Stony River (52 page)

“I was at church.”

“Church!” he echoed, slightly amazed. “That’s one place I didn’t think of looking. What about yesterday?”

“I went on a walk. I didn’t plan to go far, but I ended up crossing the whole town and didn’t get back until dinnertime.”

“My gosh.” Willy couldn’t understand why she had undertaken so much. “That’s what the city bus is for.” He went out to his car and brought in the half-finished oil of the Oldman to show her. It was going to be beautiful.

Len was in before lunch, and from the remarks he made, Sevana gathered it had been another lively time out at the Roadhouse last night. Willy tried to get Len off the subject, but Len
would
talk—with Willy casting anxious glances Sevana’s way to see if she was paying attention. She kept her head bent over the bins of paint she was restocking, but in reality she was taking everything in. It was when Len uttered an oriental girl’s name that Willy finally took action. “C’mon,” he said loudly, “take a look at the picture I’ve got in the back room—” and walked out on his friend, leaving him to trail behind.

Sevana choked back a laugh. She found it amusing that Willy would try to silverplate his image in front of her, when it was already no secret how many hours he spent out at the Roadhouse and how he loved to have a good time. In the back room she could hear him talking earnestly to Len in lowered tones, and she was sure he was being set in line. When Len came out, he gave her an exaggerated wink on his way to the door, and she had to stifle another laugh.

Later, Sevana took a call for Willy while he was at lunch. When she gave him the message that Alexa wanted him to call, he appeared agitated. He dropped the new key on the counter for her and made the call in the back room with the door closed, then left the shop saying he’d be back in a while. He didn’t return the rest of the afternoon.

The following morning Sevana was still rattling the key in the lock when Willy came a few minutes later—well-groomed and correct in every detail, but a little bleary-eyed. He showed her how to apply pressure to the door to engage the locking mechanism. Once inside, he set to hanging a batch of new pictures, and said very little until midmorning when he truly seemed to wake up.

After lunch he received another call from Alexa. Since he answered it in the main shop, he was forced to talk in front of Sevana. He said as little as possible, but Sevana heard curious fragments of “at the bank,” “cold day in hell,” and “in your dreams.” He paced back and forth after he hung up, then said he was going over to Len’s.

When he came back near closing time, there was liquor on his breath and he seemed more relaxed. He sat on a stool and told Sevana that Alexa had been his girlfriend for a while last winter. They had shared a bank account, and now there was a bit of a problem getting their finances untangled. Namely, she was claiming more than what was her own.

Sevana was surprised at the news, mentioned so casually when it was almost as if he’d been married, but she tried to act sympathetic to his plight. Privately, she wondered how many other girlfriends he’d had.

But for all Willy’s personal distractions, he assumed a fit of single-minded concentration with the approach of painting school. The picture of the Oldman stood unfinished on the easel while he spent all his time preparing lessons. Even on Saturday, Ralf and Len couldn’t persuade him for a night out. He said he would devote this one weekend to getting ready for class. At closing time he saw Sevana out, but then locked the door and returned to his desk. His car stayed at the curb long after dark. Impressed by his dedication, Sevana found herself looking forward all the more eagerly to the first class.

With her picture of Snowshoe Meadow to work on, another long letter to Joel, and church to attend, the weekend passed without too many long spaces in it. At church she met Krysta Lindford for the first time, an outgoing girl with chestnut hair down to her shoulders, smiling hazel eyes, a ready laugh, and an interest in seemingly everything. From the start she went out of her way to make Sevana feel included, and asked her to sit up front with her. She explained that she would be working in the Sunday School downstairs, but had given it up this year while she was teaching. Just three weeks ago she had gotten the call—one of the mission teachers had left right after the school year began; and since she had taught there before she was married, it was easier for her to slip back into that role than anyone else. David had agreed, saying he could manage without her for one school year. So it was just a topsy-turvy winter for them, with her home only every other weekend or so. But she would be back in Lethbridge fulltime again starting in June.

Sevana found her a happy choice for a preacher’s wife—so natural and unconceited, despite her obvious attributes of beauty, intelligence, and social grace. She introduced Sevana to several people she hadn’t met yet, and Sevana saw how effortlessly she kept the conversation going even between people who knew nothing about each other. But as much as Sevana liked Krysta, it was David she was looking forward to hearing. He was so entirely in his element before the congregation—so eloquent and yet so personable, employing his keen sense of humor without putting on any kind of show—that even if she didn’t always comprehend his deeper insights, it was a pleasure to listen to him.

At the end of the service Krysta asked if she could come to dinner at their house Sunday after next, which was a three-day weekend for her school. Sevana didn’t see how Krysta could possibly entertain anyone on her schedule—let alone someone she barely knew—but she couldn’t refuse the kind invitation to their home.

She walked back for evening service, and stayed for apple cider and the gingerbread men Krysta had somehow found time to bake and decorate before leaving for her post earlier that afternoon. David was engaged in some high-spirited repartee with a few of the other men, setting everyone to laughing. Sevana found herself laughing with them. The warm atmosphere gave her a feeling of acceptance during that odd interim period when she was still too new to feel at home there, and too far away to belong anywhere else.

David detained her as she was about to leave, saying he was meeting some parishioners for after-church coffee and could take her home on the way. Sevana didn’t mind the walk, but waited politely until he had locked up and shown her to his compact car. As he drove the short distance, he divulged that the Johnsons had brought him some dairy products from their farm that night, and wondered if she could use any milk or butter. He would never use it all, because he didn’t cook much when he was by himself.

“Well, maybe a little milk,” said Sevana.

Pulling up to her building, David dug in a big box on the back seat and produced not only a bottle of milk, but also a brick of butter, a carton of eggs, and a bag of orchard fruit—and helped her carry it all upstairs. “This is a nice situation for you,” he said approvingly as he set his armful on the countertop.

“Yes, it is.” She said it in sincere agreement, although there might have been just a shade of longing in her words as she thought of the totally different situation she had come from—so different it couldn’t even be compared.

But David caught even that slight inflection in her voice, or perhaps some hint that flickered across her face, for he said, “I’ve been meaning to ask how you’re making the adjustment to city life, after living on the backside of nowhere all summer.” He grinned candidly as he confessed: “I still remember getting kicked in the windpipes every time I hiked up that mountain to see Joel.”

She smiled openly in return. “It knocked me out, too, until I got used to it.” Then she grew sober. “Now I guess I’m just trying to get used to it being so far away.”

David nodded. He had an intuitive manner that made her feel he could see straight into her soul. “It’s tough to start out in a new place,” he acknowledged. “I’ve moved more than a few times in my own life. It’s only natural to think in terms of what you’re losing. It takes a while to see what you are gaining in the exchange.”

Sevana felt better for his words as she saw him out. And she knew that when painting school started, it would give her even more of a sense of involvement and relatedness there.

At last the long-awaited day arrived. Sevana slipped down just before seven o’clock to join the other students in the rapidly filling room. Willy stood at the lecture podium stacking some papers together by their edges as he talked with an aristocratic young man in a university sweater. He smiled at Sevana when he saw her come in, nodded at the college man as if to excuse himself, and began calling the class to order.

When everyone had found a seat, Willy delivered an overview of what he expected them to gain from the class. This was not the fun-loving Willy Sevana knew. He was serious, businesslike, informed. She was impressed, even a little intimidated, by his professional demeanor.

Willy went straight from the introduction into the first lesson, illustrating points on the large easel. Then he placed two blush roses in crystal vases, one at each end of the long table, and asked the class to paint them using the techniques he had just demonstrated.

As they worked, he came around observing and making suggestions. Sevana found it very unnerving. She was not at all pleased with the facsimile of a rose she created, and was none helped that the university man’s across from her was better. Although Willy tried to encourage her, she only shook her head and wished there was time to do it over.

At the end of class Willy gave his pupils a homework assignment to apply the same principles to an object of their choosing. The aspiring artist opposite Sevana muttered something as he swept up his things and left. Sevana left, too, while Willy was busy helping someone else. Upstairs she made coffee in anticipation of an extended night of artwork. But before long there was a tap on her door. “Fresh flowers for your table—” and Willy proffered the two cream-colored roses as he stepped in.

“Oh, thank you, Willy,” she said, and buried her nose appreciatively in their sugary petals. The night seemed a little brighter.

Willy loosened his tie and leaned against the couch. “I see you’ve been—ah—decorating,” he said, running his hand over the striped wool blanket. “Is that the best you could find for a coffee table?” he quizzed her, only half-teasing, as she brought coffee in the heavy brown mugs and set them on the crate.

“It works,” she said contentedly, joining him on the couch. “It was free, and I painted it myself. I think it makes the room look more rustic.”

“Positively bucolic.” He didn’t seem to share her affinity for country décor, but was off on another subject. “So what’d you think of class?” he wanted to know.

“I think you are a very good teacher,” she said warmly. Then she gave a little sigh. “But I don’t think I’m a very good student.”

“Why do you say so?”

She balanced her mug on the flat of her hand. “This is all new to me, and it’s not coming easily.”

“It’s not supposed to come easy. Even someone as talented as you, can’t expect something brand new to come automatically. It’s going to take practice—a lot of hard work, in fact.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am! Practice and more practice. Put yourself through the necessary exercises even if they seem laborious—lacking in free spirit. You may think it dull to paint water in a glass, but it will help you when you go to paint water in a river.”

His words made sense to her. “I’ll try my best, Willy,” she promised.

After he left, she tore up her picture from class and sat down to repaint it. But the rose that took shape under her brush was no better than the first. “Practice and more practice,” she repeated grimly and tore it up, too. Diligently she tried again. She worked until late, but couldn’t get it to look as she wanted.

“Finish your assignment?” Willy asked next morning.

“I didn’t even start. I tried to rework the rose, but it didn’t go well.”

“No? Bring it down after lunch and I’ll help you with it,” he offered.

That afternoon he made good on his word, showing her how to make the flower more realistic.

After work she started her new assignment, using Willy’s idea of water in a jar—but when she ran into trouble on it almost right away, she gave up and walked out to the midweek service at church for a diversion. At the door afterward, David asked her how class was going.

“It’s interesting—” she hesitated. “But it’s harder than I thought.”

“Well, keep trying.” His smile was kind. “It’s bound to be hard at first.”

Keep trying. His words were still with her when she got home. It was funny how such a simple statement could give her new courage. And try she did, until the house was strewn with practice sheets, and she had something she felt was passable—but she could not be proud of it, knowing how long it had taken her to get it.

After next night’s lecture, Willy had the class practice and came round to help. Again the university student, whose name Sevana had learned was Fredric, made an inaudible remark as he set to work. She wondered why he was in the class if he didn’t want to do the assignments. For herself, she had been fascinated with Willy’s demonstration, and practiced with a will.

Willy was with a group of students at end of class, discussing the mechanics of a sunset with an ardor becoming to him, when Sevana slipped upstairs to work on the lesson. A few hours later she put down the brush and rubbed her eyes. What was wrong? She didn’t seem to be able to do even the beginning assignments in his class.