Part 7 (1/2)

Unfortunately, by the time I drove over, the sleet, still heavy-and now made worse by the addition of wind-had glazed the roads and made them icy. The van didn't handle as well as the Jeep, a stick s.h.i.+ft, enabling me to downs.h.i.+ft quickly when needed, and I had my reservations about the quality of tread on the tires. The van slid at every corner even though I was barely moving.

To make matters worse, a line of traffic grew steadily longer behind me. A truck, its headlights flooding the interior of the van, loomed inches from my b.u.mper.

I could see the mall lights up ahead on my right as I began to ascend a small hill. The rear end of the van swished right, then left. I clutched the steering wheel, willing my foot off the brake. The truck faded back.

I pulled into a well-lit area of the immense parking lot and stopped to take a breather. According to my instructions, I was to go to a loading dock marked B-7, where I could back the van inside, s.h.i.+elded from the weather. I'd impressed upon the mall people that I couldn't unload my paintings and panels unless they were well protected. They'd a.s.sured me everything would be fine.

But, of course, I couldn't find B-7. The way they'd spoken, I'd a.s.sumed it would be easy to locate. But there weren't any markings of any kind outside, or else the dark night and inclement weather had erased them. I parked the van as close to an entrance as possible and ran inside.

Despite the weather, the mall was busy. It was quite nice, better than anything near Glenwood, and new. It gleamed like a s.h.i.+ny new coin. I hurried past walls adorned with striated marble tile and under vaulted ceilings with antique gold accents. Lush greenery and brilliant flowers of red, yellow, and purple sprouted from giant pots around every turn. Store windows spewed forth their offerings, glittering jewels, Rolex watches, full-length sable coats. I spotted Saks Fifth Avenue and Neiman Marcus, smaller stores, Liz Claiborne, Gerard Heath, and Le' Spa.

My instincts told me to head to the center of the mall. Maybe I'd find some kind of information desk.

I did find a circular booth, and calmly explained my dilemma to a kind-faced, smartly dressed woman in a rose colored suit. She quickly spoke to someone on the phone, pulled out a folded map, marked off B-7 in red ink, along with the area I described as the location for my art show. I thanked her profusely and headed off.

By the time I crept back to my hotel that night, I was exhausted. I'd found B-7, but again had to get out of my van and get drenched because a huge delivery truck was blocking the entire entrance. I found the driver and convinced him to move his empty truck-he had stopped to have a coffee and donut and was reluctant to leave the donut box-but the delay cost me another half-hour of setup time.

Fortunately, it was all done now. It took me countless trips to carry it all inside and a lot of thinking and planning to put it all together, but it looked great. They'd given me a good location, a carpeted island surrounded by aisles going in several directions, central to foot traffic. I had potted plants for background, pots of flowers I could use or remove. And they'd remembered to provide a decent looking desk for me to sit behind when I wasn't on my feet roaming or talking to potential customers.

Though it was almost eleven p.m. and Trevor might already be asleep, I decided to call. The phone rang four times and then the answering machine clicked on. But as I began to speak, the machine beeped once, and I knew Trevor had picked up the receiver. His sleepy voice mumbled something resembling h.e.l.lo.

”Hi, honey,” I said, ”sorry I woke you.”

”So'kay.”

”I'll call again in the morning. You go back to sleep.” He grunted something unintelligible and I couldn't be sure if he was agreeing with me or not. ”Trevor?”

The phone disconnected.

I sighed and hung up, then pulled back the blankets on the tightly made bed. Without another thought, I crawled between the cold sheets and turned off the light.

The mall opened at nine and I arrived by eight-thirty. I wore a charcoal gray skirt and low shoes, a lighter gray jacket and mauve blouse that matched my name tag, along with a pair of pearl earrings. Not too dressy, but not too casual.

I inspected my small domain. Desk with Visa machine-a must-and several small stacks of my brochures, a business card tucked into each. I also had a large floor bin of prints I'd made of my original paintings, three copies of each one. I could, of course, take orders for more. The prints were priced to sell for much less than the original artwork and would likely be the smaller percentage of my profits.

I walked between my panels, painstakingly put together last night and hung lovingly with the canvases I had labored over the past few months. They were some of my best work. My painting of climbers ascending an icefall looked almost real. You could almost feel them sweat as they swung their axes in the warm suns.h.i.+ne. And my painting of a mammoth bear balancing on the rocks, extending its neck into a cold mountain stream for a drink, was breathtaking. I'd also recently completed one of hikers on the trail up to Hanging Lake, stopping to wait for their young son, and to take in the beauty surrounding them.

I had arranged and rearranged it all in as attractive a fas.h.i.+on as I could imagine, allowing for traffic flow and room to stand back and admire. It looked spectacular.

There was a deli close by, and before the mall became too busy I planned to buy my lunch and put it in the small cooler below my desk. That was the only problem. I couldn't leave for any length of time. It would be a long, long day.

A little past nine a.m., a stray pedestrian, a twenty-or-so male dressed nicely in slacks and a golf s.h.i.+rt, sidled into my area. I tried not to pounce on him, instead stood near my desk ready to answer his questions should he ask any. He walked through it all, then gave me a quick smile and rummaged through the bin.

”Nice,” he said when he was done. ”I might be back later.”

I nodded and watched him walk on.

I experienced a few more of those, then at ten o'clock things got busier. I casually walked among the panels. Potential customers strolled in and out, wives with husbands, wives without husbands, single women, single men and, of course, children.

An older gentleman, his face deeply lined, but his gait rapid and sure, came up to me and signaled me to follow him to one of the paintings. ”I love this,” he said. He was referring to my painting of a lone young man in a kayak moving through a turbulent river, the youth's paddle dipping forcefully into the churning water. ”My grandson would love this. Can I buy it?”

”Oh, yes.”

”What river is that?”

”The Colorado.”

The gentleman smiled. ”Really? He kayaks there. It almost looks like him. Did you paint this?”

I nodded, remembering taking the shot last summer, but painting it within the last month.

He turned to gaze at it again. ”Oh, he will absolutely love this. It's his birthday tomorrow and I didn't have any idea what to get him, but this is perfect. Do you take Visa?”

He didn't question the price, which I'd displayed on a small card beside the painting, though it was one of my most expensive. I wrapped the painting in brown paper for him and he strolled off, an apparently happy man.

I sold two prints and one smaller original before lunch, and was feeling very good about it all. I sneaked a few bites of my turkey sandwich when I had a chance, and sipped iced tea through a straw in a paper cup.

My mouth did drop open when I overheard a young woman wearing stilts for shoes bray to her boyfriend. ”Well, yeah, but it's not worth that!”

I backed off immediately, not hurt exactly, just surprised by the girl's loud mouth rudeness.

I rearranged my paintings to cover the empty holes made by the morning's sales, then sat for a while. I'd tried to call Trevor an hour ago, but got his voicemail, so left another message. Suddenly, I missed him, and wondered why he didn't answer his phone, though he was probably working hard too. Realtors, at least the successful ones, couldn't work strictly from nine to five. He hadn't mentioned his condo venture in a while, though he had talked nonstop about it at first. Had something gone wrong with that?

By nine o'clock Sat.u.r.day night, my feet were sore and my temperament dark. The show had gone well, but I couldn't enjoy my success. I just wanted to be home. I had a bad feeling I couldn't shake. I didn't believe Linda's story about the fall down the stairs. She was lying. But it was more than that. Something was telling me I was missing something important. And I hadn't talked to Trevor at all. Why didn't he call?

It was past eleven before I returned to the hotel. I debated calling Trevor again, though I knew he'd be asleep. I dialed the house anyway. No answer. Then his cell phone-the recording again. Calmly, I left another message, then climbed into bed, tossing and turning until I finally fell asleep.

Sunday was more of the same, decent sales, nice conversations with some very nice people, and it improved my mood. I started to attribute some of the bad feelings on the previous night to exhaustion, both physical and mental.

By three o'clock in the afternoon I decided that Josh wasn't coming. He hadn't said what time he might come by, and now I wished I'd asked, because I was torn between hoping he'd show at one moment and hoping he wouldn't the next. But I wasn't worried about my motives anymore. We were old close friends, and to my great relief, I didn't want us to be anything more.

I finally connected with Trevor late that afternoon.

”G.o.d, it's good to hear your voice, Gwyn. I've really missed you. I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to call until now. You forgive me?”

”No, but I guess you had your reasons,” I answered cautiously.

”Gwyn, now don't be mad. I honestly couldn't help it. Every time I stopped to pick up the phone I got interrupted. And I figured you were busy anyway. You were, weren't you?”

”Yes. I made quite a few sales. But I stayed up late, and I didn't see any messages on my phone. Not one.”

”You were up late? I swear I would have called you if I thought you were up. I've had some incredibly late nights. Sales are popping all over the place with the condo project. There might be a Whispering Pines two if sales are any indication. In fact, I might be making a trip to Denver myself in the near future to train new a.s.sociates. But I know. You're not interested in that. I should have called.”

”Yes.”

”I love you. You still love me ... right? Just a little?”