Page 8 of A Small Town Spring

I adjust the paisley scarf I added to my outfit at the last minute.This morning I struggled over what to wear and ended up in a less fancy version of what I had on last night: faun colored pants, white shirt, velvet jacket.Pete's wearing jeans and a sweater, matching Ivy’s casual duds when she answers our knock.

“Come on in,” she says, leaving the door open for us to follow her into the spare, minimalist entryway of the medium-sized post-war colonial.She offers us coffee or tea, but I opt for water.I had my fill of coffee this morning while lounging in my armchair, reading for pleasure and trying to ignore the fact that I was going to see Toby again.

It doesn’t matter that he makes my stomach ache and my breathing shallow and that I did, indeed, see his face even after I closed my eyes last night.He’s Ivy’s, he’s been Ivy’s for years.I’ll simply ignore my inconvenient feelings and make friends with the most attractive man I’ve ever met.

“Toby’s in his studio,” she says, after we sip our drinks and make small talk.“Do you want to see mine first?”

“Yes,” Pete says enthusiastically, and I know he’s not simply trying to flatter her.“Please.”

Ivy takes us to what must have been intended as a guest bedroom but now contains three worktables and no bed.One table holds a block of clay and sharp-looking tools in neat round buckets.The second seems to be where her work-in-progress is, a horse, by the looks of it, taking shape out of rust-colored clay.The third has finished pieces, not clay at all, but dark metal, polished to a shine.I see a bird taking flight, and another horse, galloping with its mane flowing as if cutting through an invisible wind.There’s a tarantula, too, mid-climb over a rock.Very weird and interesting.

“I’ve always wondered how it works—you sculpt in clay first, and then what?”Pete asks.

“Yes, I make a mold of the clay piece in silicone.That’s how you can make multiple castings of the same piece.Then I cut the mold away from the clay, which gets repurposed for another piece.The next step is to melt the bronze down and pour it into the mold.After it cools, I remove the mold and bronze remains.There’s more technicality to it, but that’s the gist.I can’t pour the bronze here because it’s too much of a fire hazard, but the Art Center has a facility, so I don’t have to go far.It’s another reason I chose Rosedale.”

Pete inspects the clay horse-in-progress.“You like to sculpt animals?”

“Mainly,” Ivy says.

“I’m digging the tarantula,” I say.“It’s so unexpected.”

She grins.“That’s a personal favorite of mine as well.My nephew gave me the idea—I gave him one for his tenth birthday and I have officially become the coolest auntie.”

We talk about her process for a while, but I’m wondering why she’s not putting her stuff out in the world.“You know there’s probably a market for these,” I say.

“Definitely,” Pete adds.“These birds are incredible.Are they hummingbirds?”On a pedestal in a sunny corner there’s a collection of tiny, delicate birds with long tail feathers and curved beaks, all in various stages of flight.

“Those are doctor birds—native to Jamaica.Streamertails is another name for them.”

“Gorgeous,” Pete murmurs.“Would you part with one?My sister is obsessed with hummingbirds.”

Ivy looks somewhat surprised, but then she nods decisively.“Sure.”She turns to me.“Kingston, would you go get Toby for lunch?He’s in his studio in the back.Pete and I can talk terms.”

She gives me a small smile and I know she wants to get Pete alone to talk business.Still, I hesitate.“He won’t mind my just showing up?”

“Oh, he might be a bit stroppy, but it’ll pass.Go out the kitchen door and you’ll see it.”

Part of me wants to turn down the assignment, but an encouraging gesture from Pete prompts me to agree.“All right.”

I leave them to it, retrace our steps to the kitchen, and go out the back door.The day is still chilly, but sunny.Short buttery daffodils bloom on the edge of a walkway that leads to a detached garage with sliding barn doors.The main entrance is shut, but a second door on the side is cracked open.I gather my courage, which falters when I remember I’m going to see Toby again.

I shake myself severely, smooth the front of my shirt, and defiantly stick my hands in my jacket pockets, summoning my usual air of competence.I’m Kingston James.I don’t get nervous aroundboys.

Of course, I have to take one hand out of my pocket almost immediately so I can rap on the open door.

“Hello?”I call inside.

Grumbling can be heard before the door wrenches all the way open.

“What?”Toby barks.He’s wearing a black moth-eaten sweater made of more holes than fabric, a white T-shirt that shows through the Swiss cheese pattern, and loose jeans with smears of white paint all along the front.The shabby clothes reinforce my theory from last night that the clothes, in this case, don’t make the man.Despite the attire, he’s even more handsome today, his hair an uncombed mop, irregular blond stubble on his chin and cheeks.The man won the genetic jackpot and my response to him is no less strong, more’s the pity.

“Oh, it’s you,” he says, his defensively raised shoulders relaxing.“Sorry.I was wrestling with some truculent tubes of paint.”

“I don’t mean to bother you.Ivy wants us to come in for lunch in a minute,” I say, delivering my message while peering curiously around the inside of the garage—studio, Ivy had called it, and the name fits.No cars could fit here, not with the drafting table covered in paints and brushes and glossy 4x6 photos, and several large easels, one empty, two holding canvases.

But those aren’t the only canvases I see.No, there are easily a hundred or more propped up against the walls and a chest of drawers, with smaller ones stacked on a built-in countertop.They all seem to be finished, though the way they’re arranged makes it impossible to see the subjects of more than a few.

But the ones I can see take my breath away.Saturated colors, impressive technique.I don’t have to have an art degree to know that Toby’s got complete command of his brush.So to speak.

---