in clipped tones he wanted to drop the class.

“Oh? Why is that?” Willy looked surprised.

“You haven’t taught me anything I wanted to know,” was the complimentary response.

“Maybe if you stay in the class, I’ll get around to it,” Willy suggested, a trace of irritation in his voice.

“I’d rather not,” said the college man decidedly. “I’ve concluded I’d rather go it on my own.”

“As you wish.” Mouth clamped in a straight line, Willy counted out some money. Fredric left without further discussion. “Of all the arrogant—” Willy began, and swore under his breath.

“Don’t take it to heart, Willy!” Sevana cried in high indignation. “He obviously has no regard for fine teaching. You should be glad to be rid of him!”

But it had set him in a bad temper, and when he got a phone call from a supplier a few minutes later, he became very irate. “If you can’t get it right the first time, forget it!” he yelled into the phone. “I’ll order it from somebody else.” He slammed down the receiver and stalked into the other room. But this mood wore off, and by closing time he was his happy-go-lucky self again.

So many students required assistance with their assignment that evening, that Willy bent down and asked Sevana in a low voice if she would mind waiting until after class for his help. So when the session broke up, she kept painting—or at least making a pretense of it, for she was having her own share of difficulties. When they were alone, Willy sat on the edge of the table and loosened his tie and collar. “What a night. Sorry for making you wait.”

“It doesn’t matter. I needed the extra time. But I can’t get it, Willy; it still doesn’t look right.”

He suggested what she should do, and pulled up a chair while she set about to follow his advice, feeling a little confined by his nearness. After a few minutes she said in despair, “Oh Willy, I just can’t do it.”

“I don’t understand why you should have trouble with this.” He didn’t sound condemning, only puzzled. “This is nothing compared to the pictures you’ve already painted.”

She stood up, possessed of a rash, irresponsible desire to run away from him, from painting, from everything. “I’m no artist, that’s why!” The thoughts she’d been harboring came tumbling out all at once, too fast. “All I can paint are trees and mountains, and I’m in trouble on this empty plain, for there are none of them here! I don’t belong in your class, Willy, for I can’t learn. I was only dreaming when I thought I could become an artist.”

“Hold on!” Willy was on his feet. “That’s nonsense. You’re not giving up on me like Fredric this afternoon, are you? Sit down. I want to talk to you.”

She did so, listlessly.

He turned his chair to face her, leaning forward on his elbows to meet her eyes more nearly on a level. “Look, Sevana,” he said reasonably, “you are very talented, but you are inexperienced. It’s going to take time to gain the range you need, and some things may not come as easily as others. But the important thing is not to give up. You must pursue the base of technique that’s so vital to any accomplished painter.”

His words heartened her, yet she wasn’t convinced he was right. “I don’t mean to give up on you, Willy,” she said earnestly. “It’s just that I’ve been wondering if I’ve been fooling myself. I seem to lack the ability to master the technical side of it. You know what I’m like with anything mechanical. I have to wonder if when I paint well, I’m painting out of a love for my subject, more than any talent.”

“No,” he said absolutely. “You have more motivation to paint something you like, but motivation is different than talent; and you do have talent, Sevana, believe me—a great deal of it. His eyes were locked on hers, his words carried persuasion, and she did believe him. “This has nothing to do with whether you can unlock a door or change a cash register tape.”

“All right, Willy.” She drew herself straight and pushed back her hair. “I’ll take your word for it. If anybody should know, it’s you. If you think I can do this, I’ll keep at it until I get it right, or die trying.”

“That’s more like it,” he beamed. “Now, one more time.” He handed her the paintbrush, and under his coaching—together with her new determination—the pearl on velvet took on the effect she was trying for. She laid down the brush and smiled as he squeezed her shoulders with a proud pronouncement of approval.

“Now let me walk you home,” he said. “It’s a long way in the dark, you know.”

Despite his nonsense, she let him escort her up the outside stairway. She felt troubled that he had put out so much for her, listening patiently to all her doubts—giving her more time than any of his other students. At the door she asked him in. It was too late for coffee, so she served him tea.

“So you don’t think much of the plain,” he mused, stirring a spoonful of sugar into his mug at the table.

For a minute Sevana didn’t know what he meant, then realized he was referring to something she’d said in her excited speech earlier. “Only compared to the mountains where I spent the summer,” she explained.

“Do you miss them, Sevana?”

“I’m afraid I do. Sometimes very much.”

“Why? What makes you miss them?” He was studying her in a way that made it impossible to tell what he was thinking.

“Oh, Willy, if only you could see them, you would know,” she said. “They’re beautiful beyond description! As long as I’m away from them, I can’t rest for thinking that something will prevent me from returning, and I will never see them again.” She stopped, abashed. Why had she told him that—expressing a fear so deep she had never put it in words before, or even acknowledged it as a conscious thought? She hastened to cover the vulnerability of that admission. “But I know they’re not my home, and I must find my own way here.”

“And what way are you hoping to find?” he prodded, not seeming to notice the glimpse of true emotion she’d let slip.

“I want to become a good painter—that’s why I came. Beyond that, I’ll just have to see where it takes me.”

“Your talent can take you any place you want to go.” He peered into his mug. “I thought you said this was tea.”

She giggled at his baffled look. “It is. It’s alfalfa. I bought some different kinds from that new food store.” She scooped up the brightly colored boxes from the counter to show him. “Lemongrass, chamomile, blackberry, nettle. I’d hate to be in a rut, you know, going through life drinking only
black
tea.”

“That’s one of my greatest fears, too.” Willy smiled broadly at his own wit.

But Sevana was not put off by his flippancy, and added with interest, “Some people even eat wild plants like that
raw—
for greens.”