Beach Rental(35)
****
The next day Ben and Juli ran errands together. Coming out of Food Lion, they crossed the parking lot and Ben opened the trunk to deposit the bags.
“What’s this?” he asked. “Yours?”
He held up her old backpack.
“It’s mine. I forgot about it.” She hadn’t needed it or missed it. When they returned home, she carried it up to her room and tossed the pack into the bottom of her closet.
Chapter Eleven
The Harris family was replaced by the Smiths who were replaced by the Stabonacci’s.
Those first weeks of marriage were measured by the ebb and flow of vacationing families. Mom and pop and kids, and whatever relatives had come along, packed up, loaded their cars—taking a quantity of sand with them in their clothing and toys—and departed each Sunday morning. The cleaning service swept through on Sunday midday. Platoons of men and women came in, cleaned and went on to the next rental. Late Sunday afternoon the next wave of guests arrived. Neighboring houses had a similar schedule, but for some of them, the change-out day was Saturday.
The world continued revolving around her while she was caught up in a sort of lull. The sun rose, the sun set, and in-between it shined gloriously. The sun, the tides, and the waves were the ticks of a living clock.
Ben commented on her restlessness. One day in mid-June, he pointed to an ad in the local paper and said, “Here you go, Juli. This is what you need.”
“Art instruction?”
“I should’ve thought of her sooner.”
“Her? Who?”
“Anna Barbour. Some of her work is displayed at the gallery. She’s very talented, a professional and someone you can rely on. Set it up on a week-to-week basis. See if you like it.”
Alarm hijacked her composure. It was okay to scribble and scratch on her own, but hiring an artist to give her lessons? This felt like a ‘show up or shut up’ moment.
Ben crossed the room. He punched the numbers into the cordless phone and held it out to her. “Press Talk, Juli. Go ahead and give it a shot.”
****
Juli pulled up in front of Anna Barbour’s sound side home, double-checking the address, looking for any reason that would allow her to leave while telling herself she’d tried—any excuse that would let her off the hook.
When they’d spoken on the phone, Anna’s voice was natural and friendly. Yes, she was interested in picking up another student, and no, it wasn’t inconvenient at all—come on over whenever.
Nothing stood in Juli’s way except herself.
She picked up her purse and exited the car. A flagstone walk lined with jonquils led to the front porch. She held her breath and pressed the doorbell.
Anna was tall and thin. Her hair was a graying blonde pulled back into a knot at the back of her head. There was something very basic about Anna, as if she could walk out the back door, pull on her dock shoes, grab her fishing pole and head out to the dock. Juli could see the dock through the large plate glass windows facing Bogue Sound. Lawn chairs, empty and inviting, sat at the far end overlooking the water.
“Come on in, Juli. I’m delighted to meet Ben’s wife. You’ve got yourself a sweetheart of a husband there, but I guess you already know that.”
Juli followed her in. “Yes, he’s great. He talked me into contacting you.”
“I’m glad he did.” She stopped and gave Juli a long look. “Maia told me about you.”
Juli didn’t know what to say. “All good, I hope.”
“Every word of it was marvelous. Maia said you were sweet and Luke said you were very attractive, so it’s nice you’ve got them in your corner.”
“In my corner?”
“It’s none of my business, but I’ve known Adela for many years. Be patient with her.”
Anna showed her the small paintings she produced for local galleries and also sold at hotels on the mainland. “Mostly acrylic. Some oil. The larger sketches on the walls are in a variety of medium—pencil, Conté crayon, and pen and ink.” She turned to Juli. “What medium have you worked with?”
It was a long, narrow room, and mostly windows, especially in the long exterior wall. It looked like an enclosed a back porch, but it was a big room, wide and long, to be used year-round. Easels, dinged and paint-spattered, were situated the length of the room, along the windows. What had been the backside of the house was unbroken but for the kitchen door and a kitchen window, and was hung from floor to ceiling with years of artwork.
“Is this all yours? I mean, did you do all of these?”
“This and more. Some are gifts from my students.”
Juli was hypnotized by the eclectic arrangement. No rhyme or rhythm. Any piece could be moved at any moment to accommodate another work of art. A living gallery, it was inelegant and— “organic. It’s organic.”