Chapter 16 Geraldine
Geraldine
The staff had been thoroughly accommodating.
The Maine Chance’s reputation was not undeserved.
Geraldine watched as the young chauffeur—Calvin, she thought his name was—carried a small wooden table into the modest-size outbuilding.
It was one of several she had been offered for use as her temporary studio, and she had been surprised at how well-suited it was for the task.
Long windows on one end gave a view off towards the lake.
Windows on the other three walls allowed plenty of light to flood the room.
The mellow hardwood floor could easily be scrubbed should paint spatter and land upon it.
A deep windowsill served as a pleasant perch for any number of things, including her aged backside.
Yes, Geraldine thought, this would do nicely. If only she could manage to get herself to justify her request of its use. She unfurled her paintbrush roll and removed the brushes one by one, placing them carefully into a mason jar thoughtfully positioned on a nearby table.
“Will there be anything else, Mrs. Putnam?” the handsome young man asked, his voice filling the airy space.
She tipped her head to one side and crooked her finger for him to come closer.
He seemed a smart lad, and one who likely would be capable of discretion.
With his military bearing, it was clear the boy had seen something of the world and made it home safely to tell the tale.
There was likely nothing wrong with his intelligence.
“As much as I have found the vast majority of things on offer here to be satisfying in the extreme, I have noticed one notable absence of what I consider to be a common, everyday necessity.” She arched an eyebrow at him, wondering if he would fill in the blanks for her.
Leaving his face carefully neutral, he leaned slightly closer. “And what might that be, ma’am? We aim to please in every particularity,” he said.
She slipped her hand into her painting-smock pocket and withdrew a crumpled packet of cigarettes, along with a five-dollar bill.
“There seems to be an utter dearth of scotch, gin, or anything else worth drinking at this establishment. I will say that the coffee is good, but it’s hardly the sort of thing one wishes to drink at cocktail hour.”
“The regimen does not include any alcohol whatsoever, Mrs. Putnam. My understanding is that Miss Arden believes abstinence does a world of good.”
“Miss Arden may be a genius when it comes to potions and lotions, but she ought to leave tippling well enough alone.” She held out the money and watched as Calvin’s eyebrows inched ever so slightly upward.
Unless she missed her guess, she had him.
“Bring me back a bottle of something decent, and keep the change. Once you’ve brought it to me, there is another five in it for you. ”
“Anything to keep the guests happy, Mrs. Putnam,” he said, taking the bill and slipping it into his pocket. “Is there anything else?”
“Don’t be greedy. I expect you back before cocktail hour. I’m not likely to be able to face another of those minuscule dinners without some liquid fortification beforehand.”
He nodded and bounded away. She wondered what sort of thing he’d most like to spend any extra money on.
Surely he had no great need to pay for groceries or rent, at least not for the summer, since the staff primarily lived in at the resort and took their meals there, from what she had understood from Iris.
Perhaps he was saving up to purchase an automobile.
That was all the rage with so many young people these days.
Not that she could blame them; she happened to appreciate a fine automobile herself.
She turned her attention to setting up her supplies and equipment just the way she kept them at home.
She found it soothing to snap open the latches on her wooden tackle box and reveal her half-empty tubes of paint and palette knives all nestled cheek by jowl in their compartments.
Next, she slipped her folding easel out from its canvas bag and busied herself by straightening its legs and tightening the wing nuts until the whole contraption stood ready for business next to one of the large windows on the lake side.
Now to wait for her muse. She carried the folding chair and an oversize pad of foolscap to the window and perched there.
She rummaged through her supplies and plucked up a square stick of charcoal.
After propping the pad on her lap, she began sketching out the view of the lake.
Seeing it from a different angle began tickling her sense of curiosity about the scene before her.
An island that was not visible from her home studio view was clear to see from her current angle.
A lone tree rose up from its center like some sort of watchtower.
The shoreline curved and cut behind the island, and she found herself absorbed in the task of trying to represent it authentically.
Usually, she was much more concerned with the feeling of the place, but whenever a dry spell such as the one she had been experiencing reared its ugly head, she found it best to go back to basics.
She could almost still hear the sound of her most fearsome instructor at the Parisian art school as she used minimal strokes to render the image accurately.
Still, something was missing, and it was not just a lack of her own unique style being demonstrated in the sketch.
It was as though the tree were not enough to create in her a sense of satisfaction.
She found herself startled by the thought.
For so many years, landscapes had been her passion.
Never before had she considered a lone tree to be insufficient to serve as the protagonist in a painting.
She leaned back in the chair, the scene in front of her suddenly feeling lackluster and unnerved.
At this rate, no change of scenery would be enough to help her be ready for the rapidly approaching exhibition.