Stony River (47 page)

Entering the empty dining room, they found a black-haired bartender polishing glasses in the room adjacent, and from the jocular man were able to procure two rooms for the night. As Fenn parted company at Sevana’s door upstairs, after having to unlock it for her, he halfheartedly agreed to her request to have dinner together later.

Once in the small room containing a brass bed and a window looking blindly into the leafy branches of one of the maples, Sevana lost no time in indulging in a deep, hot bath. Then she donned a light blouse and straight, dark skirt and curled her hair, all in a grand celebration of civilization. When she looked at the result in the full mirror, she had trouble recognizing herself. She hadn’t realized how much she’d changed that summer. Her skin was not pale as it’d been when she’d left Toronto, but tanned and hinting of roses. Her eyes no longer waifishly swallowed her face. She even had muscles, she realized, flexing a firm arm that had carried many a bucket of water. She remembered how breathlessly she had labored up the steep lane from the river road when she’d first arrived—and now she could run down to the river and back without a pause. The summer in the mountains had been good for her, she thought as she slipped into a pearl-white blazer; her new vitality befit her well.

When she descended the stairs in calf-high dress boots, her hair loose and shining, Fenn saw her and came out of the bar to join her for dinner. That was as far as his chivalry extended, however—for as soon as he had eaten in typical ravenous-wolf fashion, he returned to the bar with the stated intention of rendering himself oblivious to the fact that he was stuck on that wretched plain. But Sevana was used to eating alone, and studied the grayed barnwood walls with their decorative ironwork accents and displays of historical artifacts while she lingered over her chef’s salad. She felt almost starved for the fresh vegetables.

When she was finished, she went out the back door to see what lay outside; and in exploring the grounds came to a steep embankment overlooking a wide river. She felt heartened by the discovery. It was not as swift as the Stony nor as clear—but any river was better than no river at all.

Another person was contemplating the same scene down at the very edge of the water. Not wishing to disturb him, she went no further, but viewed from where she stood the understated dull-blue water lined by stands of cottonwoods and birch showing the first hints of autumn yellow.

Presently the man turned and proceeded up the path, and smiled when he looked up and saw her there. “Quite a picture, isn’t it?” he remarked companionably—meaning her, but letting her think he meant the river. He was about the age of Fenn or Joel, with short ash-brown hair and clearly cut features, and dressed impeccably in casual business clothes.

“Yes, quite,” she said politely, although she didn’t find the river particularly intriguing. “Do you know its name?”

“Why, that’s the Oldman,” he said in surprise. “I take it you’re not from these parts?”

“No, I’m from Cragmont.” It gave her a feeling of unreasoning pride to be able to claim it as her own.

“Cragmont!” he repeated, giving her a closer look. “As in Cragmont, B.C.? Then I suspect you aren’t properly impressed by our river.”

She laughed in delight at his perception. “It’s not quite like
our
river,” she agreed, “which sparkles and sings as it goes along between the high mountains.”

He held up a hand to keep her from proceeding too quickly. “And yet there is beauty here, as well,” he told her. “See the color of the sky lying on the water—and the reflection of the cottonwoods at its edges—and the pair of Harlequin ducks at ease.” And as he motioned there and there, Sevana noticed an incongruity about him—that despite his carefully groomed appearance, he had paint on his hands.

“You are an artist!” she cried with certainty. Often her hands, too, bore traces of dried paint that had to be left to wear off, when it would not yield to other means.

The hands went back in his pockets languidly and he looked amused. “That I am. And I may assume you are one, yourself?”

“Yes!” she said. “That’s why I’m here—to attend an art class taught by a Mr. William Calihan. Perhaps you know of it.”

“I know it well.” He smiled the more. “I’m Willy Calihan.” Her surprise was as great as he had intended, and he laughed outright. “You’re one of my students, are you?”

“Yes.” She hastened to introduce herself, and Willy shook her hand. He was delighted to meet her, recalled her name from the registration. “You’re the one a teacher in Toronto contacted me about, I believe.”

“Yes, my art teacher, Mrs. Montgomery. She knew of your school, and thought the individualized instruction was just what I was looking for.”

“Much more effective than a general art education,” he agreed with conviction. “But—doesn’t that make you hail from Toronto?”

“Yes, I’ve lived in Toronto most of my life,” she admitted. “I was just living west with my brother for the summer.”

“Toronto! No wonder you look so cosmopolitan,” he exclaimed. “I thought you had an unmistakable city air.” He appeared satisfied by his correct deduction. “Let’s find someplace where we can talk, shall we? Are you—here alone?” he hazarded.

“My brother’s inside.”

“Fine,” he beamed. He had roguish gray eyes and a dimple in his chin, and he was a puzzle to Sevana that he could carry an air of sophistication equally with an air of lazy playfulness. He drew out a chair at an outdoor table for her, and after settling back comfortably himself and crossing a shined leather shoe over one knee, asked if she’d found a place to live.

“Not yet. I’ll start looking tomorrow.” She sat pert and engaged, enjoying the informal interview, and confident in the knowledge that she looked her best.

“I might know of just the place.” Willy appeared pleased at the prospect of sparing her a tedious search. “There’s an apartment over the art shop where I used to live before I bought my townhouse. I’ve been renting it out, but it’s between tenants at the moment—and I have it on good authority the rent wouldn’t be much on it,” he added with a wink.

She found the idea inspired, and said so.

“Good enough,” he approved. “Come down tomorrow morning and I’ll show it to you. I’ll show you around the shop, too. It’s closed Sundays, so no one will bother us. You can see the picture I’m working on. I’m always working on something, though,” he added, looking bemused. “I’ve got another picture in my head waiting its turn; and just now, looking at the river, I think I’ve found another.” He sat up straight and rumpled his hair into spikes befitting a distracted artist. “Too bad I’ve got a business to run. I could spend all my waking hours painting, and sleep short nights at that.”

Sevana smiled in recognition of such ardor. “It must be quite a responsibility to own your own shop.”

“I’ve had it for six years now. It does tie me down too much, but I wouldn’t give it up.”

He talked on confidingly about his ambitions and accomplishments as if he’d always known her, affording her a glimpse into a life completely centered around art—and it came to her that he was living the kind of life she’d always dreamed about. Hungrily she took in his talk; and watching his face, she knew that painting, too, was his passion and life-goal.

Perhaps Willy saw the candles that had lit in her eyes as he began to talk, for he seemed in no hurry to do whatever he had been planning next—and indeed, appeared to be taking pleasure in what he found in her face, when he looked up and gave a groan, cutting himself off. Two men were crossing from the back door.

“Hey, Willy!” the dark one hailed him. “We knew we’d find you somewhere.”

Willy acknowledged them lazily. “Sevana, these two jokers are my dear friends Ralf Bardolf and Arlen Sterling, who have a way of turning up when they’re
not wanted most
.”

“Wait a minute,” objected Ralf, his mustache twitching in his eagerness to correct him. “I distinctly recall Willy suggesting we meet out here tonight, don’t you, Len?” he appealed to his shorter, fairer friend.

“I’ve got it in writing,” confirmed Len with a grin, eyes on Willy. “Somewhere.” He pretended to search his shirt pockets.

“Foolish me, for lacking the foresight to know I would happen upon better company during the course of the day,” Willy lamented. He turned to Sevana. “Len and Ralf here, claim to be painters themselves. Ralf, he’s only got one foot in the fire, but Len is almost as crazy as I am, and is trying to make a living at it.”

Sevana didn’t know how seriously to take his talk. Willy, for one, did not appear to be having any trouble making a living. She remained looking at the three of them with some amusement.

Willy informed his friends: “Sevana is moving here to take my class.”

“You’re in real trouble, Willy,” Ralf heralded ominously. “She’ll see what you’re like ahead of time, and that will be the end of it.”

“That’s right,” Len chimed in. “Might as well count on one less student.”

Sevana couldn’t help laughing at such absurdity.

“All right, let’s call it off.” Willy climbed good-naturedly to his feet. “What say we go in for a drink or two,” he suggested, and his look was exclusively for her.

She rose then, too. “I’m only seventeen,” she excused herself. “And it’s such a nice evening, I don’t think I’ll go in just yet. Thanks for taking time for me, Willy. And it was nice to meet the two of you—” this directed to Len and Ralf, the eyes of both of whom were still upon her.

“All right, see you tomorrow, Sevana.” And Willy telegraphed her a warm, confiding smile before he went with his friends toward the back door.

Still within earshot, Sevana heard Len deplore: “I would like someone to explain to me how he always manages to find the prettiest girl around.”

“It can’t be his looks,” pondered Ralf, equally reflective. “Or his personality.”

“Maybe it’s his money,” Len suggested as Willy swung open the screen door.

“Don’t let it keep you awake nights,” Willy was heard to retort as they disappeared inside.

Looking after them, Sevana smiled. They were quite a group, and they were all—to think of it!—artists. She could look forward to knowing them better—maybe even be included in their small, exclusive circle. She dropped down the path to the river and wandered on the gravel bank with a headful of new ideas.

Later when she went in, she hazarded a peek into the bar and saw the three of them at a table, laughing and talking in fine company. She felt a curious urge to join them, which she resisted and went upstairs—as apparently Fenn had already done.

CHAPTER 31

In the morning Fenn drove into the city proper, swearing over the traffic and growing more aggravated with every stoplight. He even broke his regular habit and spat snoose out the window to show his contempt. It was his day off, and if he’d been at home he would be tanning his bear hide. He stood in the background, arms crossed, while Willy showed Sevana through the two-room apartment above
Calihan’s Classics.
She was pleased to discover that it was not only modern and in good condition, but also furnished—even to a few pots and pans in the kitchen cupboard, and some flatware in the drawer. That was providential, for she hadn’t given any thought to the items she would need to set up house. As an added bonus, a redwood balcony overlooked the street. Without hesitation, she said she’d take it.

Inwardly blessing Willy for the ease of finding such a place, she helped the two men carry her things up the outdoor redwood staircase, which was covered by the extended roof of the balcony and had a change of direction midway. Just that fast, she was a Lethbridge resident. And Fenn was leaving. As he handed her the sleeping bag from behind the truck seat, he nodded casually to her. “So long, Sevana.”

Sevana’s heart took a tumble as he stood by the dusty truck in his highwater pants and logging boots, his too-long hair sticking out funny around the collar of his flannel shirt, his eyes unreadable in his clean-shaven face. She forgot how insufferable he was, and saw him only as one dear and familiar in that distant city. “Oh Fenn, I’ll miss you,” she said faintly. “I’ll miss you all the time, and I’ll always be wondering how you are…” Overwhelmed by emotion, she dropped her load and threw herself against his burly form.

For one brief second he let her hold him, then he stepped back. “Gad, Sevana,” he said brusquely, “save the funeral for when I die.” He got in the truck, slammed the door, and sped toward the city limits.

Willy came down the stairs to find Sevana standing forlornly on the sidewalk. “Fenn leave? Talkative fellow.” He scooped up the bag at her feet. “Let me run this upstairs for you, and then I’ll open the shop.”

In a minute he returned to unlock the door, and as he let her in the building, the smell of oil paint met her with a homelike greeting. Then she stopped to stare, for all four walls of the spacious room were crowded with framed paintings. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “are all of these yours?”

“No, no.” Willy laughed at the idea. “Only the good ones.”

They spent a full hour looking around the main room, Willy being more than willing to discuss the different styles and techniques each picture represented. It didn’t take Sevana long to see that the paintings bearing his splashy signature were easily the most impressive among them. When they finally made it through the back doorway into the classroom, she passed up a long table and chairs on her way to inspect the painting on the freestanding easel over by the desk.