Sandcastles Page 7

  She pulled up her panties dropped her gown back down and stood up.

  “That’s it?” she inquired, rather irritably.

  “You wanted more?” he asked, affably, sitting down and reaching for his coffee.

  “Expected more, maybe” she grumbled. “But hey! Don’t get back up on my account.”

  Denning picked up his coffee cup and began to read the paper. Gwen left the deck and came back a few moments later with a handful of printed pages. She placed them neatly on the table near his coffee cup and walked haughtily back into the house.

  She had showered and dressed and was working at the computer when he came into the den and leaned against the doorjamb with his arms crossed. In one hand he held the pages she’d written.

  “Not quite five thousand, from my initial reading.”

  “Seventeen hundred and twenty eight actually. You want to use the ruler this time?” She pulled the top drawer open and handed him the wooden ruler. “Or your lovely new paddle, perhaps? Complete with splinters and a possible case of blood poisoning?”

  Denning walked across the room, sat down on the edge the desk and took the ruler from her. He threw it back in the drawer and dropped the pages she’d written on the desk. “Do I really frighten you, the way you say in here?”

  Gwen sighed and closed her eyes before she spoke. “I didn’t mean physically. I meant....”

  “I know what you wrote, but did you mean what you said about my frightening you, or did you write it because you were angry with me?”

  Gwen sighed. “Have you ever noticed, Josh what a real dud I am at keeping secrets?”

  He chuckled. “I’ve noticed. You always blurt it out sooner or later.”

  “Exactly. You know why?”

  When he hesitated she told him. “Because I don’t really have any secrets. None. Okay, let me take that back. I did a lot of shoplifting when I was about eight or nine. I got pretty good at it, too. I buried all the loot in the back yard and then got scared and dug it all up. I broke all my goodies up—tore them into tiny bits and threw the whole mess in the pond behind my house because I just knew the FBI was on my trail and my parents would drop dead of shame or change their names and move to Peru, or something, when I went to the state pen.”

  Josh shook his head. “That’s pretty strong stuff,” he said solemnly.

  “The point is, I don’t really understand secrecy. I don’t seem to have any deep dark secrets. I don’t have any emotional demons to purge either, I guess. Whatever problems I have are pretty garden variety. I can’t... or don’t always pay my rent on time. I fudge on my income taxes and my expense account when I get one. I’m an underachiever and a flash in the pan. Most of my English teachers thought I’d distinguish myself in the big world, and I really wish I felt worse about disappointing them, but I don’t, especially. If I hadn’t cheated on my algebra final I’d probably still be in high school. I’m ten—okay more like fourteen pounds—heavier than I wrote down on my driver’s license and I’ve got a cavity that hurts all the time but I’m too scared of dentists to do anything about it.”

  She took a deep breath. “When I don’t like somebody, I can’t pretend that I do for very long. And when I love someone, I tell them—just blurt it out like the idiot we both know I am. I have feelings for you, Josh. I’m sorry if that upsets you, and I don’t expect you to feel the same way. I’m sorry I tried to spy on you—sorrier than I’ve ever been in my whole life about anything! I’m sorry that I proved to you again that I can’t be trusted.

  “I do have a reason for what I did. Not a good excuse, maybe, but a reason. I simply don’t know how to deal with being close to somebody who has secrets he thinks he can’t trust me with. Sorry about the misplaced preposition, but that’s it—in a lot less than five thousand words with rotten grammar, but every single word is true.

  “I’ll never spy on you again, and I’ll try very hard not to lie to you. I may as well tell you that I lie a lot, but it’s mainly a bad habit like smoking, and you have my permission to cure me of lying the same way you cured me of smoking—if you still want me to stay, which I know you probably don’t.”

  She stopped—out of breath.

  Denning came around the desk and took her in his arms.

  “You’re right about one thing,” he conceded. “The grammar is terrible. So, the way I see this, you have two spankings coming, really. One for not completing your assigned essay and the second for all that shoplifting you’ve managed to get away with for all theses years. Any other crimes you’d like to get off your chest?”

  Gwen smiled and kissed him. “Under the circumstances, I think I’d rather take the Fifth, thank you. And besides, I’m pretty sure the statute of limitations has passed on the shoplifting thing. Maybe we can plea-bargain that other one?”

  * * * * *

  For several days, life seemed perfect to Gwen. Josh appeared to have made an important decision with regard to her, the nature of which she didn’t exactly understand and chose not to pursue. Instead, she basked in the pure pleasure of his company and of his frequently demonstrated affection. He spent more time with her now and was significantly less demanding. They talked a lot and spent hours on the beach when the weather permitted simply reading or watching the ocean. She told him virtually everything about herself and believed it was only a matter of time before he would open up to her as well and tell her more about himself and about the loss of his wife. For it was that tragic event, Gwen believed, that had made Joshua Denning turn his back on the world and choose to live in a stone house on a lonely cliff.

  And had Josh opened up to her as she had so ardently hoped he would, Gwen might have been able to resist a renewed urge to—not to spy, exactly, she told herself, but to probe. Yes, probe was a much better, more benign word. She would probe Josh’s wall of sadness and bring it tumbling down.

  * * * * *

  On Wednesday, since she badly needed a haircut, Gwen volunteered to go for the groceries, driving into town alone for only the second time since her arrival. The community of Grove City was a half-mile off the main road, little more than a village of perhaps a dozen shops on a year-round basis and a scattering of small antique and gift stores that catered to the summer traffic—of which there was very little. Further up the road, a passing motorist could find many more engaging spots than Grove City to pause as he drove through Big Sur’s breathtaking scenery and approached the San Francisco area. It was the rare well-heeled traveler who took the time to leave the road and explore the limited attractions and shabby accommodations offered by tiny Grove City.

  Gwen’s first stop was at “Francine’s Salon de Beaute,” where owner Francine Schmidt did a creditable job of trimming Gwen’s shoulder-length hair but failed to convince her new customer that a stunning curly permanent and maybe a drastic change of color was in order at “her age.” Gwen declined politely, paid Francine the required eight dollars, added a two-dollar tip and then progressed up the main street to the public library.

  For a town its size, Grove City had a tidy and fairly well stocked library, its collection leaning heavily toward torrid romance and mystery novels. When Gwen commented on this, the middle-aged librarian simply raised her eyes to the ceiling.

  “That’s what people here want, and we are a public facility, after all,” she replied irritably. “We have copies of Treasure Island and Wuthering Heights that have never been checked out in the twenty-seven years I’ve been here. Someone asked to read War and Peace and then drew dirty pictures all over it. I order ‘Newsweek’ and ‘Time’, and I’m the only one who reads them. What more do you want me to say?”

  Gwen understood now why Joshua Denning had chosen Grove City to hide. She thanked the grumpy librarian and used the library’s only public computer to check through the archived files of old newspapers. The “grove City Clarion” turned out to be little more than an advertising “throw-away,” but she traced back through eight years of ads, discovering in the process that the ‘Salon d
e Beaute’ had been open for business for exactly five years and that prices had doubled. Francine’s business appeared to be booming at eight dollars per cut—male or female.

  There was very little news of interest, other than weekly baseball or hockey games, town council meetings or the occasional drunken lumberman being jailed. She came across the filler piece about Josh and his house and debated trying to steal it but changed her mind. She was making a serious effort to turn over a new leaf and destruction of library property didn’t seem an auspicious way to begin. The article about Susannah Denning’s death was so small that Gwen almost missed it as she scanned through the pages. The name was different, but there was no mistaking that the piece was about Denning’s wife.

  “LOCAL ARTIST DIES IN FALL FROM CLIFF.”

  “Artist Susannah Channing died Friday in a hiking accident near her home. Miss Channing’s work was frequently exhibited at the Ludlow Gallery in town and in many other galleries throughout the United States. Ms. Channing is survived by her husband, Mr. John Denton of Grove City. Services are private.”

  Gwen checked the pages again and found another reference from the local paper in nearby Reed River. This article was even shorter but shared with the Grove City paper one curious thing. Neither paper listed Susannah Channing’s death as a drowning.

  Chapter Five

  Gwen printed a copy of the short article about Susannah Channing’s death and then went in search of a phone book. There was no Ludlow Gallery listed, but there was something called “Ludlow Inc.: Crafts From the Sea.” She asked the snappish librarian for directions and was informed that the shop was at the edge of town in what had once been an “artist colony.”

  “Did you find what you wanted?” the librarian asked. “I know we don’t have the facilities of a major city but we do our best.”

  “Oh yes, thank you, I found everything I wanted,” Gwen assured her. “You mentioned an art colony. Would there be any other place to check for information about an artist who used to live near here? About her death, specifically?”

  The woman squinted curiously at her over the tops of her narrow reading glasses. “Are you talking about Susannah Channing?”

  Gwen looked around nervously. “Well yes, I suppose I am.”

  “I thought so. She died a few years back you know. Fell from the cliff out there at what we all used to call Younger’s Cove before she and that husband of hers bought the property and built that big stone house. Why are you interested in her?”

  Gwen thought quickly. “I’m an artist myself, actually. I just like to know a bit about local artists when I travel through … you know.”

  “Well” the woman said sourly. “I don’t know much about art, of course, just what I like myself, but they tell me that she was a very talented woman. Everyone in town was upset to hear about that terrible accident.

  “Thank you for all your help,” Gwen said, hurriedly. “I have to go now, but thanks again.” She hastened from the library and got back in the car, moving too quickly to notice the librarian watching from the window.

  * * * * *

  “Ludlow Inc.: Crafts From the Sea” could best be described as adorable, or perhaps precious. In an obvious attempt to mimic the successful hokey charm of the thriving art colony of Carmel, the minute building appeared to have been crafted by a tribe of gnomes—an enchanted woodland cottage with a wavy shake roof and lead-mullioned windows with red shutters. Each tiny malformed window had its own cunning flowerbox brimming with fake pink and blue hydrangeas. Gwen parked and walked up the winding cobblestone walkway to a Dutch door labeled adorably, “Open Me.” When she opened the door and stepped in, a brass bell tinkled merrily, announcing her arrival.

  No one appeared at the bell, so Gwen walked around looking at the merchandise, which was long on gift and very short on art. Almost everything for sale had either a seagull or a lighthouse on it with a sprinkling of orcas and smiling dolphins. Gwen noticed that virtually everything else in the small room was covered in seashells, including the furniture and the cash register.

  “Hello!” Gwen called. “Is anyone here?”

  When there was no answer, she waited another minute and then left. She was almost to the car when a high-pitched female voice called from a window.

  “Wait, please; I’m just coming!”

  A tiny bird-like woman popped up at the Dutch door like a hand puppet. She was shorter than Gwen by several inches. “I’m so sorry,” she chirped. “I was in the back. Do come in!” The woman might have been British or simply pretentious.

  Gwen sighed and turned around. Ludlow’s was obviously not the art gallery she was looking for, and now she would have to buy something. It was a lifelong weakness of Gwen’s. Once she had wasted a shopkeeper’s time in idle conversation, she was psychologically unable to leave the shop without buying some useless trinket she didn’t need and rarely even liked. Her apartment in Hollywood was cluttered with such trinkets purchased almost entirely out of guilt.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I was just browsing, actually.”

  “Was there anything special you’d like?” the miniature woman inquired “We have so many lovely things, you know, all made by the local ladies from around here, you know.”

  Gwen had already guessed as much. The merchandise that wasn’t bedecked with seashells was trimmed with lace ruffles. While she strolled among the many lovely things, deciding which was the least unlovely the tiny lady followed at her heels, chatting amiably.

  “Are you new in our little village or driving through? We don’t get as many tourists as we used to, you know.”

  “I’m visiting” Gwen said quickly. “My this is lovely. May I ask how much it is?” She held up a small wooden carving of what might have been a dolphin or maybe a ferryboat.

  The little lady looked at it carefully and compared a number on the bottom to a tattered book on the counter. “That’s one of the sweet little penguins carved by one of our dearest ladies, you know. Harriet Pearson. Such a very sweet person. Eighty-three years old and just as spry as... let me see. Oh yes, that will $3.98, plus tax, of course. Would you like me to wrap the little penguin as a gift?”

  “No, thank you, just a small bag if you have one,” Gwen suggested, studying the carved object in her hand. Okay, so a penguin. Who knew? Lying on his back, she guessed, or dead. As the woman searched high and low for a bag, Gwen decided to ask about the gallery of the same name. “Didn’t there used to be an art gallery in town with this name? Ludlow’s?”

  The little lady nodded. “Oh yes, indeed. Right in this very cottage, you know. It belonged to my brother Paul. Well, it still does, of course, but there are so few collectors of fine art anymore, you know, so dear Paul lets the ladies and I display our little things here. Did you know the gallery well?”

  “No,” Gwen said. “Not at all. A friend of mine brought a painting here a few years back that I liked very much. It was by a local artist. I was hoping to buy one of that artist’s paintings, and I thought that maybe she might still be handled by your... your brother was it?”

  “Yes, my brother Paul. A woman artist? What was her name? I remember all of Paul’s artists, you know. Did she work in oils or watercolors or...?”

  Having no idea whatever, Gwen made a stab at it. “Well I don’t know very much about art, but I believe my friend’s was an oil painting. The artist’s name was Channing?”

  “Susannah Channing?” the lady cried. “Well of course I knew her! We all did! Such a dear, sweet woman, and those glorious colors she always used! And how dreadful we all felt when she passed on so tragically! As I remember, Susannah did work in oil. I’m sure she’s the artist you’re looking for. I don’t remember another Channing. Paul still talks with Susannah’s husband every time he sees poor Mr. Denton in town. Would you like to speak to Paul? He would know where you might find one of Susannah’s paintings. They were such good friends, you know. Oh my goodness! You know, I believe that’s Paul’s car pulling up right now!”
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br />   Gwen looked out the window and felt sick to her stomach. The man was striding up the winding walkway to the shop. Short of bolting down the walkway and shoving Paul Ludlow into the artificial shrubbery, Gwen saw no way to escape speaking to him, since the Bird Lady was already in the midst of chirping out introductions.

  “Miss... oh dear, I’m so sorry; did you tell me your name, Miss? Paul, this dear lady would like to know where to find one of Susannah Channing’s paintings, wouldn’t you, dear?”

  Gwen tried to slip out the door. “I’m afraid I’m late for an appointment today. I’ll call some other time if that’s all right? Thank you so much for everything! Good day Mr. Ludlow, perhaps I’ll call again at....”

  “Miss Walden, isn’t it?” the man asked, giving her a very odd look. “I thought I recognized the car. I could have sworn I saw you in town last month with John... John Denton? At the grocery store wasn’t it? John mentioned that you were a cousin of Susannah’s, staying at the house while yours is being built ,I thought.”

  Gwen groaned to herself. “Yes,” she murmured. “You’re right, of course. You know John well, then?”

  Ludlow shook his head looking at her with frank curiosity. “I don’t suppose anyone knows John well, but I knew Susannah of course and I’ve tried to be of what help I could to John since her death. But surely John himself would be the one to ask about acquiring one of Susannah’s remaining paintings. She left quite a number of them out there at the house, I believe. I’ve tried more than once to get John to show them to me to get them on the market, but he can’t bear to part with them I suppose. Your being such a close relative maybe he’ll feel differently. The ones of the Maine coast are especially lovely, and quite valuable, of course. Susannah’s work has skyrocketed in price in the past few years. Please do tell John that if he ever changes his mind about selling the ones he still has to call me first.”