A Drunkard's Path (8 page)

“I believe you, if that counts for anything,” I offered. “And your aunt believes you.”

“So why doesn’t Dewalt?” asked Blimper.

“The guy’s got a stick up his ass,” Artie laughed.

“He’s a really good police chief,” I jumped in, a little too defensively. “He just has his hands full right now.”

“Or he doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Artie said. “How else do you explain ignoring a perfectly good witness?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But he must have a reason.”

I just couldn’t figure out what it was. And I knew there was no way Jesse would tell me.

 

 

 

 

F
or three days I debated what to do with Rich’s information. I took a walk by the crime scene and, as I expected, found absolutely nothing. The place had been picked clean by the police. I doubt there was a stray leaf that hadn’t been bagged as evidence.

It didn’t make any sense. Why would Rich make up a story about a photo? And even if he had, why would Jesse be so dismissive? I knew I would have to confront Jesse about it. It was just a matter of figuring out how.

He had been almost impossible to reach for days. Every time I called he said he was just on his way out. He’d promise to call back later, and he would, but it was always late. After work, after he’d put Allie to bed. I could hear the exhaustion in his voice and I felt like I was just another item on his “to do” list.

“I want a second date,” he said on Wednesday night just as we were about to hang up. “Anytime you’re ready.”

“I’m ready anytime,” I answered.

“We’ll have to figure something out.”

With that, he said good night and hung up. It was perplexing. He was nice, he was interested, but he was also distant and unable to commit to even a second date. It was the sort of male behavior I used to spend hours discussing with my girlfriends when I lived in New York City. I didn’t know if I actually had girlfriends in Archers Rest, though I was pretty sure Bernie, Maggie, and the rest would happily have debated the issue with me if I wanted.

Not that I had much time for it. I was at the shop about thirty hours a week and feeling overwhelmed and excited by my art classes. On Mondays I took ceramics. On Tuesdays I studied color theory, and on Thursdays I had class with Oliver.

“We’re going to reverse draw,” he announced at the start of class. “Everyone take some vine charcoal and cover your entire page.”

As she had done in the previous class, Kennette leaned over to borrow paper. This time I gave her several sheets, though I was a bit annoyed.

She must have sensed it, because she smiled. “When I get my first paycheck I’ll be able to afford my own pad,” she said.

Her good nature made me feel ashamed. “It’s okay,” I said.

Here I was living for free in my grandmother’s house, and I begrudged poor Kennette a few pieces of paper—Kennette, who was wearing the same outfit for the third time, making her either highly eccentric or very broke.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

She smiled. “Yeah. Great. How are things with you?”

“I don’t know. Okay, I guess.”

“Do you ladies have some questions?” A booming English voice rang out from the front of class.

“No, Oliver. Sorry.” I shrank next to my easel and started covering my paper with charcoal. As I did, I saw out of the corner of my eye that Sandra was moving slowly away from her easel. I watched as she picked up several pieces of vine charcoal from one of the other students and put them in her pocket. It was odd since she already had several pieces of her own, but Sandra was odd, and I added it to the list of things I needed to look into.

We were supposed to draw the fruit that was arranged on a small table in the center of the easels, but I just couldn’t make it work.

As if he knew what I was feeling, from across the room Oliver said, “Stop trying to draw the fruit. Draw the form as values. Lights and darks. See that and not the color.”

I had to laugh. It was something I heard over and over from the quilt club. To them fabric was a palette. A sometimes distracting palette. They held the fabrics at a distance and squinted, separating them into lights, mediums, and darks.

“Colors don’t matter as much as contrast,” Maggie once instructed me. “Light and shadow: that’s what’s important in an interesting quilt.”

And so it was, apparently, with fruit. As soon as I applied this quilting logic to drawing, the process became less intimidating.

“Don’t see the color,” I told myself. “See the value. The banana is light. The green apples are medium. The deep red strawberries sitting in the shadow of the bowl are dark. Simple.”

“See the sensuality in all the objects you draw. The life,” Oliver instructed as the class drew. “They are not lines; they take up space.”

I could see him walking behind each easel, nodding approval or making a suggestion. It was so important to each student that Oliver like what he or she did, and I could see the disappointment in those who didn’t hear “lovely,” his official endorsement.

When he stopped next to me, at Sandra’s easel, I couldn’t help but watch. I was hoping, stupidly, that he would hate what she had done, if only to prove that buddying up to the professor didn’t get you a free pass.

“It’s charming,” he said. “Quite a lovely interpretation. One of the best in the class.” He smiled at her and lingered near her easel. Though Sandra said nothing, she touched his arm in a way that seemed more intimate than a student and teacher should get.

I took the chance to step back from my work and glance over at Sandra’s. I’m not an art critic, but it was hardly charming—certainly not one of the best in the class. Neither was mine, to be honest, but Sandra’s drawing was almost unrecognizable as fruit.

Oliver came to me next. “Lovely. You have mastered value,” he offered. I wanted to be thrilled, but after Sandra’s evaluation, his praise felt flat.

He stopped next at Kennette’s easel. He studied it much longer than the other students, standing back, then moving in close and standing back again.

“I’m not finished,” a nervous Kennette explained.

Oliver shook his head. “You have talent, Kennette,” he said with a quiet certainty but also a hint of surprise. Then he walked to the front of the class.

“He knew my name!” Kennette nearly jumped when class ended and we packed up our supplies.

“He said you have talent, which is a much bigger deal.”

“Everyone in class has talent. Your drawing is way better than mine.”

I looked at my sketch pad, then hers. I was getting better, I thought, but I was still controlled, even timid. Kennette’s work had a confidence about it.

“He’s right,” I admitted. “You’re really good.”

She shrugged. “I’m supposed to open up with your grandmother tomorrow, so I figured I’d head to the shop tonight, if that’s okay.”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” I said. I was trying to figure out if it was rude to ask any of the obvious questions, but I couldn’t help myself. “Where do you live?” I finally asked.

Kennette blushed. “I don’t have the most ideal living situation,” she said. “And I’m kind of broke, so I don’t have a lot of options.”

“I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem to stay at my grandmother’s tonight.”

She lit up. “That would be great.”

“Where were you planning to sleep anyway? I mean, if you came to Archers Rest tonight.”

“I don’t know. I would have figured out something.”

I stood back in awe. Awe and fear. With a little bit of envy thrown in. Could I be so free-spirited? And if I was, would I be as good an artist?

As we left the classroom, I quickly dialed the shop but got no answer. I knew it wouldn’t be a problem with Eleanor to bring home a guest, but I was starting to wonder if Kennette had the common sense to work in a quilt shop. Not that I could stop her at this point. She was a stray cat, and having fed her she was going to come back, day after day, looking for more. And just like a stray cat, there was something endearing in that.

We were heading toward the car when we both suddenly stopped. At the far end of the parking lot Sandra was in tears while Oliver tried, apparently in vain, to comfort her.

“What do we do?” Kennette whispered to me.

“Leave, I guess. I doubt they’ve even noticed we’re here.”

“Why is she crying?”

“Maybe because your ‘talent’ trumped her ‘best in class,’” I suggested.

Kennette looked surprised. “Oh, I hope not. I wouldn’t want something I’ve done to have hurt anyone.”

I laughed—probably not the right thing to do because it confused Kennette and caused Oliver and Sandra to look our way. It was just that Kennette’s words were so sincere, and so kind, and so unlike anything I would have said.

As soon as Sandra spotted us, she jumped into a car and sped away. Oliver seemed embarrassed, but in seconds his mood had changed.

“Ladies, how did you enjoy class?” he called out cheerily as he approached.

At this Kennette immediately swooned. “It was great. I learned a lot. I couldn’t believe how much I learned.”

I was mortified. “I wasn’t laughing at Sandra,” I tried to explain. “I was laughing at something Kennette said.”

Oliver waved it off. “We artists are excitable creatures. It’s what makes us interesting lovers and terrible spouses. Where are you off to, then?”

“Work,” I replied.

“At your grandmother’s shop,” he said. “Isn’t that where you work?”

“Where we both work,” Kennette jumped in.

He looked over at her. “How lovely. And you’re both going there now?”

“Yes,” I said, amazed that he would take the time to chat.

“I’m absolutely fascinated by quilting. A wonderful and underappreciated art form. I’ve always wanted to study a quilt up close and really see the workmanship of a master.”

Really? I thought. Because if that were true, there were quilt shows.

But what I said was, “It’s really endless, what you can do with fabric.”

“You should see Nell’s grandmother’s quilts,” Kennette said. “She’s really wonderful. She has them all over her shop.”

I was about to point out that Oliver was too busy to bother with my grandmother’s quilts when he turned to me.

“Mind if I follow you there?” he asked.

“To the shop?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “It’s in Archers Rest. That’s about a half hour from here.”

“Lovely day for a drive.” He smiled.

“That’s our car,” Kennette offered, pointing to my mine, just a few feet away.

“Fantastic. I’ll be right behind you.” Oliver practically ran off to his car.

 

 

 

 

A
half hour later we were parking in front of Someday Quilts. In my rearview mirror I saw Oliver patting his hair.

“What is he up to?” I asked.

“He’s just interested in quilting.” Kennette jumped out of the car, all enthusiasm and excitement.

I could see Oliver get out of his car, straighten his jacket, and move toward the shop. Kennette stopped him, and he smiled and seemed to be listening, but I could see him glancing toward the shop door.

What is he up to? I asked again.

Oliver and Kennette walked into the shop before I even got out of the car. A part of me wanted to avoid the train wreck that was almost certainly about to happen, but then—as is the case with actual train wrecks—curiosity got the better of me. I knew I had to see this through, so I went inside.

“These really are magnificent,” I heard Oliver say from the back room.

I walked to where I could see Oliver, Kennette, and my grandmother looking at the quilts that hung on the back wall.

“Oliver is a big fan of quilting,” I said, a bit too sarcastically for Eleanor’s taste. I could feel the disapproval boring into me.