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The surf seemed to give a great sigh of sorrow, as if the words were somehow were carried on the breeze and then lifted towards the heavens. Blake felt the scald of the first tears in his eyes and he let them run down his cheeks, unashamed and somehow unrestrained by the realization that this would be the last farewell.
“You are a painting in my heart – a masterpiece made perfect by my memory – and I know one day, when we’re together again in the arms of God, that you will be waiting for me and I will have another life in which to love and adore you just as desperately as I do now.
“I have cried enough tears to fill an ocean, wept over the broken pieces of my heart, but I know it’s a path to darkness. And I can’t grieve any more. So I’m not going to wait for you any more, Chloe. Instead I’m going to celebrate your smile in the sunshine and listen for your laughter on the wind, until we can be together again.”
He paused suddenly, the lump of emotion swelling in his chest until he thought it might burst and he would not be able to continue. He took one last breath, lifted his head to the sky and imagined it was a night filled with glittering stars.
“Goodbye, Chloe. I love you – and you will always be daddy’s darling girl. My little girl lost.”
When it was done – when there was nothing left in his heart, Blake walked slowly back up the beach. Connie was waiting for him on the porch. She hugged him and they wept quietly together, drawing strength from the shared sadness.
Then they went inside, and one by one, Connie slowly turned off the lights until at last the old home slept, and the light house was no more.
49.
Connie came bustling through the screen door, her face flustered and her eyes just a little crazy with panic.
“Blake!” she called out, snapping another glance at her watch. “Are you dressed? The exhibition opens in two hours.”
“I’m in here,” he called from the bedroom.
She came down the hallway, her mind a whirl. She had been at the gallery all morning, working with caterers, ensuring all the canvases were hung and attending to a million other minor things that had demanded her attention. Now she had just enough time to change, before heading back to Hoyt Harbor to greet guests as they arrived, and the doors of her gallery were thrown open for the first time.
Blake was in the bedroom, standing, waiting for her. He was wearing a pale green dress shirt and his only good pair of jeans. Connie looked at him aghast.
“Blake, the white shirt,” she said. “I pulled out the white shirt for you. I even laid it out on the bed.”
Blake grunted. “I felt it, felt the collar. It felt blue to me, not white. I don’t like blue shirts.”
Connie almost laughed, but she was too strung out, too stressed, to see the humor. “It felt blue? How on earth can a shirt feel blue?”
“I have an instinct,” Blake declared, like it was some cosmic gift given to him as an artist. “I understand color. So I hung it back up in the closet and picked this dark grey one instead.”
Connie felt herself smile, despite herself. “Okay,” she nodded. “The ‘grey’ one you are wearing looks fine.”
She kicked off her heels, changed as fast as a woman was capable, and was ready to leave again just thirty minutes after arriving. Blake had found his way along the corridor to the studio. She chased after him, herded him out to the car with his hand on her arm.
Ned followed them to the driveway. Connie gave him a pat. “Mind the house, Ned,” she said gently. “I’ll take care of Blake tonight.”
The big dog dropped to the ground, his head down between his front paws, and prepared himself with stoic resignation for the wait until they returned.
It was an hour-long drive to Hoyt Harbor on a good day. Connie made the journey in a little over fifty minutes, talking incessantly about the minor problems that had plagued her during the day. Blake sat tensely in the passenger seat, sensing they were driving too fast, and imagining Connie waving her arms in gestures every time she spoke.
He decided it was a good thing he was blind.
When they arrived at the gallery, the catering staff were waiting for her. Connie led Blake up the steps and into the art space. He had his cane in his hand and he went around the walls slowly and carefully, counting out paces, memorizing distances while in the background he could hear Connie arguing with a man in broken English about the food that had been prepared.
He heard the click of Connie’s heels and turned his face towards the sound. “Everything all right?”
Connie muttered unlady-like words under her breath, then forced a smile onto her face. “Sure,” she said.
“Where are the main paintings?”
Connie led him around the room, guiding him with a hand on her elbow so Blake could fix the location of the portrait and his best seascapes. He wished he could see the space – being in unfamiliar places like this gave him no memory reference to draw on. All he had was his recollection of the map Connie had drawn in the sand when she had first discovered the shop was available, and a couple of photographs she had shown him as the tradesmen had begun to renovate.
He wasn’t yet confident with his blindness, so that his steps were shuffling and almost meek – expecting to bump into forgotten objects or unremembered walls. Connie took him around the perimeter of the gallery twice, willfully ignoring everything else that needed to be attended to until she was certain he was oriented. Then she stole another glance at her watch and squealed.
“They’ll be here any minute!” she gasped.
“What about your mother and sister?”
“A little later,” Connie said. Her mother and Jean were staying overnight at a local motel, and had arrived just a few hours ago. In fact it was the first time in over twenty years that locals could ever remember the town’s lodging being entirely booked out, well beyond the summer tourist season. There was not a room available for miles, and Connie was expecting almost two hundred invited guests… within a matter of minutes.
Reluctantly, she left Blake and drove the last of the catering staff out through the door with frantic waves of her arms like she was herding a small flock of chickens. She had time for a surreptitious gulp of wine – and when she looked up again, she could see faces pressed against the front window glass.
The Connie Dixon Gallery of Fine Art was about to open for business.
They surged through the open door, a hundred people at least who had flown in from the four corners of the globe, followed by more collectors and investors that spilled out onto the sidewalk. One by one Connie greeted t
hem and Blake shook their hands until he was numb and reeling.
There were many people who had invested in Blake’s paintings through the years of his career. Most of the big art money now came from Asia and Europe, and as the people introduced themselves to him, he recalled names that were familiar echoes of the past. By the time everyone had arrived, the gallery was a press of bodies, almost shoulder-to-shoulder, moving like molasses from one beautiful image to the next like adoring worshippers.
Blake stood in the middle of the gallery space with Connie close beside him. She was clinging tightly to his hand and humming with excitement. She leaned close to his ear, told him which paintings were attracting the most attention, and fended off a dozen offers to purchase within the first few minutes.
“It’s the portrait that is stopping them, Blake. They can’t seem to move past it. They are four deep around the painting, just staring at it like they’re hypnotized.”
“And the old seascapes?”
“How many do you want to sell?” she was smiling, her heart pounding with excitement. It was the ultimate culmination of her dream. The gallery was a hit.
Blake lost track of time. He felt faces pressing close to him, the enthusiasm of the collectors as thick and tangible as the stuffy air around them. They were glowing with admiration and congratulations, and Blake was filled with a sense of vindication and satisfaction. Connie’s excitement was a princely reward for him agreeing to offer the paintings for show, and now he was glad he had relented. She had been right, of course. The paintings were dead objects without an audience. Now they had come to life in the eyes and minds and imaginations of all these people who had traveled thousands of miles to see what he had been capable of creating. He felt a sudden twinge of regret that his days of painting were over – the energy in the room and overwhelming approval was like a magic carpet that uplifted him, and stirred within him that hunger for art that he thought had dried and withered in his heart.
