Tumbling Blocks (30 page)

“Already nattering away at someone she knows. I swear we can’t walk five feet in this town without stopping to hear someone’s life story.” He said the words with a huge grin on his perpetually suntanned face, telling me he actually didn’t mind having his walks interrupted. He’d just recently cut his waist-length white braid, and his hair was thick and wavy around his face, giving him a leonine appearance to match his name.

Living in San Celina had been a huge change for Isaac, an internationally famous photographer who left his home in Chicago to marry my gramma Dove. But we’d welcomed him into our family as wholeheartedly as he’d wanted to join. His celebrity had been hard on Dove at first, but she’d grown used to it. And at times like this, when his celebrity could help someone she loved, well, she’d stand on a chair and announce his presence herself.

“Hey, honeybun,” Dove said, coming over to us. She stopped in front of Abe Adam Finch’s
Tree of Life
painting. “My stars, this is magnificent.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m still pinching myself at our good luck. Mr. Finch could have given it to any art museum in the country, but we were the lucky ones.”

“I can’t think of any museum who deserves it more,” Isaac said.

“Thanks, Gramps,” I said. “But you may be prejudiced.”

At that moment, Dove’s name was called out, and she headed toward a group of ladies I recognized from the Farm Bureau. “Don’t forget to try the little cream puffs,” I called after her.

Isaac and I turned back to the painting. We were discussing the detail of the colorful animal faces painted on the tree when a man with shaggy brown hair and Ben Franklin eyeglasses joined us. He was wearing black jeans, a bluish tweed jacket a shade too large in the shoulders and black leather Adidas athletic shoes.

“You know,” he said, studying the painting. “You can’t help but wonder how much of this guy’s popularity has to do with the fact that no one has ever actually seen him.”

Isaac and I turned to stare at the man.

“You can’t deny this is an incredible painting,” I said to the man, then glanced up at Isaac, whose eyebrows had shot up in curiosity.

“I suppose it’s nice enough if you’re into the primitive thing. But you have to agree with me that there is an argument in the art world about the artistic legitimacy of so-called outsider art and how much of its appeal has to do with the artist’s odd background or personality quirks as with the art itself.”

He had a point, but it was the snarky way he was saying it that annoyed me. It was as if he believed the whole folk art world was trying to pull something over on “real” artists.

“Do you think that’s a question that can ever be really answered?” I asked, my voice tart. “It’s not so different in the mainstream art world. I mean, would many of the world’s contemporary fine artists be just as popular without their weird lifestyles and foibles? Jackson Pollock, for instance?”

The man smiled at me and shook his head. “Ah, we could argue about this all day. The truth is, art, whether anyone wants to admit it or not, is partly in the eye of the beholder and partly politics.”

“So you believe there’s no objective way to judge art? What about van Gogh? Da Vinci?”

“Van Gogh never sold a painting in his lifetime. That tells you something, though I’m not sure what.” He held out a hand. “James Leonard Bradford.
L.A. Times
.”

Great,
I thought.
I should have found out who he was before I spouted off. Oh, well, I didn’t actually say anything that I regretted, though I would have liked to have known I was talking to a journalist.

“Is that what your article is going to be about?” I asked lightly.

He glanced up at Isaac, ignoring my question. “You’re Isaac Lyons.”

Isaac’s raisin-dark eyes sparkled. “Yes, sir.”

“Love your work. What’re you doing here?”

His emphasis on the word
here
said what he thought about San Celina. I could see Isaac considering whether he should put this guy in his place or not. Though a big part of me was hoping he’d verbally cut this guy up like a Benihana chef, another part of me knew that our museum needed the good publicity this annoying guy could give us. Fortunately for the museum, Isaac was more mature than I was.

“I live
here
with my wife,” he replied. He shifted his eyes over to me. “Her grandmother.”

James Leonard Bradford glanced over at me, his eyes suddenly interested. He turned back to Isaac. “That right? So, would you consider doing an interview with me? Are you planning a new photo series?”

Isaac smiled at him. “It’s possible, but I don’t believe I’m familiar with your work. Let’s see how this article about my granddaughter’s museum goes first. You can contact me through Benni.”

I wanted to throw my arms around Isaac right there. He virtually assured us a positive article.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” the reporter said. He turned back to me, pulling a small notebook out of his jacket. “So, what do you know about Abe Adam Finch?”

Isaac excused himself and left me to talk to Mr. Bradford. I told the reporter the little I knew about Abe Adam Finch and pointed out Nola Finch to him. “She’s pretty protective of her uncle, so I wouldn’t push her.”

He shrugged and grinned at me. “Pushing is what I do. But don’t worry, never killed anyone yet.”

At seven o’clock, Constance went to the small podium we’d placed next to the painting and rang a small bell, getting everyone’s attention. After a few words about how thankful we are to Abe Adam Finch, how this will put the Josiah Sinclair Folk Art Museum on the map, she then turned the podium over to me.

After the requisite fawning and recognition of the museum’s financial supporters, especially Constance Sinclair, I gave my talk, ending with the unsubtle plea about why it was important for a community to support its artists. Then I asked Nola Finch to officially present the painting to the museum. I thanked everyone for coming and told them to enjoy the refreshments.

After the requisite photographs, I was pouring myself a glass of ginger ale when my mother-in-law came up, her face pale and tired-looking. Ray hovered protectively at her side.

“That was a wonderful speech, Benni,” she said. “I’m sorry my son wasn’t here to hear it.”

I could hear the disappointment in her voice.

“I understand. You know how demanding his job is. He can’t always control his time.”

Her voice was tight, controlled, reminding me of Gabe’s. “He’s the boss. I can’t imagine that, short of a hostage situation, he couldn’t break away for an hour.” Then her face turned pink, realizing what she’d just said. “Oh, Benni, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light—”

I touched her forearm with my fingertips. “It’s okay, Kathryn. And, really, I don’t expect Gabe to come to every museum opening.”

“But this one is special,” she insisted.

I couldn’t deny that, but I also didn’t want to feed the antagonism between my mother-in-law and my husband. Besides, I was sure that this had as much to do with unresolved issues between them as her annoyance at Gabe appearing to not support my career. I glanced over at Ray, who was watching us both with sad, sympathetic eyes.

“I’m sure he would have been here if he could,” I said, my voice light. “He’s been to tons of these openings. He’s very supportive of what I do.”

Her face was skeptical, but she didn’t comment. I hoped that my words would help put this to rest. I was suddenly very tired and was just looking forward to the day we could stand in the train station and wave good-bye to Kathryn and Ray.

“I’d better mingle,” I said. “I’ll see you both back at home.”

“Of course,” Kathryn said, touching her chest. “You must see to your guests. I think we’ll go home. I’m a little weary.”

After they left, I wandered through the crowd answering questions and greeting people. I saw Nola across the room a few times and waved to her. She was never without a crowd of people surrounding her: art lovers, collectors and folks just flat-out curious about her uncle. I wondered if she ever grew weary of being the sole spokesperson for her famous relative.

A lull came in the groups of people studying the
Tree of Life
painting, so I went back over to it, fascinated again by its rich detail and arresting, otherworldly colors. It was like an intricate quilt with an almost 3-D effect, as if the fantastical tree rose up out of the canvas, and the leaves were real enough to touch. I looked closely at each animal’s face, mesmerized by the details. There was a regular Noah’s ark of animals, and I wondered if that was the source of his inspiration. He seemed especially fond of cats. There were numerous feline faces in the painting, some smiling, some wide-eyed, but one in particular looked familiar. I peered closer, gazing at its peculiar markings. It was blue and green striped and had one odd marking over its left eye. I swallowed the exclamation in my throat. If the cat were black and tan, it could have been a dead ringer for Pinky Edmondson’s cat, Lionel.

CHAPTER 13

H
AD ABE ADAM FINCH AND PINKY EDMONDSON known each other?

Had he been to her house in Cambria, seen Lionel who, I remember May Heinz saying, was only three years old? How else would he have put this cat with the unusual markings in this painting? Granted, the connection between these two people seemed unlikely. And surely Nola would have mentioned it when she was looking through Pinky’s house.

Unless she didn’t know.

I glanced over at Nola, talking to a group of artists from the co-op. She looked at me just as I did, a questioning expression on her face. I smiled at her, trying to appear nonchalant.

Could her uncle have a secret life that he was keeping from her? One that included Pinky Edmondson? The thought seemed fantastic. Where would they have met? What kind of relationship was it? And, to be honest, what difference did it make?

I moved closer to the painting and studied the whimsical cat. The spot over the right eye, making it appear to have one eyebrow, sure reminded me of Pinky’s cat.

I thought about it the rest of the evening, trying to be subtle, but drawn again and again back to the painting to look at the cat, wondering if I was seeing something that wasn’t there. When the last patron had left and some of the artists helped me straighten up the museum in preparation for its public opening tomorrow, I came to the conclusion it wasn’t all that important. I suspected my real problem was I was looking for something to fret about rather than the real problem waiting for me at home, a mother and son who seemed so far apart emotionally and were both so unwilling to give an inch, that their relationship would always be a source of pain rather than comfort.

I found the file in my office that had the photo of the painting as well as all the articles I’d found about Abe Adam Finch. I stuck the folder in my truck. If I had time tomorrow, I’d run out to Pinky’s house and see if I was imagining things about this cat. Even if it was the same cat, maybe she’d sent him a picture of it. Maybe it was just a huge coincidence. At any rate, it didn’t matter. It would neither add nor take away from the painting to know that Abe Adam Finch and Pinky Edmondson had a relationship. And if Nola didn’t know about it, well, maybe that was better, although it would be beyond ironic if she ended up buying Pinky’s house. I couldn’t help wondering what her uncle would think about that, if he indeed had a relationship with Pinky and never told his niece.

At home, Kathryn and Ray were waiting for me in the kitchen with a fresh pot of herbal tea. Scout lay on his side in front of the sink, and Boo was scampering around chasing a toy that Ray trailed across the floor. I didn’t have the heart to tell my mother-in-law I didn’t like chamomile tea and so accepted a cup and sat down at the kitchen table.

“Did you enjoy the exhibit?” I asked, picking up Boo, who pawed at my leg. I ran my fingers through his soft puppy fur. Though I hated admitting it, I was getting attached to him. Darn that Hud.

“Oh, yes,” Kathryn said. “The painting was beautiful, and the rest of the exhibit was fascinating.” She smiled and circled her teacup with her long fingers. “Your speech was delightful.”

“Thank you. I’m just glad my speeches are over now. I can actually start thinking about the holidays.” I moved my chair back and placed an already-sleeping Boo in my lap. His little face lay cupped in my hand, a comforting pillow of warm flesh. The expression of contentment on his face made me smile. If only I could sleep so peacefully.

We were still discussing the exhibit when Gabe walked into the kitchen dressed in running shorts and a sweatshirt. He’d obviously gone for a late run. A good thing, I thought. He needed something to work off his tension. It certainly beat going to a bar.

“Hey,” he said, walking over to the refrigerator and pulling out a carton of orange juice. His tone seemed a tad adolescent, reminding me of Sam.

“Good evening, son,” Kathryn said, her tone even but with a touch of steel, much like I’d heard in Gabe’s voice on more than one occasion.

I honestly wasn’t annoyed that he hadn’t attended the exhibit. I’d grown used to the demands of his job, and I didn’t feel neglected or ignored because he couldn’t make this one. But it was obvious that it bugged his mother.

“Did you have a nice run?” she asked.

I watched, fascinated by all that
wasn’t
being said but was absolutely being communicated. Her tone was saying,
So, you had time for a run but no time to come to your wife’s event?
I brought Boo up to my chest, cuddling him. He shifted and didn’t wake up.

“Yes, I did,” he said, not looking at her and drinking right from the orange juice carton. My mouth dropped open in surprise. I’d never, ever seen him do that. My husband had meticulous personal habits and would never have done something so . . . so . . . juvenile. He drained the carton and threw it in the sink.

“The exhibit was beautiful,” she said. “Benni did an excellent job.”