Tales From Sea Glass Inn (25 page)

Heather cried out as her orgasm caught her by
surprise.
Everything
connected with Aspen surprised her. She closed her thighs tightly against
Aspen’s sides and felt her shudder once, twice, and then lie still.

Heather’s hand weakly rubbed Aspen’s back
until Aspen raised herself on one elbow and gave her a slow, deep kiss.

“You startle me,” Heather said. In a world
full of sameness and predictability, this quality of Aspen’s most scared and
exhilarated her.

“You ground me,” Aspen said, resting her
cheek on Heather’s breast.

After a few moments of rest, Aspen rolled to
one side and lay next to Heather. She stroked her with one hand as if trying to
memorize the feel of Heather with her hands.

“Have you always been this tactile?” Heather
asked, playing with Aspen’s hair. “Sculpting and molding things with your hands
seems to be part of who you are.”

“It always has been,” Aspen said. “I was
making sculptures from the time I could grab hold of any material to use. My
food, Play-Doh, or even piles of fabrics and scrap metal. Any old junk, or real
clay, I didn’t care. I never really saw myself as different or unusual because
of it until we made papier-mâché jack-o’-lanterns in school one time. I’d never
worked with the stuff, and I loved feeling how malleable it was. The other kids
made globs of sticky fabric or basic shapes like triangular eyes but mine was a
pumpkin house with windows for facial features. It’s like something clicked and
I was a person who sculpted. I’ve tried about every medium I could find since
then.”

Heather couldn’t stop her sigh but she tried
to keep it from being too dramatic or wistful. “It must feel good to be
special. To have a gift you feel compelled to use.”

Aspen swatted her playfully. “You’re special,
too. You’re talented and successful and obviously very good at what you do.”

“It’s not the same, but thank you. I’m not a
gifted loan officer or someone who is completed by doing this work. I studied
hard and followed carefully chosen examples to get where I am today. Anyone
could follow the same career path if they had the desire and the willingness to
do the work. Not everyone, no matter how hard they try or how much they
practice, can replicate your abilities.”

Aspen put her hand over Heather’s rapidly
beating heart. “Everyone has passions, though. What moves you? Or what moved
you when you were still young enough to be open to the world?” She tapped her
fingers on Heather’s chest. “And I don’t mean skill. I mean, what do you love
even if you’re not good at it?”

Heather had to travel a long way back in her
mind to find unfettered passion. “I remember standing by the ocean for the
first time when I was a child. We were living in Vancouver, Washington, and we
went to Ocean Shores for the weekend. I’d never seen or felt anything like it.
The waves and the spray of sea mist and the sun glinting off the water and
making me see spots. It was one of those moments when you see something so
beautiful you feel a stinging in your eyes, like you’re going to cry just because
you are looking at whatever it is in front of you.” Heather paused, frustrated
because she couldn’t explain herself well and sad because she hadn’t felt that
press of tears in far too long.

“I used to seek that feeling. I’d find it
sometimes but usually when I wasn’t expecting it. I’d hear a piece of music or
see a picture or find some out of the way view in nature, and suddenly I’d be
moved by indefinable emotions. I guess, in a way, beauty was my passion. I
didn’t create it or bring it to life in any way. I just looked and saw it.”

Aspen laid her head on Heather again and held
her close, as if understanding the tears threatening Heather’s vision. This had
nothing to do with beauty and everything to do with sadness. What good did it
do to recognize a passion when it wasn’t anything worthwhile or meaningful? Was
Heather going to quit her job and travel around looking at pretty objects and
scenic overlooks? No way in hell. She was going to go back to doing what she
had made herself good at doing. Maybe she could keep some of these memories
intact and make more of an effort to see beauty on her weekends and—God
forbid—vacations, but she had a feeling it would be easier and less despairing
to keep her blinders on and see only work, her apartment, and her things.

“You create beautiful art, and I love to look
at it,” Heather said. “We approach both art and life in very different ways.”

“I know,” Aspen whispered. “And I’m not
agreeing because I think the skills I have are better than yours. I’m agreeing
because you make me feel shame, for not giving more of myself to my sculpting,
and a desire to be a better artist at the same time. You confuse me.”

“And you make me realize how little I’ve
lived in alignment with my passions, and how little talent I have for following
them. Two people in a relationship should make each other feel good and strong
and uplifted, not even more aware of their own weaknesses.”

Heather pushed herself to a standing position
and held her hand out for Aspen. She pulled her off the bed and into a hug.

“This afternoon was wonderful,” Heather said.
She felt Aspen stiffen in her arms as if she realized she was hearing a
good-bye speech. “Your body, your mind, and your talented hands amaze me. I
love being with you, and having a chance to hold you close was more than I
dreamed of, but I think we both know how this ends. You have to get back to the
studio, and I have a few more items to cross off my list.”

Aspen stepped away from her and cupped
Heather’s cheek in her hand. “You called me a coward earlier and said I was
hiding behind the coffee counter. You were right, but you’re just as afraid to
live all the way, with passion and joy, as I am. You hide behind your lists and
your anger and your self-pity because you don’t have the skill of an artist. And
now you’re disguising your fear as logic and pushing me away.”

Aspen gave her one last kiss and walked out
the door, leaving Heather alone with only the painting of the storm for
company.

*

Aspen put her energy and emotion into her
sculpture. She finished it in a rush of activity after her heartbreaking
afternoon with Heather. She had to take short breaks when she’d remember their
lovemaking and Heather’s final speech—her hands would shake and she’d need to
walk away from the clay figure until she was under control again. But now she
was done with the sculpture. Every last detail had been carved and defined
until she was satisfied with the piece as a whole and slightly awed by the
largest and best work she had ever completed. She couldn’t deny the fact that
she was able to produce something special when she was able to devote herself
to it full-time and not fit in only an hour or two a day on a small project if
she was lucky.

Making the mold for the bronze was her
favorite part of the process, partly because she felt as if she was wrapping a
huge Christmas present that she herself would eventually get to open, and
partly because this step required just the right amount of mental attention. She
had to keep focused on the layers of latex, rubber, and plastic that encased
the clay so they were even and filled every nook and cranny of her sculpture,
but most of her mind was free to wander. She had expected this seminar to be a
fun break from the coffee shop and a chance to fully engage with her work for a
change. The reduced-cost two weeks at a gorgeous B&B on the coast was an
added bonus. Aspen hadn’t expected the seminar to be life-changing.

She washed her hands after the final clamp
was applied. Now what? She and Pam were taking the mold to a foundry in
Portland, but not until tomorrow. She wanted to search for Heather and find
some way to break through to her, but she hadn’t seen her since their afternoon
together.

She knew what she needed to do. After hours
of intense thought during the past few days, she had come to a decision. She
wasn’t going to hide behind the coffee counter anymore. She gave her mold a
final pat and left the studio, getting in her car and driving back to
Tillamook.

She drove past the cheese factory and was
tempted to go in and stand where she and Heather had stood the other day, but
she kept driving to the office supply store. She wasn’t here to relive their
first “date.” She was here because she needed a one-hour photo shop and a
big-box office store. The memories of Heather and their conversations kept her
going, though, even when she was tempted to back out of her new plan before she
got it started.

Aspen was new to the goal-setting business.
Once she had finished school, she had fallen into her job and apartment, taking
the first ones she found. She’d taken the easy way out every step of the way.
She had justified her lack of drive by claiming she was protecting her art, but
she was neglecting it instead. When she had talked to Heather about her
childhood and her discovery of sculpting, she had felt sad about the way she
had let herself create distance between herself and sculpting instead of
creating art. She had always been touching and molding and shaping, from
preschool onward. Did she still create every waking moment? No. Did she miss
the physical connection between her and the objects and materials around her?
Yes. With all her heart.

She drove back to the inn and sat in her car
in the parking area while she hastily shoved photos of her work into plastic
sleeves. She tried a few different combinations and orders of pictures. She was
particularly fond of one of her earlier pieces—one Heather had suggested she
leave out of a portfolio—and she hated to omit it from her collection. She’d
been going through a tough breakup and a stressful time at work when she’d
sculpted it, and she saw it as a personal triumph that she had created
something beautiful and lasting out of her pain. When she looked through the
pages now, with a more critical eye, she saw what Heather had seen. The piece
was sentimental for her, but it didn’t fit with the rest of her work in tone or
subtlety. She put the photo aside, deciding instead to frame it and hang it in
her apartment as a symbol of sculpting’s ability to heal. She put the rest of
the pictures, including a temporary one of her clay figure, in the order
Heather had suggested and got out of the car.

She went through the back gate, hoping to
find Pam in her studio. As she came around the house, she heard Heather and Pam
talking on the patio. She hesitated, still hidden by shrubs and not wanting to
intrude. She could have walked up to them, but she had a feeling Heather didn’t
want to see her anymore now that she was ready to go back home, to her lists
and her promotions.

She shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but she
couldn’t seem to move when she heard Heather’s voice. She was going to miss the
sound of it, and the way Heather gestured when she spoke, moving through space
with a grace and refinement Aspen adored. In her moment of indecision, she
heard the last part of their conversation.

“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” Pam
was saying. “Give it a day or two.”

“Okay, but I don’t want to waste your time. I
can say no right now, or I can wait until tomorrow and say it then.”

“Humor me. Tell me tomorrow.”

Heather’s laugh carried over to Aspen’s
hiding place. She heard humor in it, but something else as well. A tension
Aspen only heard when Heather talked about her career and her life in Portland.

“Fine. I’ll wait. But I don’t have any
training or skill or—”

“Please, Heather. Make your decision based on
what you want, not on what you think you have to offer. I wouldn’t have asked
if I didn’t believe in you.”

Aspen practically felt Heather’s shrug in her
next words.

“All right. I guess we’ll talk again
tomorrow. But it’ll be a short, one-word conversation.”

Pam laughed in response, and Aspen thought
she sensed something confident in it. Pam always seemed sure of herself,
though, a trait Aspen didn’t share. It would be a helpful one if she followed
her heart with her career as a sculptor, but she was going to have to try using
blind hope and nagging doubt instead. Much less helpful traits.

Aspen heard the back door shut and she came
out of the bushes cautiously, in case Pam had been the one to go inside.
Heather must have, instead, because Aspen saw Pam walking along the path toward
the studio. She wanted to follow Heather. Ask how she was, what the offer Pam
had made was, and why Heather seemed so defensively opposed to it. Aspen sighed
and headed after Pam. Heather didn’t want her input or her presence.

Pam was setting out paints and an easel when
Aspen entered the studio. She was humming to herself and had a hint of a smile
on her face. Aspen recognized the signs of an artist about to create, and she
hurried into a conversation, not wanting to disturb Pam more than necessary.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,
about trying to sell some of my sculptures and do this as a career, and I think
I might want to at least give it a try. For a while. Maybe.”

Pam turned toward her with a grin. “There
were a lot of qualifiers in that little speech, but I believe in you. Give this
a shot, and you’ll start to believe in yourself as much as I do.”

Aspen sighed. She wasn’t positive that would
ever happen, but she was dying a slow death without art on the center stage of
her life. She had to make this change. “I didn’t realize until this seminar how
much I need to be sculpting all the time. Being here, without having my energy
sapped by distractions, has been amazing. I’m working better, and I feel more
at peace.”

In her mind, not in her heart. Heather had
broken that into pieces, but Aspen would use her pain and create with it. Even
though the ending of their brief relationship was a sad one, Aspen had to
acknowledge how Heather had changed her life.