Chapter 27

Looking at her with pleasure, Val let Carolyn into the flat. It was nine o’clock; she had already taken Neal to his grandfather’s. She planned to be in Santa Barbara half an hour before Hilda Green’s gallery opened at eleven.

“Paul wants us to take my car,” Carolyn told her. “I promised him I’d mention it.”

“The Bug’s all packed,” Val said easily. “I don’t want to move the paintings again.”

Fuck you, Paul Blake. My car’s good enough for your wife, taped upholstery and all.

Still struggling to subdue her anger, Val picked up a small wicker basket. “Some fruit, cheese, apple juice. Neal packed this—he thought we might get hungry coming back.”

Carolyn chuckled. “He’s amazing. You look nice, Val.”

She grinned, her good humor restored. “You look cute.” She pulled a Windbreaker from the closet; Carolyn should have worn long sleeves. It would be cool beside the ocean.

Hopestead Gallery was in a wooded enclave on the outskirts of Santa Barbara, one of a dozen specialty shops of white clapboard with roofs of stained wood shingles and a landscape of bark chips and tiny fir trees. “Fancy schmancy,” Val murmured. “This probably won’t take long, Carrie.”

“I’ll be strolling around,” Carolyn said, eyeing a pastry shop from which delicious odors wafted on the crisp morning air.

In answer to Val’s knock, a white door with amber bottle-glass panes swung open to reveal a gray-haired woman in a plum-colored silk dress. “You must be Val Hunter. Come in. A friend of mine has one of your paintings…”

An hour later Val found Carolyn wandering through a gift shop. Carolyn spotted her, ran to her, embraced her. “It’s good news, I can tell.”

Val hugged her back. “Yes.” She took her arm, the flesh cool to her palm. “Come on, I’ll tell you in the car.”

Weaving through heavy Sunday traffic, Val spoke excitedly. “So she’s agreed to take six and then we’ll see. But she’s very confident. She wants to branch out from carrying local artists, to upgrade the gallery, she told me. Upgrade it, Carrie. She’d already decided to carry my work on the basis of a friend’s opinion in L.A. and from those lousy photos I sent her.”

Carolyn reached to her, covered the hand that lay on the gear shift. “Finally things are starting to open out for you. Neal will be so proud.”

Val clasped Carolyn’s hand. “I’m so glad you’re with me.” “Val—a curiosity question. What percentage does a gallery take when it sells your work?”

“Thirty-five is common. Susan takes thirty. Hilda Green wants forty.”

“That much? But that only leaves—”

“Less than you think,” Val finished with a chuckle. She squeezed Carolyn’s hand. “All the planning, the actual work itself, not to mention materials—I must make about twenty cents an hour. But…” She grinned joyously at Carolyn.

The car began to labor and she took her hand from Carolyn’s to shift into high gear. “Hilda Green’s gallery may be small but she has an active clientele. She thinks my work should be priced at no less than a thousand dollars.”

She reached for Carolyn’s hand again. For the next hour and a half, her mood pure exuberance, she talked to Carolyn and managed to wend her way through the traffic on Highway 101 with one hand on the wheel.

The house in Malibu was two stories of weatherbeaten gray wood, cheek to jowl with the other modest houses nowhere near the Malibu Colony, their only glamour a limitless sea and sky.

Consulting a card, Val punched a code on a panel just inside the front door to turn off the burglar alarm. Carolyn glanced first at the dominating flagstone fireplace flanked by two picture windows. The house looked out over waves sufficiently strewn with boulders to discourage surfers, a beach rocky enough to deter sunbathers. A long sofa faced the sea; bookcases lined the side walls, one containing a TV and record player. An imposing grandfather clock of burnished cherrywood stood in a far corner, its ticktock perforating the crashing of the surf, its single chime drawing attention to the time: one-thirty. Plants hanging from wicker baskets enlivened the beige and brown colors of the room. Carolyn walked over to examine photos on the dining room wall, evidently interested in the people who owned this house.

“It’s wonderful here,” Carolyn said. “A dollhouse, perfect for two. But it seems really damp and chilly.”

“The upstairs louvers are open,” Val said. “It’s been so hot they’ve been open all summer. Get the Windbreaker out of the car while I close them.”

“I’m okay. I want to come upstairs with you.”

As Val pulled the louvers closed Carolyn glanced at the large bedroom containing an early American four-poster bed, a walk-in closet, a bathroom with an oversize tub.

Downstairs again, Carolyn went to the window. Far out on the horizon hung a gray curtain of mist, but the day was clear and bright and the tide was high, green waves breaking powerfully over dark rocks with plumes of pure white spray. They stood for long minutes, not speaking. Carolyn reached for Val’s hand, then released it to slide an arm around Val’s waist. Val’s arm circled Carolyn. There were slight tremors in Carolyn’s body.

Carolyn said softly, “I am cold. I should’ve worn something warmer.”

Without hesitation and without thought Val turned and took her into her arms, held her to warm her. Carolyn’s head touched her shoulder; Val felt the texture of her hair against her throat. For a moment they stood motionless, Val knowing only that she must warm Carolyn; her arms tightened around the soft body in her arms. Carolyn uttered an indecipherable sound.

Val’s hands caressed the planes of her back, the narrowing curve of waist. Thought emerged then: Stop. But irresistibly her hands curved down over her hips, cupped them.

“Val.”

The word was spoken with such sharp clarity that Val released her and stepped back so quickly that Carolyn stumbled and then caught her balance.

Val stared at her.

Carolyn’s eyes were wide, and filled with consternation.

Val turned away. She thought: It’s all over, I’ve blown everything.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 556