Chapter 5

It got to be late October again, marking the two year anniversary of my moving to Connecticut. I'd long since settled into a lazy routine, spending four routine hours on my computer in the mornings, and then making the five to ten necessary phone calls I needed to in the early afternoon. Business was still strong, but there were customers who had business failures, and these outlets for my chimes needed to be replaced with new ones.

Since my move from California, the ambition I'd once had, back in my Leslie days, had been replaced with my just wanting to do enough to maintain my very comfortable living standards. It might have been some slight case of depression I was feeling over my failed relationship, or else it might just be that I no longer felt the need to prove myself to anyone. I don't know. Whatever it was, I found myself satisfied with just coasting along.

Several times a month I would take one or two days off, during the week, and run all around New England in my Navigator, looking for bargains that I could buy up and then turn quickly for a profit. My primary motivation for doing this was recreational in nature. Since my early teens, buying and selling things had been not only my vocation, but also a favorite hobby of mine. It was a kind of competition I had going with myself.

The goal on these two day forays was to leave with three hundred dollars, in cash, pay all of my travel and other expenses from this amount, while still managing to return home with at least six hundred dollars in my pocket, all as a direct result of the profits I made from products I'd find to buy and sell on the way.

As a general rule, I seldom had any problems with reaching my goal. Sometimes, I'd need to fudge things a little, by staying in cheaper motels, or by eating fast food fare rather than at the nicer restaurants. Other times though, I'd buy things for myself, using my windfall profits to pay for them, in an attempt to reduce what I had in the way of profits on the first day of my trip. I'd leave early in the morning to start each trip, returning before noon on the third day. Usually, I'd do this three or four times a month, although sometimes I'd only be able to get away twice.

It was on one such of these trips that I thought I had again run into the young woman I'd first seen when she was painting on what was now my property. I recognized her right away as I was driving across one of those narrow wooden covered bridges so common in the New England countryside. She was standing by the side of the road, on the same side of the bridge where I was crossing, with her paints spread out on a towel on the ground beneath her. She had an easel and canvas placed directly in front of her. I slowed as I came off the bridge and noticed her. At first, I couldn't be sure that it was the same girl. I hadn't seen more than just one side of her face the first time I'd seen her. This time I got a good look at her face, and I also noticed that her hair was quite a bit longer that it had been before. I thought it was the same girl, but I certainly wasn't sure that it was.

The bridge I had just crossed was only a block from the center of another little town, one situated about six miles East of where I now lived, and along the same two lane road I'd needed to find my town that first time. I found a parking place easily enough, then got out of my vehicle and quickly walked back towards the bridge and the girl.

"Hello. Look, I'm really sorry to disturb you, but I remembered something when I passed by you, and I just have to ask you about it."

"Hello yourself." She stepped back from her easel, an easy smile on her face as she acknowledged both my presence, and her willingness to allow herself to be disturbed from her work. "What did you want to ask me?"

"You'll think this is strange, and I won't blame you if you do. Anyway, about two years ago, I ran into you when you were out painting in the woods. You were painting in a meadow, right near this little stream. There was an old white derelict house out there too, one that had been long abandoned. It was just this tranquil little meadow, way out in the woods, just South the town of Patler. I was wondering if you might still, possibly, have that painting you were working on then?"

"Patler? I know where Patler is of course, but I don't remember going over there to paint anything. This was two years ago you say?"

"Yes, just about this time of year, two years ago. It was in a large clearing, this big old white house, that had an old wooden back porch that had fallen in on itself, and there was this little stream moving slowly by, with lots of turning leaves floating on top of the water. It had this dark gray slate roof, and all the eaves came out at least three feet from the sides of the house."

"I'm sorry, I don't remember any house that I painted by a stream, and I don't remember ever meeting you before. Are you certain that it was me you saw painting in that meadow?"

"I'm not certain, but I really thought you were the same painter. You wouldn't remember me because I was just out taking a walk, and happened upon that meadow by chance. I didn't want to disturb an artist's concentration, so I left without announcing my presence, or disturbing her. The reason I asked about the painting is that I bought that house, and I've had it completely restored. I would have liked a picture painted of the time I first saw the house, then another painted showing how the house looks now."

"You're the one who bought the old Lowery house then? We heard someone had bought it and put quite a bit of money into restoring it. Someone said you spent almost a quarter million fixing it up?"

"Less than that. A lot, but much less than what you heard. So, it wasn't you I saw there that day?"

"No, not me, but I'm sure I know who it was that you did see that day. Can you write down your phone number for me, and I'll check with her, to see if she still has that painting?"

I thought she was trying to pull a fast one on me when she asked for my phone number. She sure looked like the girl I'd seen from the edge of the woods that day. Same general size and body build, same shade of hair color, and I'd found her with an easel set up, painting a similar type of picture. This time it was an old covered bridge and not an abandoned house, but that was the only real difference. Not having any other choices, I wrote down my name and number on the back of someone else's business card I'd just taken from my wallet.

"Can you please call me to let me know either way, just so I know whether or not what I want is still possible?"

"Sherry doesn't sell or give away her work. Usually, unless she really likes what she's painted, she scrapes the canvas and then paints on it again. She hardly ever likes a painting well enough to bother with keeping it."

"My name is Jim Masters, I'm sorry but I don't know yours?"

"I'm Tina, short for Christina, Axelbland. Nice to meet you, Jim." She was smiling and sticking her hand out for me to shake. We both looked down at her outstretched hand at the same instant, seeing all the different paint marks on it. I took her hand, not worried about a little paint.

"My friends all call me Jimmy. Only my big brother and my late parents ever called me Jim. I prefer Jimmy, it sounds friendlier. This Sherry that you think might be the one who was painting over in that meadow, does she look a lot like you? I mean same color hair, but cut shorter, same slim body, and about your height?"

Tina just laughed at me but wouldn't answer the question.

"I'll ask her if she still has that painting, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't. I've looked through most of what she has saved, and I don't remember any pictures like the one you described. I do know she has painted lots of scenes from over close by where that old Lowery house is located though. It was probably her, and there's a good chance that she still has some sketches she drew before she did the actual painting. She keeps all her old sketch pads."

"If she does have sketches, would that be enough for her to recreate the painting I'm talking about?"

"Perhaps not recreate, but she could do a fairly close approximation. I'm sure she would have made several sketches of that caved in porch you mentioned. Those are the kind of details she just loves to paint. Your biggest problem will be that she won't sell or give away her paintings. If you could talk her into making an exception for you, it would be a miracle."

"I'm going to be away from my house for a couple days, a business thing. I have an answering machine on my phone though, and, if you'll hand me back that phone number I just gave you, I'll give you my cell phone number as well. You can usually reach me at that number if I'm not at my house for some reason." She handed me that card back and I wrote down my cell phone number for her.

"Seven six zero, what place has that area code? It sure isn't from around here."

"No, that is a California area code. That's where I'm originally from. I had that number when I first moved back here and I've just kept it. With the plan I have, it doesn't matter where I'm calling from."

"I could tell you weren't from around here, but I wouldn't have guessed California. Why would you ever leave beautiful California to come out here? Usually, its the other way, with people from around here moving out West."

"It was time for a change, and I was driving around and just happened to land over in Patler and liked it."

"What did you like about it? Patler is just like here. There's no future here, all the jobs are gone, and there isn't anything for anyone to do for amusement except, walk, read, paint and knit."

"I like it. I do walk, but I don't paint or knit."

"You forgot read. Do you read?"

"I read a lot on the internet, mostly for business reasons."

"What business are you in?"

"I sell wind chimes."

"You make them yourself?"

"No, they come from China. I just buy them and then sell them to retail outlets. It's a good business though. I don't have to work very hard and I make enough to keep me in hot dogs and beans."

"Hot dogs and beans? Didn't I see you getting out of that big blue Navigator before? With the way that SUV guzzles up the gas, I doubt you could even afford hot dogs and beans, not the way gasoline prices have gone up lately."

"You'd be surprised. On the highway, I get about eighteen miles a gallon. That isn't too bad. Plus, the Navigator is a very comfortable car to drive. And, speaking of driving, I need to get back on the road, or else I'll end up sleeping in my car tonight/"

"Why would you end up doing that?"

"I have a little contest with myself when I go on these trips of mine. They have to pay for themselves, and double up the money I start out with. If the first day isn't good, then I have to cut way back on my expenses."

"You're lucky we're having an Indian Summer then. Otherwise, you'd end up freezing to death by sleeping in your car."

"I've never actually been forced to sleep in my car, I was just using hyperbole. I'll sleep in a nice warm room tonight, but to be able to do that, I really have to get going."

I left her by the side of the road then. I was slightly disappointed because of what she'd told me about this other artist friend of hers. I really had wanted a painting of how the house looked when I'd first seen it, and another of what it now looked like. A good part of the enjoyment I got from living there was from knowing that I'd rescued the house from near certain extinction, either from continued weather decay, or at the hands of a bull dozer hired by whoever else would have ended up buying that property instead of me.