A Drunkard's Path (6 page)

“I’d like to join your class, Mr. White—Professor White.” I stumbled on my words, but my feet were planted firmly in front of the door to his classroom, blocking his way.

He smiled and peered down at me through his glasses and beard. “Oliver,” he said. “It’s just Oliver.” He looked me up and down in what was either a creepy old man’s assessment or a way to amuse himself while adding to my tension. “What makes you think that you can just join my class?” he finally said.

“Why not? I want to learn how to paint and you want to teach. It seems like the perfect arrangement,” I blurted out, echoing White’s words in the parking lot.

His smile widened into a Cheshire-cat grin. “I’m sure you can find a spot.”

As I entered the studio I saw nearly twenty students, more than were supposed to be allowed in the class. Including, I noticed, the pushy girl from the day of registration. I guess I wasn’t the only one with a grandmother.

Everyone was standing behind an easel, arranging their drawing pads and nervously shifting their feet. I quickly found an empty space, wondering if I looked as excited as everyone else.

“How many of you are artists?” Oliver asked the class. A few hands went up. Oliver nodded. “Well, I can tell you right now that I doubt any of you are really artists. Being an artist takes time, patience, work, study, and sacrifice. By the end of this class you’ll have a taste of what I mean, and perhaps it will inspire one or two of you to continue on this path toward being an artist. But I warn you, it may not be worth the price.”

After such a pretentious opening, I wondered if I’d fought to get here for nothing, but I seemed to be alone in my assessment. All around me people were leaning forward, caught up in the excitement of being on the starting line of their dream.

We first went around the class, saying our names and explaining our reasons for being there. Though it was supposed to be a class for beginners, several of the students were already selling their work at local art or craft shows. My guess was that the class White was offering for advanced artists had filled up the night he made the announcement, leaving several people to crowd into the beginner’s course. Those of us who really were beginners were divided into two categories: people that said “I’ve always liked to draw” and the more annoying “I feel I need to do this for my soul.”

The pushy woman from the registrar’s office said her name was Sandra, and added, “I took this class on a lark because ceramics was already filled.” An odd answer given how desperately she wanted to get into the class. Oliver smiled at her, but there was no warmth in it and he moved to another student without comment.

Then Oliver turned to me. “You’re the quilter,” he said.

Was that a bad thing? “Yes,” I said. “I work in a quilt shop anyway. But I’m here because I’ve always enjoyed drawing and painting and I want to see if I’m any good at it.”

“You learned from your grandmother, if I recall,” he said.

“Yes.”

He nodded and moved past me to an older man who had been a reporter for years before retiring to Archers Rest and finally taking up his lifelong dream of becoming an artist.

After he was finished, a familiar voice started speaking behind me. “I’m Kennette and I just like to draw,” she said.

I turned around and waved. She was wearing the same bright outfit she’d worn to the opening and a huge, eager smile on her face.

To assess our artistic abilities, we started the class by drawing a group of bottles that Oliver had placed on his desk. I pulled out my drawing pad, a piece of vine charcoal, and a kneadable eraser and arranged them on my easel.

“Do you have a piece of paper I could borrow?” Kennette tapped my shoulder.

“Yeah. Sure.” I tore a piece of paper off my drawing pad and handed it to her.

“Cool,” she answered. “Do you have some extra charcoal?”

I nodded and handed her a piece. “Do you have an eraser?” I asked.

“No, I don’t need one.” She smiled. “I’m very free-form.”

She immediately started drawing bottles on her paper without bothering to look at the arrangement.

I, on the other hand, spent most of the class struggling to recreate the bottles in exacting detail, making liberal use of the eraser. Oliver walked around, stopping at each student, making comments or suggestions, and filling me with terror. When he stopped at Kennette’s easel, I saw out of the corner of my eye that he was smiling approvingly.

“You’ve really found the essence there,” he said to her.

How do you find the essence of bottles? I wondered, feeling as completely inadequate as I ever had.

Then he walked over to me. He watched me for what seemed like an eternity before he quietly said, “Nice, but very restrained. Let yourself be wrong because it will allow you to take more chances.”

He moved away from me and on to another student before I had a chance to respond or even to think about his assessment.

When the class ended I lingered a minute. The “let yourself be wrong” comment stung since I knew that was not my strong point. Besides, wasn’t the point of the exercise to draw the bottles? How could getting them right be the wrong thing to do? But those questions weren’t the reasons I waited to speak with Oliver. More than anything, I wanted confirmation that I belonged in this class with all these eager wannabes.

In doing so, I realized that it had only been two hours since his annoying opening speech and I had already fallen for it. When there were only a few students left, I made my way over to Oliver, but it was almost too late. He was already heading out the door. I followed him and quickly realized I wasn’t his only stalker. Sandra was closing in as he reached his office. I held back and watched as the two stopped and talked quietly for a second before Oliver let her into his office and closed the door behind them.

“He’s amazing, isn’t he?” Kennette was behind me, staring at the door to Oliver’s office the way a puppy stares at a chew toy.

“He’s interesting,” I replied. “I wonder why he’s talking to that woman Sandra.”

“She’s a weird one, huh? Who dresses her?”

I glanced over at Kennette’s mismatched outfit and smiled. On second look, it had a kind of charm to it. “I think she has an ulterior motive for being in the class,” I said. “She was desperate to get in.”

“We were all desperate to get in.” Kennette shrugged. “And she probably has the same ulterior motive as half the class—she’s hoping Oliver will discover her.”

“I guess.” I nodded. “Still . . .” I let the sentence trail off because I didn’t actually have anything to add. I just didn’t like Sandra, and I wondered if I was jealous of the impression she was obviously making on Oliver.

“Where are you going from here?” Kennette said as we walked out of the building into a bitter cold January day.

“Work. I work at my grandmother’s quilt shop in Archers Rest.”

“If she’s hiring, let me know. I need a part-time job.” I nodded a good-bye and headed toward my car. After a few steps, I realized Kennette was following.

“Do you quilt?” I asked.

“I’m a fast learner.” She bit her lip and looked at me hopefully.

Before I had a chance to think about it, I spoke. “Well, if you want to follow me to Archers Rest, you can meet her,” I said. “I’m pretty sure she can use an extra hand. I’m only there part time.”

“I’ll just go with you,” she said. “I walked here.”

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Nearby,” she said and hopped into my passenger seat.

 

 

 

 

E
leanor was in the classroom area of the shop, leaning over a quilt that had been stretched across a table. Susanne was with her, and they were busy putting pins through the layers.

“What are they doing?” Kennette whispered as she stood behind me.

“Pin basting,” I said. “It’s when you layer the three parts of a quilt—top, batting, and the back—and get it ready for quilting. You have to temporarily hold the layers together so when you quilt them they don’t shift.

“They’re doing it with safety pins,” she said.

“Yeah, you can do it with thread or little plastic thingies, but for machine quilting, safety pins work fine.” I was a little proud of myself for being so knowledgeable.

Kennette tiptoed over and examined the work reverently. My grandmother looked up and smiled.

“I remember you. How are you . . . ?” my grandmother’s voice trailed off into a question.

“Kennette. I’m great.”

“What a lovely name, dear,” Susanne said. “What’s your last name?”

Kennette looked down for a moment then smiled. “Green,” she said.

“It goes with your outfit.” Susanne smiled. “It’s lovely to have you here.”

Kennette dropped her tote bag and moved closer to the quilt. “Can I watch? I don’t want to be in the way.”

“You’re not in the way,” Susanne said. “We’re just prepping this big old thing for quilting.”

“You’re pin basting.” Kennette smiled.

Eleanor’s smile widened. “You’re a quilter.”

“Not really,” Kennette answered. “But I’ve always loved quilts. They’re such an amazing combination of utility and art.”

“Would you like to help me baste this?” Susanne handed Kennette a curved safety pin and explained to her that the shape made it easier to get through the layers of fabric.

“How far apart do you put them?” Kennette looked absolutely thrilled at the prospect of jumping into the project.

“It depends on the batting,” Susanne explained. “On this one we need to put a pin every three or four inches. About the width of your hand.”

At that Kennette put her hand down next to an area that had been pinned and began to add her own safety pins.

“Good work,” Eleanor said. “We got lucky that you happened by today. This is the most tedious part of making a quilt.”

“That’s why you do it in a group, I bet,” Kennette said.

“You’ve figured out our secret.” Susanne smiled.

I coughed, since no one seemed to notice I was there. “She’s looking for a job,” I said.

Susanne looked up and saw me standing in the background. “Hi, Nell. I was wondering if you were coming in today.”

“I came in with Kennette.”

Eleanor glanced up and smiled, then turned back to Kennette. “Are you an art student as well?”

“We’re both in Oliver White’s class,” she said.

I moved toward Eleanor. “I was thinking that with me only here part time, maybe you could use another hand for a few hours a day.”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Eleanor said. “Let’s look at the schedule and see if it will work out.”

“Should’nt we finish the pin basting first?” Kennette grabbed a handful of pins and started carefully putting them through the layers of fabric. This move delighted Susanne and Eleanor, who cheerfully went back to basting the quilt. I knew before she did that Kennette had gotten the job.

There clearly wasn’t anything for me to do, as I certainly wasn’t about to get involved in the very boring job of basting the quilt. “Why don’t you take Kennette on a tour of the shop,” I suggested. “I’ll go across the street and get some coffee to celebrate this occasion.”

Eleanor nodded. “Carrie is there. I saw her earlier. Ask her if she can spare a few small cups.” Eleanor and Kennette headed to a wall of books at the back of the shop.

I walked across the street to a store closed for remodeling. The shop, until recently a failing pet store, was slowly being transformed into the sort of hip café that was around every corner in my former Manhattan neighborhood. Since moving to Archers Rest, I hadn’t missed my old publishing job, my ex-fiancé, or the out-until-dawn lifestyle of New York City, but I did miss coffee shops like the one Carrie was planning. I knew I would be a loyal customer when she finally opened its doors.

As I reached Carrie’s shop, I saw Jesse heading toward the river. I started to wave, and even though I could swear he saw me, he didn’t acknowledge that I was there.

“Hey there,” Carrie said as she opened the door.

“You don’t happen to have any coffee, do you?” I asked.

“That’s a dumb question,” she laughed. “I’m on my third pot.”

I walked into the shop, more puzzled than hurt by Jesse’s behavior. But once in, I was struck by the transformation from pet shop to, there’s no other way to say it, huge mess. The floors were dirty, the place smelled of wet fur, and Carrie was still finding bird poop whenever she cleaned. The biggest change was on the walls. She was painting them a soft brown—the color, naturally, of milky coffee.

“They look great,” I said as she poured me a cup from a home coffeemaker she was using until a professional machine was installed.

Carrie beamed. “Thanks. I think they’re almost perfect.”

“Almost? What more can you do to them?”

“I was thinking . . .” She paused. Her face scrunched up, and she looked at me for so long that I began to worry I had something in my teeth. “I was thinking that maybe you could paint something on the wall.” She gestured toward the large blank wall directly opposite the front door.