Winter Tides (16 page)

He had wanted to meet the artist, he’d said, and that was why Anne was driving out there at eight in the evening on a foggy night. She had four more wrapped paintings in the trunk, and Jane seemed to think that there was the ghost of a chance that he would want those, too, when he saw them. That struck Anne as a little bit excessive.
Ob
sessive was maybe a better word for it. She must seem a little anxious, though, throwing herself and her paintings into the car that very evening. She could hardly
not
come, though, under the circumstances. And since she had to haul more paintings out there anyway …

The fog cleared suddenly, and for a moment the hillside
ahead of her shone with lights, and there were more lights out on the cliffs away off to her right She accelerated, driving past the off ramp to Scotchman’s Cove and into civilization. The highway was nearly empty through north Laguna, and the fog held off until she turned up Broadway. Then the night was ghostly gray again, and she drove slowly down Beach Street, across Forest, and into the public parking garage. It was damp in the concrete structure, and the night was hushed enough so that the sound of the key turning in the trunk lock was oddly loud.

She was reminded suddenly of her foggy, late-night stroll on the pier, and was vividly aware of the sound of her shoe soles on the concrete. Despite herself, she listened for answering footsteps, and darted uneasy glances into the dark recesses of the nearly empty garage. Hastily, she got two of the smaller canvases out of the trunk and then slammed the lid, hurrying up the alley toward the corner. Potter’s Gallery lay across Oak Street on the corner of the highway. Its south and west walls were glass, and Anne saw him standing in the middle of the front room, gesturing and laughing. Jane Potter stood next to him. Both of them held flutes of champagne. Anne stopped at the curb and stood there for a moment, thinking about turning around. She could put the paintings back into the trunk, find a phone booth, and explain that it was just too foggy to make the drive….

The man in the gallery was Edmund Dalton.

Was he the mysterious art lover who had bought five of her paintings? Of course he was. He had to be. This afternoon he had bought her a cup of coffee, and while they were drinking it he had asked too many questions about her paintings and where he could have a look at them. He must have made a beeline for Laguna Beach. The whole thing was curious, too curious, and would probably become tiresome.

She made a quick decision to see this through, and set out again, across the street and up the sidewalk. If he wanted to buy her paintings, let him. Clearly he already had. It was Jane’s business whom she sold paintings to. And although Anne could certainly make use of the fog
excuse and simply go home, what good would it do in the long run? She would see the man face to face tomorrow anyway; she might as well get it over tonight. And besides, maybe he was innocent of anything. Maybe he actually
liked
her paintings. She backed in through the door, cradling the paintings in her arms. If it
was
a ploy, then he had spent four thousand dollars in an effort to pick her up. It was nearly funny. And, she realized, it was nearly flattering.

He bowed graciously, waving the champagne glass. “Surprise,” he said, and widened his eyes at her.

“This is … astonishing,” she said, handing Jane the new paintings.

“You two know each other, then?” Jane set the paintings carefully on the floor, tilting them against the now-empty wall where Anne’s paintings had hung.

“Yes, indeed. We’ve met,” Edmund told her. And then to Anne he said, “Champagne?”

“What the heck.”

“Let me.” Edmund pulled a bottle out of a stainless steel champagne bucket nearly brimming with ice and water.

“Domaine Chandon,” he told her, wrapping the bottle in a towel and slowly filling a flute.

“Mr. Dalton brought the champagne,” Jane said, winking at Anne.

Edmund handed her the glass, raised his own, and said, “To art.”

The two women raised their own glasses, and the three of them drank. Edmund held his glass to the light and looked through it. “That’s
good
color,” he said. Anne nodded. Probably he was right. “This champagne is
very
good. It’s hand-riddled, actually, in the Napa Valley.”

“Is it?” she asked, smiling with appreciation. Actually she had no real idea what that meant, but she was abruptly determined not to ask.

“It’s uncanny, Anne. When we had our little chat about art, there was something about your sensibilities that were so consistent with my own, that I
knew
, I positively
knew
, that I would love your paintings. I was just telling Jane how ordinary I find these.” He pointed at an impressionistic
sort of landscape done in oils—a sweep of beach coastline, springtime colors, lots of palms and flowers. Anne recognized the Hotel Laguna and the curve of Main Beach with its lifeguard tower and boardwalk. Actually the painting was very nicely done.

“I kind of like it,” she said.

Jane blinked hard at her from where she stood, behind Edmund now, as if to tell her to be more agreeable, and Anne wondered if she would be blinking just as hard if somebody with a fat wallet was bad-mouthing a painting of her own.

“I guess what I meant was that it was so
ordinary
,” Dalton said, repeating himself. “Don’t you think? This is the sort of thing you see everywhere. Your paintings, though …” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t find the words to describe them.

“Maybe if you’d spent much time on Vancouver Island, my subjects would look fairly ordinary too.”

“I can’t imagine finding your paintings ordinary in any sense, Anne. There’s something in them, in the shadows, maybe, that speaks volumes about you.”

“Really? in the shadows?”

“Absolutely. I wonder if sometimes you let the shadows carry you away … ?”

“I almost never let anything carry me away.”

“Now why don’t I believe you?” Edmund asked, smiling widely.

Anne shrugged. Whatever he was implying was so obscure that she couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Well, this is exciting,” Jane said innocently. “I’m astonished that you two know each other. It’s almost like something out of a fairy tale, isn’t it?”

Edmund nodded enthusiastically. “More than you can guess,” he said. “What have you brought for me, Anne?”

“Just a couple of things to hang in the blank spots.”

“Can I see them?”

Jane was already cutting the heavy string and tearing off the quilted paper. The paintings were similar to the five that Edmund had already bought, only smaller—coastal landscapes under a wild sky. The two that Anne had left in the
trunk were twice the size, and were better, but somehow she didn’t want to bring them in at all now. Edmund’s enthusiasm was having some sort of equal and opposite reaction in her. The more he wanted to buy, the less she wanted to sell. It was the odd implication in his voice, as if she were selling herself rather than the paintings.

And his opinion of the painting on the wall was screwy. It was really very good—technically better than her own. And when she had talked to Edmund briefly about art, she hadn’t gotten the idea that he had any sensibilities at all. He had known that van Gogh had cut his ear off, but when she mentioned Turner—one of her own personal saints—the reference was utterly lost on him. That in itself was nothing—almost nobody gave any real damn for old dead artists—but it argued that he wasn’t any kind of art enthusiast, which right now he was clearly pretending to be.

“Surely this can’t be all you’ve brought?” he said, his voice full of disappointment.

“I’m afraid it is,” she told him.

“I’ was rather hoping you’d fill the trunk and back seat,” Jane said. “We’ve got room for eight canvases at least, especially considering the size of these.”

“I couldn’t make up my mind, actually.” Anne shrugged. “And I was a little rushed. By the time I’d eaten dinner, the fog was getting heavier, and I was worried about the drive out here, especially since I had to detour past the Art Supply Warehouse to pick up canvas and … I don’t know—a bunch of stuff. So I needed room in the car, and there was no way that I was going to get out there to buy anything tomorrow or the next day, now that I’m employed.” She grinned at Edmund again, realizing that she’d been talking a little breathlessly, reeling off a string of half-baked excuses.

“I fully understand,” he said. “Although I’ll tell you right now that in no way must your job get in the way of your art. If anything, it ought to
facilitate
your art. And if you ever need time off, even at a moment’s notice, you only have to say the word.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate that,” Anne said.

“I value artistic inspiration more highly than you can imagine.”

“it’s good to hear that.”

“And so I’m not just talking about your having to make a quick trip down to the store for supplies. I’m talking about the urge to paint. If you wake up in the morning and you’re struck with inspiration, then
paint.”

“Well …” She tried to look enthusiastic. When she woke up in the morning, she was generally struck with the urge for coffee. She had mostly gotten over the idea of inspiration years ago.

“I absolutely mean it. Just dial my number and leave a message. But I warn you, sometime I’d like to watch you paint. I won’t make any noise. I’ll just sit in a chair in the corner and watch you work. I want to share in the
power
of your inspiration.”

“Honestly,” Anne said to him, “I can’t imagine working with anyone watching.”

“I’d be quiet as a mouse.”

“Even so …” She shook her head. Share in the power of her inspiration … ?

“Perhaps when we’ve gotten to know each other better. Say, I’ll tell you what. What I
would
like to do is stop by your studio and have a look at the paintings that you didn’t bring along tonight. It’s crazy for me to be running back and forth to Laguna Beach when you’ve got canvases right down the street from the Earl’s.”

The request stunned her for a moment, It was impossible, at least right now. It was entirely logical, of course, except that his motives were wrong. Somehow she was absolutely certain of it. And anyway, she hardly knew him. “I’m afraid that Potter’s is my sole agent.” She shrugged, as if there was nothing she could do about it. Jane, thank God, seemed to catch on.

“Maybe you can run a few more down here later in the week,” she said. “I want to repaint the wall first anyway. We could have them up by Sunday afternoon.”

Edmund didn’t look at her, but spoke to Anne instead.” I’ll happily pay the gallery’s commission.”

“It’s not only that,” Anne told him. “All of them are wrapped, and … You know what? I just don’t want to. This probably seems fairly weird to you, but I like to
paint
in my studio; I don’t like the idea of
showing
the paintings there. It mixes the money end of things with the creative end, and that just has the wrong flavor to it. Does that make sense?”

“I
totally
respect that,” he said.

“Good. And now, I’m afraid, I’ve got to go.”

“That’s a wise idea,” Edmund said to her. “The fog’s socked in along the bluffs. Drive slowly. Do you want to caravan?”

“I’m not going home that way,” Anne lied. “I’m going up through the canyon.”

“That’s smart. There’s bound to be less fog, and you can grab the 405 back down into Huntington Beach. I ought to go that way too.”

“Actually, I’m going to visit a friend in Irvine.”

“Ah.” Edmund nodded his head. “I fully understand,” he said.

Again she found the statement impossible to respond to, so she set down her champagne glass and abruptly headed for the door, relieved to see that the fog had dispersed for the moment, although it might easily still be bad once she was out of town again. “See you soon,” she said to Jane, and pushed out through the door.

Edmund was instantly beside her, striding along toward the corner. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said. “it’s late.”

“Thanks.”

They turned the corner and went across the street and down the steps into the parking garage. “Is that you?” Edmund asked, nodding at the Saturn.

“That’s me.”

“That’s a very reasonable car.”

“I like the name, I guess. That’s about as spacey as I get.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “I have the feeling there’s more to Anne Morris than meets the eye.”

“There’s more to anybody than meets the eye,” she said.

“That’s
the truth. Hey, do you ever travel?”

“I’ve traveled some,” she said, trying to sound noncommittal.

“Well, I’ve got a trip planned to Mexico, to a resort below San Felipe. Beautiful ocean down there. Really, it’s fabulous.”

“I bet it is,” she said. “It sounds wonderful.”

“It’s a place called Club Mex—all the amenities. You name it, You’ve got it. They know me down there. This will be something like my eighth trip. I slip away as often as I can, out from under things, if you know what I mean.”

“I certainly do,” she said. “And I’ve got to slip away right now myself.”

“You’d like Club Mex. I think I could guarantee that.”

“I’m sure I would.” She unlocked her car door and started to climb in.

“Oh, oh,” he said, smiling broadly at her.

“What?”

“Someone’s apparently broken into your car.”

Surprised by this, she looked into the back seat. There was no sign of anyone having broken in.

“All your supplies,” he said. “The canvas and all. From what was that place? The Art Supply Warehouse? I thought you said it pretty much filled up the interior.”

Instantly she regretted the lie. “I meant it filled up the trunk.”

“Ah. I guess you did say the trunk. Well, drive safely. Watch the fog.”

She climbed into the car, waved once at him, started the engine, and backed out of the space. When the Saturn bumped down onto the street, she glanced into the rearview mirror and he was still standing there, still smiling. She beeped the horn once, just to be friendly, and then turned up toward Laguna Canyon Road. As soon as she rounded the curve in the road, she doubled back down Broadway and headed home again along the coast.