When Jake got off the plane in Portland, he was sorry for a moment that he hadn’t let Marnie know he was coming back. Maybe she’d have come to meet him. But then he thought no, that wouldn’t have helped. So he made his way alone past the loving couples and families eager to see each other and that made him sad. He was tired of making his way alone, of having no one happy to see him.
He took the shuttle out to long-term parking and then skirted the city and went down I-5. It was only 2 in the afternoon. If Marnie had been home, he might have stopped, but he didn’t know what he would say. He didn’t want to be a courier of love messages for her and Paul. That was just more sidekick stuff.
He did think she and Paul might have a chance. Lillian had been cautiously optimistic that Paul might stay sober. “He’s not so angry, so much in denial,” she had told Jake the night before as they sat over dessert. “At first he just glared during the meetings, but now he’s starting to participate. He’s found himself a sponsor and that’s a good sign. I know he’s doing some of it for the courts, but maybe some of it now will be to get Marnie back. That won’t be enough but sometimes it’s enough at the start.”
She had relayed her conversation with Marnie, how she had discouraged Marnie from coming out to see Paul. “I hope Marnie can see that Paul needs to earn her trust again,” she said, “that he needs to change a lot of things before he’ll be a good husband. I don’t know if she can wait for that to happen.”
Jake had said nothing. Lillian didn’t know about his feelings for Marnie, and he wasn’t going to tell her. But he and Lillian had little else in common, little else to talk about. He couldn’t very well say to her that he really needed to let Paul and Marnie go completely now and move on in his own life. So he listened politely, and as quickly as he could, he began to tell her about his move to Ashland and some of what he hoped to find there. When that dwindled, he excused himself and went up to bed, and in the morning they had talked of the weather and his flight and other nothings on the way to the airport.
He made it to Eugene just before dark and found a motel near the university. There were lots of cafés and he found a comfortable one and ate an early supper and read the local paper. By 7, he needed to move and he walked a while in the cold and damp. It wasn’t raining but there was a fog that chilled him and so he went back to the motel and watched TV for a while until he fell asleep.
He dreamed and dreamed. He was in the meadow of the weaving, at a medieval fair. Paul and Marnie were dancing around a Maypole and entwining the colored silk strips onto it. They were laughing and happy. He watched them a while and then the scene shifted and he was walking down a path soft with fir needles. In the dream, he could smell the crushed scent and feel the chilled air on his face. Ahead of him a hundred yards or so was a woman in a yellow dress and red boots and a little boy in leggings and a tunic. The woman turned and beckoned to him. She was too far away for him to see her face clearly but he was glad and hurried after her. But at the fork in the path, he didn’t know which way she had gone and his heart sank.
The fog was still there the next morning when he woke up, and the driving was slow and tedious until he got out of the Willamette Valley. At Roseburg, the sun was shining and his spirits, which had been low and gloomy and full of disappointment, finally lifted. He pushed away thoughts of Marnie and Paul and began to think about his work. He hadn’t forgotten the promised paintings for Santa Fe and Chicago and he began to plan some pieces that might be a hybrid of his old style and what intrigued him now. He thought about how he could change his palette, moving to warmer greens and yellows. He thought about the sun and the stars and how he could perhaps channel that light in some way that brought him peace, like the peace he had known in the Santa Lucia Mountains.
He got to Ashland about 2:30. He went to his apartment where Sadie was at first scolding and then incessant in her desire to be picked up and petted. He spent a full half hour with her on his lap. Then he went out to find a grocery store and set in supplies. He was eager to get settled, to get working, to get living and not traveling.
On the way back from the store, he went out of his way and drove by the studio. He wanted to see again where his life was going to take place. Maybe good things would happen for him there.
The lights were on in the gallery and he could see Carlie at the tall stand of painted scarves. Two women stood talking with her. He sat in the truck while they made their purchases and came out and got in their car. He knew he should go home, that he shouldn’t spy on her like this. It was pointless. Then he got out and went in.
Her smile when she saw him was genuine and welcoming. “It’s the traveler,” she said. “Aren’t you about ready to settle down?” There was a surprising hint of flirtation in her eyes.
“I am,” he said. “You must be reading my mind.”
“One of my many powers,” she laughed. “Hey, did my brother help you sort out all the details of renting the studio the other day?”
“Your brother?” he asked.
“Jason,” she said. “You know, my brother, Jason.”
“Jason is your brother,” Jake said slowly. “I thought he was your husband.”
“No,” Carlie laughed. “No husband.” She smiled at him warmly again. “What about you? Is there a wife?”
“No, no wife,” said Jake, shaking his head.
“We start out even then,” she said and they looked at each other in a new way until shyness came over them.
The doorbell rang and Carlie went to greet the customer and Jake waved to her and went out to the truck. He sat there a moment and said a small prayer of thanks to whoever had sent Eleni into his life. Then he smiled all the way home.
While it hasn’t taken a village to write this novel, it wouldn’t have happened without my community of writers and artists. A big thank you to all the women of Writing Fridays and the monthly groups and to all those who’ve joined me on writing retreats at Netarts and Aldermarsh over this last decade, as I began to take myself seriously as a writer.
Special thanks to my teachers Christina Baldwin and Eric Maisel, for all their creative wisdom; to writing sisters Margaret Marcuson, Janet Freeman, and Jan Underwood, who were early readers and whose comments along the path were invaluable; and to my family sisters Kerry Cobb and Melanie St John, who have championed my work all along.
Jill Kelly, PhD, is a writer, painter, and freelance editor. Her memoir, Sober Truths: The Making of an Honest Woman, was a finalist for the prestigious Oregon Book Award. She has written three novels and a how-to book, Sober Play: Using Creativity for a More Joyful Recovery. She offers writing and creativity coaching, workshops, and retreats around the country. Jill lives in Portland, Oregon, with three cats who keep her company as she writes.
Website: www.jillkellyauthor.com
Blogs: www.sobertruths.blogspot.com
www.thewritingwheel.blogspot.com
Email: jill@jillkellyauthor.com
