Page 16 of Clear Path

It’s not what we look at that matters, it’s what we see.

—HENRY DAVID THOREAU, AMERICAN TRANSCENDENTALIST

9

Union Hill

The Pilates studio occupied what had once been a milliner’s shop on Railroad Way. The restored original tin ceiling gleamed above the new bamboo flooring and the exposed brick walls had been painted a soft, creamy white. Morning light streamed through the plate-glass windows, illuminating the six Reformer machines as well as Rory and the five other women who lay on them.

“Extend through your heels, ladies. Find length in your spine,” Lissa, the instructor, encouraged as she moved among them. “Now, control the return. Slowly, slowly.”

Rory focused on her breath as she pulled the carriage back to its resting position. The familiar burn in her core and thighs anchored her, momentarily distracting her from the whirlwind of anxious thoughts that had been her constant companion since the previous day. Lydia’s demolished home, Tripp’s gross behavior, the cancellation of her first big gallery show, and theunsatisfying conversation with Julie all swirled in her mind, a constant intrusion.

As she moved through the exercises, her gaze drifted to the storefronts visible across the street. The plant bar offered a propagation station and a sustainable gardening workshop. Next door, a fiber artist spun yarn that she then custom hand-dyed. Next, was the ancient grains bakery. And the last shop on that side of the block was a co-op that offered toothpaste tablets, refillable soaps and detergents, and waxed wraps to replace your plastic wrap and sandwich bags—all in service of a greener lifestyle, provided you could swing the annual membership fee and the refill prices.

Her stomach twisted, not from stretching, but from sour guilt. Wasn’t she part of this transformation? Didn’t she benefit from it? She paid premium rent for her apartment/studio space and could afford these classes, those shops, that upscale coffeehouse that had replaced the Union Hill diner, and the organic groceries at the new market. How different was she, really, from the tourists and transplants Julie was so eager to attract? No different at all, she answered herself bitterly. Julie was right about that much.

“And release,” Lissa’s voice pulled her back to the present. “Beautiful work today, everyone. See you on Wednesday!”

As the class dispersed, Rory wiped down her machine and collected her water bottle and towel. She’d moved to Union Hill seeking authenticity—an escape from the artifice of her modeling career and the pretentiousness of the D.C. art scene. Yet here she was, surrounded by the same carefully curated aesthetic in a different, more rustic setting.

“You were somewhere else today,” Lissa observed as Rory gathered her things. “Everything okay?”

“I was distracted,” she admitted. “I have a lot on my mind.”

Lissa nodded sympathetically, tucking a strand of bright pink hair behind her ear. “Heard about your gallery show. That’s rough.”

News traveled fast in Union Hill. Rory shouldn’t have been surprised. “Word’s out already?”

“Julie mentioned it at the five am class.”

Rory groaned. Why had she told Julie, of all people?

“Want my advice?” Lissa continued, “Put it firmly in the rearview and move on. Pittsburgh has other galleries.”

“Thanks,” she managed.

If only it was that easy. Tripp was an undeniable slimebag, but Hot Metal was one of the most prestigious contemporary art spaces in western Pennsylvania. Walking away felt like a significant career setback. Probably because it was.

She said goodbye to Lissa, pulled her fleece jacket over her head, and pushed through the door. Before her feet hit the pavement, her phone was vibrating in her thigh pocket of her leggings. Again. She ignored it. Tripp had been calling all morning, and she had no intention of talking to him.

Ember + Bean sat on the corner diagonally across from the Pilates studio. The coffee shop’s outdoor tables were crowded with hearty, caffeinated souls ready to embrace spring despite the temperature hovering in the low fifties. Rory joined the line inside and inhaled deeply. She loved the intoxicating, homey aroma of fresh coffee and baked goods. If someone bottled it as a perfume, she’d adopt it as her signature scent.

“Well, if it isn’t our local celebrity!”

The warm, raspy voice belonged to Diana Mercer, seated at her usual table in the corner. Union Hill’s former police chief motioned Rory over.

“Celebrity seems like a stretch,” Rory replied after she ordered her usual and joined Diana at the corner table. “What are you talking about?”

“The Heraldran a feature on yourVanishing Coal Countryexhibit this morningandthey mentioned your upcoming show in Pittsburgh. On top of all that, Evan Jeffries sang your praises, and he’s a well-known curmudgeon.” Diana waved toward a booth on the other side of the small coffee shop. “Aaron read the entire article aloud to me, not to mention the rest of the patrons.”

As if summoned, Aaron appeared at Rory’s elbow, newspaper in hand. His eager smile and warm brown eyes were boyish, despite the fact that he was closing in on thirty-five. In truth, he reminded Rory of an overgrown puppy. A golden retriever or maybe a chocolate lab.

“Thought you’d want to have a copy,” he enthused, thrusting the paper toward her. “They used the Kovalic portrait. It looks amazing even in the smudgy newspaper ink.”

“Thanks.” Rory took it from him, trying to hide her discomfort.

She and Aaron had dated briefly—very briefly—when she first moved to Union Hill. After three casual dinners and one awkward morning after, she gently informed him that they were better as friends. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that he had an on-again, off-again girlfriend, Sadie. He and Sadie had definitely beenoffwhen Rory arrived in town, but they wereonnow. And Sadie was the type to hold a grudge.

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