The Lighthouse

Ignoring the pain, she stepped back and studied the canvas from a different angle. No, it wasn’t really good, but she had to admire the artist’s raw talent. She herself had that talent, a compulsion to translate her perceptions and thoughts into lines, shapes, and colors. Once, when she’d first moved to New York after graduating from Stanford, she’d thought she might become a serious painter. But there had been a semi-famous painter (married) under whom she had studied (in more ways than one). He had claimed to understand and appreciate her talent, but what she had taken for professional ardor had in reality been simple middle-aged desperation and need for sexual reassurance. When their affair had ended (back to wife, reassured), she had emerged wiser and a touch cynical. She had set aside her dreams of serious work, studied and learned the craft of a commercial artist. She was good at it, too, she’d always known that, even if it had taken her a long time to become established.

The years they’d spent on the East Coast had been lean ones professionally. Jobs were few, commissions for free-lancers even scarcer. But once they’d returned to California, her career had taken an upward turn. Over the years she’d done whimsical watercolors and bold sketches for children’s books; botanically accurate pastels of regional plants and trees for a series of textbooks; pen-and-ink drawings for a special edition of a Jack London novel; illustrations for trade magazines and house organs. Once she’d even illustrated a crochet book-endless diagrams of wool being manipulated with a hook, until she could have crocheted an afghan in her sleep. And next there would be the partnership in the design firm, and the new challenges that would bring. But first there were the drawings for Jan’s book-a challenge also, if not a particularly difficult one. What appealed to her about the project was the chance for the two of them to work together, bringing one of Jan’s dreams to fruition. They’d never had anything they could work together on before…

Alix turned as the dark-haired woman reappeared and came around the sales desk. She was about forty, handsome in a strong-featured way, and the lines of her face spoke more of worldly experience than of age. In spite of her wiry appearance, she had large breasts and gracefully curved hips that were evident even though she wore a loose brown tunic top. Alix noted her full figure with a certain envy; she’d always wished she’d been better endowed.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the woman said. “I was wrapping a painting for shipment. A couple from Washington bought it this morning, for their daughter.”

“Sounds as if business is good.”

“Not really. Even the summer is slow. Trouble is, I’m too far off Highway One.” The woman shrugged and then smiled. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes and no. I’m not a customer. Actually, I’m one of your new neighbors. My name’s Alix Ryerson; my husband Jan and I moved into the lighthouse last week.”

“Oh, of course. You’re from California, aren’t you?”

“Palo Alto. My husband teaches at Stanford.”

“Stanford,” the woman said. She sounded impressed. “Well… don’t you find living conditions out on the cape awfully primitive? I mean, compared to what you’re used to.” “No, it’s surprisingly comfortable. Not an interior decorator’s dream-challenge is more like it-but quite liveable.” “I’m surprised, what with old Seth Bonner living there the past three years. Nothing against Seth,” she added at Alix’s inquiring look. “He’s all right once you get used to him. But he’s mildly retarded and I wouldn’t guess much of a housekeeper. But I’m being rude. My name’s Cassie Lang, I’m the owner of this place.”

Alix clasped the hand extended to her and found it strong, almost sandpapery in texture. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same here.” Cassie seemed to mean it, which was a relief. “Look, why don’t we have a cup of coffee? Or tea, if you’d prefer?”

“Coffee sounds good.”

“I have a pot going in back. We can sit and talk back there, if you like.”

“Fine.”

Cassie led the way through a door behind the sales counter, into a narrow back room half-full of shelves piled with cardboard cartons. A worktable cluttered with tools, pieces of driftwood, and other items took up most of the remaining floor space; but at the back, next to a window that gave a good view of the nearby Victorian house and garage and the bay beyond, was a table supporting a Mr. Coffee. A yellow paisley armchair flanked the table and matching curtains were hung in the window. Cassie motioned for her to sit, then bustled around collecting cups, inspecting them for cleanliness, pouring and serving.

Alix asked, “You are the C. Lang who did the paintings out front?”

Cassie set her cup down and pulled a swivel chair, the kind secretaries use for typing, over from the worktable. Her expression was guarded as she said, “Yes, they’re mine.”