Absence of Grace (15 page)

The proprietary tone unsettled him. He enjoyed talking to Hailey whenever they happened to meet. Uncertain he wanted more than that, he ignored the nuances lurking in her comment and made a mundane inquiry about her winter.

“It was good. There’s always lots to do in Seattle, and I found several new artists whose work I’m adding to the gallery this year. How about you? Overheard any good conversations lately?”

“Nope. Not a single rainy-day dull gem, but I did finish another novel this winter. Now I’m waiting to see what my editor thinks of it.”

“I hope she likes it. I’m definitely ready for another Gabe Skyler adventure.”

“You read my book?”

“I’ll have you know I was first in line at the bookstore the day it came out. I expect you to sign my copy.”

“Be happy to.” Although, he did dodge her invitation to come back to her place to do just that as they finished dinner, not a response he could readily explain.

Clen’s first days in Wrangell were filled with talk. There were the Jeffers. John and Marian were hospitable people, and they wanted to make sure she was settling in and learning her way around. That meant whenever they encountered her, they stopped to chat.

And they weren’t the only ones. Clen was watching a pair of bald eagles flying around the back of the grocery store, when the butcher came out. “Getting acquainted with Ike and Tina are you?” he asked.

“Ike and Tina?”

“Those two.” He nodded toward the eagles. “They help me get rid of scraps. Say, ain’t I seen you around? Yeah. I know. You’re the new cook at the lodge, ain’t you?”

She admitted she was and was relieved when the eagles swooped in and distracted him, allowing her to escape. Everybody in town seemed to know who she was. As she checked the produce section in the grocery store, the manager came over and introduced himself. A woman planting petunias gave her a tour of the salmon cannery tucked into what would otherwise be the house’s garage. And an elderly man pottering among the roses surrounding the tiny Catholic church introduced himself and invited her to Mass.

But it wasn’t the butcher, the produce manager, or the priest who made her feel so beleaguered she considered never leaving her room except when absolutely necessary. No, that honor went to the single men who assumed she’d come to Wrangell looking for a man.

She’d laughed when Marian said the odds of a woman finding a man in Alaska were good, but the goods were mostly odd. Now, having discovered the truth of that statement, she was no longer smiling. One by one, the odd goods had stopped her on the street or come to the lodge with offers to show her around. In three days, she’d met six men, all of whom suggested a trip to the Stikine hot springs that Marian had warned her about.

At the sound of the back door opening, she looked up from the onions and carrots she was chopping for that night’s dinner to see the visitor was yet another fisherman wearing the Wrangell uniform of work boots, flannel shirt, and jeans.

“How’d you do, Miss.” The man’s head jerked a bit as he glanced around. “Thought I’d be neighborly, welcome you, like. Elmer Cantrell?”

He was the most unprepossessing of the men who’d so far approached her, and if he wasn’t sure of his name, how did he expect her to be? She nodded without speaking and continued to chop.

“You had a chance to see some of our sights yet?”

She shook her head, her eyes on her chopping. “I’ve been really busy.”

“You can’t work all the time. You name the day, I’ll be happy to show you round. Maybe take us a trip to see them Stikine hot springs. You heard about them?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.” Six times and counting. And the thought of going there with this latest entry to the dating game—this Elmer Cantrell?—made her feel queasy. His hair was greasy, his clothes not quite clean, and something distinctly unpleasant lurked in those muddy eyes.

“I’m afraid I get seasick on anything smaller than a ferry.” She transferred the carrots and onions into a large roasting pan and walked over to get the meat out of the refrigerator. “That’s why I make it a rule to avoid small boats.”

He shifted from foot to foot, apparently trying to decide whether she was having him on. She ignored him, rubbing salt and spices into the meat before adding it to the roasting pan along with a half bottle of red wine. After more indecisive shuffling, Cantrell finally took his leave, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She hoped she wouldn’t see him again.

The friendly chattiness of the Wrangell residents was a striking change from the serene silence of the nuns at Resurrection, but it was the hearty teasing of the men that was an escalation she was ill-prepared to deal with.

She went to bed every night exhausted.

The only local man who’d received the imprimatur of a personal introduction from John Jeffers was the one with the odd name. Gerrum Kirsey. He had the dark coloring, stocky build, and slightly exotic appearance she had learned to associate with Native blood, but when he spoke, his accent held none of the local flavor.

After meeting him, she seemed to see him everywhere she went. One morning as she was picking out meat at Rusty’s, she heard his voice. Looking up, she saw him reflected in the glass window behind the meat case. A woman, plump and middle-aged, was gripping his arm.

“Gerrum. Am I glad I ran into you. Wanted to let you know we tried your suggestion and it worked a treat.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Not as glad as we are to have them Mooneys off our backs. You’ll have to come to dinner so’s we can thank you proper.”

“You don’t have to do that, Myra. I’m just pleased the idea was a success.”

“Now, none of that, Gerrum. You’re coming. Tomorrow? Joe’ll be happy for the excuse to break out the Glenlivet.”

“Well, I surely don’t want to turn down either your good cooking or Joe’s whiskey.”

“Six suit you?”

He nodded and Myra gave his arm a pat before she released him. Then she pushed her cart on down the aisle while he turned the corner and disappeared down the adjacent one.

When Clen got back to the lodge, she asked Marian about the interaction.

“The Mooneys have been fussing about Myra and Joe driving on their side of the property line for at least five years. Always keeping it simmering. My personal opinion? They all enjoy it too much to settle it. But it took an ugly turn this spring when the Mooneys started digging potholes in the disputed strip.”

“So what did Gerrum suggest?”

“I didn’t realize Gerrum was involved, but if it was his idea, it was a good one. Joe and Myra planted shrubs in the holes and filled in with flowers. Plants don’t care who owns that strip. Heard it took the wind right out of Sharon Mooney’s sails when she saw it. Even said ‘good morning’ to Myra the other day.”

Clen considered the story amusing. She made a point of finding out where they all lived and walked by on one of her evening strolls. The flowers and shrubs were thriving and the driveway ruts were now reestablished five feet closer to Myra and Joe’s house. She wondered at the stubbornness that had kept the four from such an obvious solution.

Another time she’d just come out of a shop on the main street when she saw Gerrum on the opposite side, walking with and listening attentively to the young woman he’d sat with at dinner the night Clen met him. Elmer Cantrell was approaching the two, and as he got closer, he made a big show of crossing to Clen’s side of the street.

“Asshole.” The woman turned and flung the word at Elmer.

Gerrum bent his head and said something to her. After a moment her posture softened, and he took her arm and walked her into Maude’s Café. Clen stepped back inside the shop she’d just exited in order to avoid her own encounter with Elmer.

Gerrum and the young woman were once again at dinner. They made a striking couple. Dark versus light, solid versus graceful. Later, Clen asked Marian about the woman.

“That’s Hailey Connelly. She owns ZimoviArt,” Marian said. “This is her second summer here.”

“She’s so beautiful. I don’t understand why the men aren’t falling all over themselves to sit with her.”

“Well, maybe because she made it abundantly clear last year they were wasting their time. Except for Gerrum, of course.”

“Yeah.” John scraped the food off the last plate and placed it in the dishwasher. “The rest need to count their fingers after they shake hands with her.”

Marian chuckled. “Hailey’s too smart for them, that’s the real trouble, but she and Gerrum are a good match.”

“I saw them downtown, and Elmer Cantrell made this big show of crossing to the other side of the street.”

“Well, that’s Cantrell for you,” John said. “Our resident bigot. Doesn’t like Gerrum. I suspect because Hailey does. He’s always trying to get Gerrum’s goat.”

“It didn’t look like it worked with Gerrum, but Hailey called him an asshole loud enough for half of Wrangell to hear.”

John chuckled. “Good for Hailey.”

“The impetuosity of youth,” Marian said.

“She does look young,” Clen said. “She and Gerrum are a couple?”

“I’m not exactly sure what they are,” Marian said, looking thoughtful. “Friends for sure, but he’s got to have nearly fifteen years on her.”

“Hell, woman. Are you saying Gerrum’s an old coot because, if so, that means you think I am too.”

Marian gave him a saucy look and flipped him with a dishtowel. “That’s not a trap you’re going to catch me in, John Jeffers.”

Clen left the two of them chuckling together.

Curious about Hailey, Clen walked downtown the next morning to check out ZimoviArt. The display window for the gallery was on the side street leading to the dock where cruise ships came in, perhaps why Clen hadn’t noticed it before.

The window contained an attractive arrangement of children’s fur parkas, lacy knitted scarves the color of chocolate milk, and carvings of bears and eagles. All of it pretty
de rigueur
Alaskan stuff. What wasn’t
de rigueur
were the framed quilt squares suspended from hooks in the ceiling. Unlike most quilt patterns with their careful geometric arrangements and often conservative color choices, these pieces glowed like a drift of flowers. One, channeling Gauguin, was a free-form pattern with swirls of purple and green with interwoven magenta hexagons that looked like flowers.

When Clen stepped inside ZimoviArt, she discovered many of the pictures hanging on the gallery walls were watercolors, a medium she loved and was working to master.

Hailey was on the phone behind the small counter. She lifted a hand in a brief greeting that invited Clen to meander on her own. Clen preferred that, anyway. She stopped in front of a painting of young women with flowing, translucent dresses. Although the fashion was from an earlier time, it reminded her of nights when there was a dance at Marymead and the halls were full of giggling girls in pale dresses.