Tales From Sea Glass Inn (21 page)

She sat down at a table with a large puzzle
depicting a colorful picture of a seaside amusement park and idly put several
pieces together. Before she knew it, she was searching in earnest through the
jumble of pieces in the box for the remaining edge ones. She hadn’t done a jigsaw
since grade school, and she had forgotten how addictive they were. She could
spend the entire day in this chair, putting together sections of boardwalks and
roller coasters. Instead, she was about to embark on another round of intensive
tourism. She realized her insistence on completing the long list of Cannon
Beach attractions was a passive-aggressive way to send her doctor a message to
butt out, but she couldn’t stop now that she’d started. She didn’t want to be
told what to do, and she didn’t want to have the unseen and scary medical
issues that had prompted his insistence on this holiday. Most of all, she
seemed incapable of standing still long enough to really think about the
underlying causes of those issues. Over the past couple of years, her growing
tension and dissatisfaction had become too uncomfortable—and now threatening—to
fully ignore. She had to push herself even harder than before to keep from
acknowledging them.

Heather completed the upper edge of blue sky
pieces and started to work on the left side. Her doctor should be pleased with
her hour-long bout of yoga yesterday. She’d disliked every minute of it. The
wind had blown grit in her eyes and had flipped the corner of her yoga mat into
her face every time she did the downward dog pose. The shifting sand under her
feet made balancing poses—something she sucked at even in a normal
studio—impossible to perform. Not to mention, it had been fucking freezing out
there. Whose brilliant idea had it been to do yoga on a beach in December?
Every business in town seemed determined to find unique ways to make money.
That was definitely not one of the more successful ventures.

Of course, everyone out there except Heather
had seemed to find a version of nirvana during the class. She had a feeling
they were all as miserable as she’d been. They just hid it better.

“Hi,” Aspen said.

Heather looked up from the puzzle. Aspen
stood in the doorway to the living room wearing a sweatshirt that looked like
it doubled as a painter’s drop cloth and a pair of clay-smeared cargo pants.
She was a mess, but an irresistibly adorable one. She had a glow about her, and
Heather took a guess as to what caused it.

“Did your sculpting go well this morning?”

“It was amazing,” Aspen said. She came over
to the table and picked out a puzzle piece Heather had just spent ten minutes
trying to locate. Aspen snapped it in place while she talked. “I’ve been
struggling with the tree-trunk torso and I couldn’t get it to look like it was
organically part of the figure. Pam and I talked about ways to make it look
less symmetrical, and I ended up extending the bark pattern partway down one of
the thighs. It looks awesome, but I never would have come up with the idea on
my own. I’m lucky to have someone as immensely talented as Pam helping me.”

Heather watched Aspen talk, the puzzle
completely forgotten. Aspen was sparkling with passion, a joy in learning new
aspects of her craft and the thrill of accomplishment. Had Heather ever felt
the same way? She couldn’t remember.

“I’ll clean up and be right back,” Aspen
said. “I’m already a little late and I’m sure you’re ready to get going.”

She left the room before Heather could
answer. If she had been going to Tillamook alone, as she’d planned, she would
have left long before now. She’d been forced to wait for Aspen, but she’d had
more fun sitting there doing the puzzle than she had doing all the other things
on her tourism list. She wasn’t about to admit that to her doctor, though.

By the time Aspen came downstairs again,
Heather was in the foyer with her keys in hand. Once they were in her car and
driving south on Highway 101, Heather reopened their last conversation. The
subject matter—passion for work—wasn’t a comfortable one for her, but she
couldn’t seem to shake her curiosity about what it must feel like to be so in
love with a hobby or career.

“The retreat sounds like it’s been worthwhile
for you, especially with the advice you’re getting from Pam. I thought most
artists had mentors, though. Teachers or agents or whatever.” Heather had
sought mentors from the first moment she had chosen her career in banking.
College profs, industry leaders—she had carefully researched their
accomplishments and had done her best to emulate them. She’d been proud of each
positive step she had taken, but she knew without a doubt she’d never had her
face light up with pure joy in her work like Aspen’s had today. “Who sells your
sculptures?”

Aspen visibly shuddered. “No one. I don’t
sell them. I’ve donated some to parks in Seattle, but usually I give them to
family or friends.”

Heather frowned. “You’re not serious, are
you? You could make a fortune with your work.”

“Ugh. Sculpt for money? I’d end up a sellout,
trading my artistic vision for cash.”

“Or you could create the art you love, and
people who appreciate it would buy it,” Heather said. “I’ve never heard of
someone
not
wanting to make money.”

“I earn enough to support myself,” Aspen
said. “Being rich isn’t everything.”

“No, but it’s a damned good start. What do
you do for a living, anyway?”

“I dream and sculpt and experience the world
for my
living
.
I work in a coffee shop to pay my rent and buy food.”

Heather couldn’t stop herself from rolling
her eyes. Aspen sounded idealistic and naive. “Eventually it’ll need to be the
other way around. You’ll need to make a living from your work and have art and
experiencing the world as your hobbies. You should be saving and investing in
your future, and you’re fortunate to have enough talent to make your passion
pay for that future.”

“You’d want me to sacrifice the integrity of
my art and my soul just to have more money and buy more things?”

“Yeesh, no,” Heather said with distaste, even
though she wondered if she herself had sacrificed something important along the
way. She was envious of Aspen—she had the talent to attain the best of both
worlds. Make a lot of money doing what she obviously loved to do. Working in a
coffee shop probably meant long hours and minimum wage, a little extra if tips
were good that day. “How much time do you have to sculpt, anyway?”

Aspen shrugged and looked out the window.
During the rest of her argument for the nonmaterialistic lifestyle, she had
challenged Heather with a direct glare. Heather realized she’d struck a nerve.

“Art supplies are expensive, especially if
I’m casting in bronze,” Aspen said. “Sculpting makes me feel good and energizes
me, but I don’t like to bring too much negativity with me to the studio. So if
I have a full shift or cranky customers, I don’t always feel up to creating.
But I have the freedom to make those choices.”

“So you have the freedom to sculpt when and
what you want, but not always the money or appropriate energy to do it. Sounds
like you’re a slave to your work just like a lot of other people. Haven’t you
heard of making your avocation your vocation?”

“Are you speaking from experience? What do
you do?”

Heather hesitated. Aspen sure as hell wasn’t
going to be impressed by Heather’s job title. Why did Heather even care what
she thought? Still, she answered the second question and ignored the first as
she pulled off the main road and into the parking lot next to the huge hangar
housing the Air Museum. An avocation? She’d have a hard time even defining one,
let alone giving up her secure lifestyle to pursue it. Maybe she was trying to
protect Aspen from making the same choices she had. Maybe she was angry with
her for having other choices available.

“I’m a senior loan officer in a bank.”

“A very successful one, judging by your car
and your clothes,” Aspen said. “Are you happy there?”

“What does happiness have to do with it?” Heather
asked. “For most people jobs are for making money. Not everyone has the chance
you do.” She got out of the car and slammed the door shut. If she really
believed what she was saying, and what she had told herself throughout her
entire career, then why did she feel so upset?

She and Aspen bought their tickets at the
snack bar counter and went into the museum in silence. Heather looked around at
all the planes on static display and sighed. She was only interested in
aircraft if she was sitting in a first class seat inside one, but she dutifully
walked around and read some placards. She’d started this obstinate quest to
conquer Cannon Beach in all its touristy glory, and she couldn’t seem to stop
herself. She watched Aspen as she followed a parallel path to hers, but one row
over. Aspen seemed to feel an uncontrollable urge to touch everything she saw.
Any part of a plane that was close enough to the velvet ropes for her to reach,
the etched lettering on display signs, and the displays of World War II flight
suits and equipment. Heather was less a tactile person than a verbal one. She
lived inside her head, while Aspen sought to reach out to the world around her.
Heather definitely saw the advantage in Aspen’s way of connecting with the
world. She’d be an amazing lover. Heather stopped walking and pressed her hands
to her cheeks, feeling the thrum of her pulse and the heat of arousal. Perhaps
she should add
Have
torrid affair with an artist
to her vacation to-do list…

A tempting thought, but one Heather would
keep in her imagination. Still, she’d been pushy with Aspen for reasons Aspen
wasn’t aware of and hadn’t intentionally created. Heather didn’t like having
anyone tell her what to do or how to live her life. She’d followed enough of
other people’s rules along the way and had gotten stuck in their visions of her
life, and she was certain Aspen didn’t want to be bossed around, either.

“I liked my job well enough at first,” she
said, catching up to Aspen near an open-cockpit triplane and continuing their
conversation as if it hadn’t been interrupted. “I love learning new things,
just about anything, and I feel a lot of satisfaction when I set and meet
goals. It’s just…”

“It’s just…what?” Aspen put a hand on
Heather’s sleeve, and Heather wasn’t sure whether she was offering sympathy or
just obeying an urge to touch the nubbly texture of Heather’s sweater. Either
way, the simple gesture was uncomfortable because it felt too good. Heather was
on this trek to Tillamook and the other tourist highlights because she needed
to distract herself from thoughts of work and happiness—not because she wanted
to explore them. She couldn’t seem to stop talking once she started, though.

“I met my goals. I chose the bank I wanted to
work for and I moved through the ranks ahead of even my overambitious schedule.
Last year, I got a big promotion, and now I’m where I always wanted to be. My
salary, my home, and my possessions are exactly what I wanted. I guess I’m
feeling adrift because I’ve achieved my dreams and I don’t know where to go
from here. Maybe a different bank, maybe a higher-paying job. I don’t know. I’m
in limbo, and I don’t like it. I’m sorry I took it out on you. Sculpt or don’t
sculpt. Be a professional artist or a weekend hobbyist. It’s your life.”

Aspen opened her mouth as if she was about to
say something, but she closed it again and walked to the next plane. Heather
followed and read the sign, memorizing a few random facts about the Spitfire in
case her doctor asked questions about what she had seen here.

“Did getting everything you wanted feel as
good as you thought it would?” Aspen asked after a few moments without
speaking. Heather wondered if this was what Aspen had been about to ask, or if
she’d been thinking of something else entirely. She wished Aspen had asked
anything but this.

“Of course,” she lied. “I have the security
of investments and a great health care plan. I get a lot of pleasure from my
car and apartment. I’m just the kind of person who needs to have another goal
in sight. I’m in between right now, but I’ll decide where I want to go next and
get myself there.”

“Seems like if you were made truly happy by
any of your possessions or job titles, you wouldn’t be so desperate to move on
to something new.”

Heather had been able to push the same
paradigm-changing seed of thought deep inside her heart, where she rarely
ventured. Aspen’s words brought it out where Heather couldn’t help but
acknowledge and recognize it.

“I’m an ambitious person and have been all my
life,” Heather said. Had she really? She’d certainly been that way since the
time she figured out how to please her parents and make them proud of her.
She’d never looked back or slowed down after those first words of praise—if she
had, they’d have stopped immediately. “I’m not going to change, and I don’t
want to. I just need to figure out my next big step. And today’s next big goal?
The Tillamook cheese factory.”

“Sounds like a worthy one,” Aspen said. “I’m
sure it’s the key to a successful life.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

*

The drive from the museum to the huge cheese
manufacturing plant was a short one, but Aspen wished it had lasted longer. As
much as she despised obvious signs of luxury and materialism, she had to admit
Heather’s car was an understated and damned comfortable ride. The seat warmer
barely had a chance to take some of the chill from the enormous open-doored
hangar out of her bones before she had to get out again, though. She didn’t
think Heather would be willing to skip the factory and go for a long, warm ride
along the coast, so she didn’t suggest anything to take them off course.

The parking lot was nearly empty. Tuesday
afternoons in the dead of winter, only months after an oil spill, didn’t seem
to be high traffic times in this coastal area. Aspen didn’t mind crowds because
she was always looking for unusual body types and interesting facial features
to incorporate into her sculptures, but she figured Heather preferred the
quiet. Not because she was contemplative, but because then she could speed walk
through the exhibits and barely bother to look at them. She had hardly looked
at the planes in the air museum, seeming to prefer instead to read the
informational signs about them as if she was studying for a test. Aspen really
didn’t care about the planes or the cheese, either. She was here because she
had been drawn to Heather for some reason, and she wanted to listen to her
intuition. Maybe she’d get some inspiration from being around her, such as an
idea for a sculpture of a woman drowning in cash and flailing for help, or one
of a woman sitting on a briefcase wearing a fitted, expensive business suit and
an expression of loneliness and emptiness.