Jake drove all that first night and well through the next day. After a first hour of pitiful noises from Sadie, she settled down and slept. He was glad for her company.
He had kept himself busy after he left Marnie. He had gone home and finished packing. He had hitched to the outskirts of town and rented the truck and loaded it himself. He left all the furniture, little of it with any regret, and took only his clothes, a few boxes of books and music, and the contents of his studio, with the crated finished paintings going in last. He had emptied his savings and left instructions with the galleries to do direct deposit of any money coming to him. If he was careful, it would last him a good while.
Ida had been sorry to see him go. “I’ll miss you, Jake,” she said that evening. “You’ve been a good neighbor to me. Now who am I going to bake for?” She’d brought him sandwiches for the road.
“Oh, there’ll be new people in the house before you know it, Ida. You’ll train them into good neighbors just the way you did me.”
“Maybe,” she said with a touch of skepticism. “But some of these young folk don’t know about being neighborly. You were polite right from the start.”
She hung around a while but Jake wished she’d go. He was anxious to leave, anxious to get away from all the reminders. Finally he offered to walk her home and gave her a big hug on her porch. He promised to write; she promised to get his pickup sold and send him the money when he let her know where he was.
For a while he listened to the radio as he drove. And for a while the she-done-me-wrong songs on the country stations gave him some satisfaction. But then his heart began to ache for real, all the feelings that he had skirted all day came rushing in a flood. They welled up in him so strongly that he felt he would burst, so he pulled off the road and threw rocks in the dark at a big oak tree until he was exhausted.
He didn’t blame Marnie. Some part of him admired her resolve to stick by Paul, to take care of him in the coming crisis. He would have wanted her to do that for him. And if he told himself the truth, some part of him had known she would never be his. But the possibility had been so sweet for that brief time, so real that he had let himself relax into believing that she loved him too and that there was a future for them. The ache in his heart grew more intense and the tears welled up in his eyes—that made him even madder. Finally he grew tired of the self-pity and he got back on the road and found an all-night talk station so he could listen to redneck opinions and feel angry about something else.
The second night he stopped just inside Texas. He got a room and a shower, and gave Sadie a chance to roam in that bigger space. He put on his running shoes and ran for an hour through an adjacent neighborhood, although he was badly out of shape. He needed to work off the adrenaline that had been pushing him for the first 24 hours so he could sleep. And sleep he did, the deep, numbing sleep of the exhausted, the sleep of the broken-hearted.
Late the third day, he arrived in Santa Fe and drove to the gallery.
“Jake, I’m surprised to see you again so soon.” Susan Demarest flashed him the smile of the born saleswoman.
“I know,” said Jake. “I had a change in plans.” He paused, running his hand through his hair. “Look, I have all my paintings with me. I’m hoping you will want to take some—maybe all of them. And I need to turn in the rental truck and sort things out…Santa Fe seemed as good a destination as any. Although I realize you don’t really know me and you haven’t even agreed to carry my work in the gallery and I…,” he stopped and looked at her.
Susan leaned against the work counter and said nothing for a moment. “Well, I’ll need to think about this and talk it over with Larry. Why don’t you go get some lunch or breakfast or whatever you need and come back in a couple of hours? I’ll take a closer look at your work and see what I might be able to do.”
“That would be great,” Jake said. “Is there someplace close where I can get food to go and then a park to eat it in? I’ve got my cat with me and I don’t want to leave her in the truck.”
Susan laughed. “Your cat and all your paintings in a rental truck. Did you skip town in a hurry?”
“Sort of.”
She smiled at him. “Bring the cat in. It can stay with me while you go eat.”
When he got back to the shop, Sadie was asleep on the work counter and Susan was ringing up a sale. She waited until the stout couple with Midwestern accents left before speaking to him. “Come on back to the office,” she said. On her computer were the images of his work from the CD he had sent her.
“We particularly like this series,” she said, pointing to a group of five deeply colored abstracts that he had done of the Virginia countryside. The greens of the humid landscape were a shocking contrast to the browns and golds of New Mexico that adorned the walls of the gallery. “They aren’t Santa Fe, but you can see I like to carry some things that are different. I could take these from you on consignment. Do you have them with you?”
Jake nodded.
“What else do you have?”
“I’ve a couple dozen works with me. Some are a lot smaller and some are portraits but all are abstracts.”
Susan nodded and thought a moment. “How easy are they to get to?”
Jake spent the next couple of hours bringing in work from the truck and showing it to Susan. Larry drifted in and out of the shop, commenting from time to time, but he seemed to leave the decisions up to his wife. The customers who came in looked at the paintings too, though no one bought anything. Susan finally chose a full dozen, the five big pieces that had intrigued her and seven of the smaller pieces that she felt would sell quickly, including a couple of portraits, one of Paul and one of Ida. Through it all, Sadie slept in a window.
As they were winding up their business, Jake asked Susan about storage. “I need to move the rest of the things out of the truck, the paintings and some boxes. Do you have any ideas?” He hoped she might have a basement or storage he could use.
“There is one of those rent-a-space storage places north of town. I understand it’s pretty cheap by the month.”
“That would work. Thanks, I’ll check it out.” He turned to leave.
“Jake,” she called after him. “Larry and I are having some friends over for drinks and dinner tonight. I assume you don’t have plans?” She smiled, a hint of something else in her eyes.
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, if you’d like to come, come about 7. Here’s the address.” And she handed him a gallery show card with her address on the back.
It took the rest of the afternoon to find the storage space and make arrangements, find the truck rental drop-off and make arrangements there, and find a motel near the rental place. He had just time to shower before dinner. He wasn’t sure he wanted an evening with strangers. Somehow it was easier just to be with Sadie and his grief. But he also knew that to start over, he would need the money Susan Demarest could make on his work to start over, and that being friendly to gallery owners was part of the deal. So he went to the front desk, asked for directions, and drove the rental truck over to the address she had given him.
It was an old neighborhood, the adobe houses not huge or fancy, but well-kept. There was clearly money here, comfortable money. He drove by the address and parked down a side street, a bit embarrassed by the truck. A handsome Hispanic woman opened the door and ushered him into a large living room. There were plants everywhere, cacti, flowering bushes, small potted palms. Canaries and finches trilled from caged niches in the thick walls. Navajo rugs colored the stone floors. Navajo-patterned cushions dotted the leather furniture. Other than the textiles, there was no art, and Jake was surprised.
Larry sat reading an art catalog in a leather recliner in one corner. He looked up at Jake and put the magazine down. “Hello again,” he said, but his tone was cool, almost irritated. “Susan said you might come by.”
“Yes, she was kind enough to invite me for dinner.”
“She does that, my Susan. Well, you’re the first to arrive. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?” He pulled himself up out of the recliner and disappeared.
Jake’s discomfort grew as the minutes ticked away. He examined all the plants, all the birds, all the Navajo patterns. Still Susan didn’t come and Larry didn’t come back. There was nothing to read in the room, no books, no magazines. Even the art catalog had disappeared with his reluctant host. Jake could hear faint music in another part of the house, the kitchen perhaps, but no one else came in. His watch said 7:45 and she had invited him for 7. It all felt wrong. He waited another 10 minutes, then made for the front door. Just as he reached for the doorknob, the door opened and Susan stood there, speaking over her shoulder to two women.
“Jake, my goodness, you gave me a start.” She went on into the living room, the women trailing behind her. “Jake, are you here by yourself? Where’s Larry, damn him? And where are the Carters and George Herndon? Have you been sitting here all alone? I’m so sorry.” She turned to the two women and made rapid introductions. Jake registered only their first names, Molly and Julia, although he wasn’t quite sure who was who. Both women were middle-aged, with cropped blond hair, flowing silk clothing in muted metallic colors, heavy art jewelry, one in copper, one in silver and turquoise. Patrons.
Susan bustled about, disappearing in the direction of the music. The Hispanic woman appeared almost immediately with a tray of drinks and snacks. And as if on cue, the doorbell rang and three more people arrived. Larry came in too, and Jake watched him transform into a congenial salesman, offering drinks and introductions.
Some of the party drifted outside to the patio, but Molly and Julia cornered Jake near the fireplace. Susan had clearly explained who he was.
“Jake Logan, right? I haven’t heard of you before. Where do you show?” said the woman with copper bangles.
“In Oakland, California, and in Chicago. And now here, thanks to Susan and—and Larry. And I have a website.” Jake had forgotten how much he hated this kind of small talk.
“Oh, we wouldn’t buy off a website, would we, Molly?”
Molly shook her head. “Oh no, way too risky. You never know if it’s the real thing or done by some assistant.”
Jake wanted to ask how buying in a gallery would prevent such a substitution but he didn’t.
“Are you self-taught, Jake?” Julia said. “We love the work of self-taught artists, don’t we, Molly?”
Jake painted on a pleasant smile. “I went to art school, if that’s what you mean. But I have taught myself a lot.”
“Well, that counts, I guess,” said Molly. She paused. “Is your work abstract or representational?”
“A bit of both. I use real subjects and abstract some of the qualities.”
Julia frowned. “I’m not sure what that means.”
“Would you like to see a piece of Jake’s work?” Susan stood across the coffee table from them.
Jake looked over at her with relief but he didn’t relish the hassle of unwrapping something from the back of the truck. He got up to go out, and she motioned him to sit. “I’ve brought a piece home from the gallery,” she said and went to get it.
She brought out The Cabin, a study in blues and greens that Jake had done for a doctor in St. Louis, who’d ultimately chosen a different work for his office. She propped it up on the mantel and left the room. Jake saw that the empty space above the fireplace was for just that purpose. Now he understood why there was no art in the room, for his piece was now center stage.
The painting was small, 2x3, with an alternation of broad and fine-scale brush work that was one of the hallmarks of Jake’s style. The size of the painting contrasted with its depth of field: a tiny blue cabin fronted by a wide green lake and boat dock with the Midwest sky behind, which gave it a sense of immense space. There was nothing photographic or even strongly realistic about the piece, although the cabin and lake were clearly recognizable.
“Jake,” said Molly, “I see what you mean. Real subjects in an abstract painting.” She sounded as pleased as if she had solved the riddle of the universe. She took a long sip of her wine.
Julia pouted in a pretty, practiced way. “Well, I don’t know. I’m not sure I like it.”
Molly ignored her. “I think it’s lovely. It’s an expression of calm, the lake is the heart of the universe, the sky the true depth of feeling in each one of us that the soul can portray.”
“Is it, Jake?” said Julia. “I’m not sure I see that in it. Was that your intention?”
No, he thought. The man sent me a picture of a cabin he went to as a child and wanted me to paint it in blues. Paul, he knew, would have flattered the women, woven a story of the reality and the interpretation into something so satisfying the women would have fought each other to buy it. Aloud he said, “I was most interested in the play between the two colors and the deep sense of space.”
“Well. I still think it’s lovely,” said Molly, although she did not look happy with his answer.
Julia looked around. “Where are the others? Do you think we will ever eat?” and she stood up and moved away. Somewhat reluctantly, Molly followed her.
Jake felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see George Herndon standing behind him, an amused smile on his lips. “They’re quite the pair, aren’t they?” he said in a low voice.
Jake knew enough not to say anything. Herndon moved around to an armchair across from him and they both sat down. He was a trim, neat man in a suit that even Jake recognized as expensive. His hair and pencil-thin mustache were still dark but his face was deeply lined, the flesh loose around the throat. Jake guessed he was nearing 70. He looked up at Jake’s painting. “It’s actually lovely,” he said, “and well done. But you know that already.”
Jake nodded and smiled.
“How long have you been working in this style?”’
“Nine, no, ten years.”
“Still satisfying?”
Jake paused, then shook his head.
“Don’t tell Susan,” Herndon said. “If there’s one thing gallery owners hate, it’s having their artists change style, change subject, change anything for that matter.” He pulled a cigarette case out of his breast pocket, opened it, inhaled deeply, and then put it in his pocket. His next smile was slightly bitter. “You Americans and your no-smoking rules.” After a moment, he spoke again. “What’s next for you, Jake?”
There was a sudden kindness in his voice and Jake relaxed for the first time that evening.
“I don’t know. I’m between things at the moment. Moving west. I need a fresh start.”
“Just in your painting?”
“No, in everything, I guess.”
“Fresh can be good,” Herndon said and he reached over and put his hand on Jake’s arm. “I’m heading to Los Angeles in a couple of days. There’s room in my car if you need a ride. And my hotel suite has an extra bed.” His hand, still on Jake’s arm, gave a little squeeze. “I could introduce you to some L.A. collectors. Maybe inspire you to some new work.”
A man who hadn’t lived in San Francisco for 10 years might have been offended, but Jake knew his way around situations like this. “Thank you for the offer. It’s very nice of you. But I’m on my way to Joshua Tree to look up a woman I met there a couple of weeks ago.”
Herndon pursed his lips in a moue of disappointment and then withdrew his hand. “I hope she’s someone special.”
“I don’t know yet,” said Jake. “But I like her.”
Fortunately, Susan rescued him then, drew them all into dinner. There was good food and lots of wine and talk about the Santa Fe cultural scene. Jake knew none of the references. It had been years since he had been to a dinner with gallery owners and buyers, years since he’d had much interest in the work of other artists or the trends in sales. Even when the conversation turned to painting, Jeff Carter, one of the other guests, took center stage. He was an amateur painter and he and his wife ran a retreat villa in the mountains nearby where artists and writers offered workshops to rich women who had turned creative in midlife. He went on and on about the well-meaning stupidity of their clients until finally his wife, a quiet woman with a sad face, asked him to stop. Jake had grown increasingly restless and he saw the chance then to take his leave, to excuse himself with the weariness of travel. Only Susan saw him to the door and he felt a huge relief as he walked out into the starlit night.
The next morning, he unloaded everything into the storage unit and made an inventory of the paintings. Then he drove back to the gallery. Susan was there, making coffee and chatting with George Herndon. They both smiled warmly at him.
Herndon spoke first. “Jake, Susan tells me you are leaving your rental truck here. I insist that you let me drive you to California. I’ve a very comfortable car and an excellent driver. We’re driving straight through and we can drop you wherever you want. You and I can talk art all the way.”
“George, I’m traveling with a cat. I can’t imagine you want her along.”
“I love cats. Is she friendly? Will she sit in my lap?”
Jake looked at him, then at Susan, who said, “George does like to get his way, Jake. And he’s just given me a large check for two of your pieces.” The blackmail was clear in her eyes.
“Okay, I’m convinced,” said Jake. “If Sadie isn’t a problem, we’ll ride with you, at least part of the way.”
“Excellent, my dear boy, excellent!” Herndon beamed at them both.
Jake finished his business with Susan, taking cash for his first sale. He asked her to hold onto one of the keys to the storage unit in hopes she could sell more of the paintings.
Herndon and his driver, a bald man with a weight-lifter’s build named Ollie, followed Jake to the rental truck drop-off. Jake had planned to hitchhike so he was traveling light: a duffel bag with clothes and cat food, a small backpack with sketching materials, and Sadie in her carrier, and things were quickly stowed away in Herndon’s Town Car. It was early afternoon when they got onto the freeway.