Page 54 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
Roman was there, for me and for Wyatt. Jessie was back in town and with us. The mayor was on my side, trying to help. The town itself had welcomed me home.
I had let my feelings for my mother bury my memories of my hometown in shadow and muck. But now I saw that I washomehere. Whatever happened to the Sea-Mist, I felt like we’d be okay.
For the first time since I’d gotten word that Micah was dead, I felt like we’d be okay.
TWENTY-ONE: Detente
After dropping the kids off, I ran a few errands, then pulled up in front of Coastal ArtWorks about quarter to noon. I smiled at the sparkly, vividly violet, fifty-plus-year-old Dodge Challenger parked in front of me. That car was Jessie on wheels.
I grabbed my purse and the tote full of my purchases from the market and got out of the car.
A horn blared nearby, close enough for me to jump and yank my door close. A late-model pickup rolled by, and the driver—whom I recognized as the guy who kept the lighthouse—glared at me and shouted through his open passenger window, “Watch where you’re going!”
I had checked my mirrors before I’d opened my door. That asshole’s truck had been plenty far enough back to have had ample time to see me open my door and adjust accordingly.
His horn had startled me, and his nasty shout had pissed me off. Ergo, I flipped him off and yelled, “Fuck off!”
Neighborly? No. But he’d started it. That guy was really a jerk.
He heard me; I know this because he slammed on his brakes and threw his truck into Reverse, like he intended to screech backward and start an actual road rage incident.
I decided to ignore him. I closed my car door and made my way—as calmly as I could manage—to the sidewalk. After a second, he returned to Drive and continued on his way.
Kind of ironic that the one person who seemed most displeased about my return to town wasn’t from here and had never known me.
Before I reached for the door to the gallery, I saw Peter Greyfather standing on the sidewalk across the street, holding a leash with a solid black German Shepherd at the other end.
“You okay?” he called when he saw me see him.
“Yeah, fine,” I called back. “Probably not my best moment, but that guy’s a jerk.”
Peter laughed. “Finn’s a little crusty, sure. But he’s okay once you get to know him.”
We would have to agree to disagree on that point. “If you say so. See you!”
He waved and continued walking his dog. I turned and opened the door to Coastal ArtWorks.
With Jessie skipping town almost as soon as I landed back in it and being gone for weeks, I hadn’t had a chance yet to do more than peer through the windows at her gallery. As I stepped through the front door—painted bright purple—I caught a whiff of a scent that I would always associate with my friend. Primarily oil paint and turpentine, with hints of wood, chalk, clay, and canvas. I let the door close and paused right there to take the space in.
Jessie had come from the womb an artist and a free spirit. Even as a kid, I don’t think she’d ever cared about what was popular, what was considered ‘normal,’ or what other people thought of her. Most of us take a long journey from trying to be like everybody else to arriving at self-actualization, many of us never get there, but Jessie has always been Jessie and perfectly comfortable in her skin.
Her personal style might best be described as ‘Clown School Lost and Found,’ full of bright colors and wild fabrics, often not close to matching. She doesn’t even bother to match socks.
Her naturally red hair is thick and wild. Not really curly, but prone to messiness—and Jessie lets it do whatever it wants. I think she might brush her hair as much as once or twice a week.
She laughs loud and often. She eats fast and eagerly. She bounds into every space like a caffeinated Labrador retriever.
Jessie is, in short, a lot. But there is no better person on the planet. She is the definition of ride or die, loyal to the end. She will give a stranger the mismatched clothes off her back and a friend her back itself. She judges virtually no one. The only way to get on her bad side is to punch down, to be cruel or callous to someone in need. Even then, she does not hold a grudge. If you’re sorry, Jessie forgives. Period.
She is an astonishing example of the ideal human, is what I’m getting at.
In our early days of school, kids tried to tease her for the ways she was different, but even at the age of five, Jessie was impervious to ridicule. She truly does not care what other people think about her. The bullies gave it up pretty quickly; they got no satisfaction from picking on someone who barely noticed.
As I stood inside her art gallery—the realization of a dream she’d had since she was eight—Jessie was present in every square foot of the space. The white walls in this front room soared to the ceiling, probably twenty feet high at least. The ducts and pipes were exposed up there, of course. Nearly every inch of wall space was covered by artwork—paintings in oil, tempera, watercolor, acrylic; framed art photos; textiles and multimedia pieces; ceramics and metalwork. Dangling from the industrial ceiling were mobiles and lighted sculptures, and Chihuly-style blown glass.
Artfully placed on the glazed concrete floor were square white plinths supporting sculptures, pottery, and glass. Scattered amongst the plinths were diverse seating arrangements: several low arm chairs in rainbow-bright leather (or maybe pleather), a Victorian-style divan upholstered in purple faux fur, and a collection of ottoman puffs in funky fabrics.
Though I recognized Jessie’s touch on several paintings, the work was by a number of different artists, some of whom were clearly Indigenous (or working in indigenous art forms, but I didn’t see Jessie trafficking in appropriated art). She obviously had strong connections in the art community around these parts. I was proud to see that she was doing exactly what she’d always wanted.
