Saran-wrap sand-
wich. “Want some help cleaning up?” she asked Chloe.
“Thanks, I’d love some help,” Chloe replied gratefully. “I’m the
slowest person in the room.”
Gwen reached for one of Chloe’s brushes and began pulling
the bristles through a scrap of newsprint to remove pigment.
“You’ll get the hang of it.”
“I sure hope so.” Chloe went to work on another brush. “Gwen,
please tell me that you’re not really a beginner.”
Gwen laughed. “No, I’ve been painting for years.”
“Then … why this class?”
“I’ve taken beginner classes many times. I—”
The lights went off. In the sudden silence, the sound of adoles-
cent laughter and pounding footsteps.
“I think some nisser are playing pranks,” Mom said. She made her way to the wall and flicked the switches again. “Some of the
volunteers preparing the museum for Christmas obviously
brought their children and grandchildren along.”
“My sister and I used to do the same thing,” Chloe admitted to
Gwen. “It seemed so hilarious when I was eight.”
Gwen chuckled. “Perhaps I should think twice about leaving
my paints here overnight. I don’t want some disgruntled elf to mix my colors.” She reached for a baby food jar of muddy-looking turpentine. “As I was saying, I keep taking classes because I always
52
learn something new. And there aren’t any other painters where I
live.”
Chloe had grown up in Stoughton, Wisconsin, where it was
impossible to walk down the street without seeing rosemaled
embellishments on shutters, business signs, park benches. “Well,
your work is beautiful,” she said, nodding toward Gwen’s tray. “Do you compete in the annual Exhibition?”
“No way .” Gwen lowered her voice. “I give people like your mom a whole lot of credit. I do this for fun, and that whole competition aspect …” She shook her head. “I think the point of entering is to inspire other artists, and to celebrate one’s
accomplishment. That’s probably the case for most people, I guess, but I’ve heard some pretty nasty remarks over the years.” She set
the first brush aside and reached for another. “Sour grapes from
people who didn’t win a ribbon, most likely.”
Chloe remembered the complaint she and Roelke had over-
heard the evening before about last summer’s exhibition. “I sup-
pose judging is somewhat subjective, too.”
“To a point,” Gwen conceded. “The process has to be transpar-
ent. The judges provide critiques, and the good ones are clear and constructive. But every once in a while …”
Chloe swished her brush in some paint thinner, wiped it on
her palm, and frowned at the traces of red paint left behind. “Like last year, maybe? I heard someone complaining about—about the
Gold Medal.” At the last moment she backed away from saying
Petra’s name aloud.
“There were a lot of complaints,” Gwen murmured. “Two
painters had accumulated enough points that if they earned a blue
ribbon, they’d each earn a Gold Medal. Petra Lekstrom did just
53
that. But a lot of people thought that Petra was scored too high,
and that Violet Sorensen’s work—which got a red ribbon—scored
too low.”
“So Violet ended up one point short of medal status, right?”
Chloe tested her brush again. Dammit! Still threads of pigment.
“Right. Violet painted a butter churn, and it was stunning.”
Gwen gave Chloe a What can you do ? look. “There were a lot of mutters about Petra somehow influencing one of the judges. But
there are three judges, so it wouldn’t be easy to do.”
“I know that winning a Gold Medal is huge,” Chloe mused.
“Beyond the honor, it leads to all kinds of opportunities.
Well—you know that, of course, since your mother is a Medalist.”
Yes, Chloe thought, I do know a bit about that. “What did Petra
enter in the competition?”
“An antique trunk.”
Petra had painted an immigrant trunk? Chloe winced.
“I
wich. “Want some help cleaning up?” she asked Chloe.
“Thanks, I’d love some help,” Chloe replied gratefully. “I’m the
slowest person in the room.”
Gwen reached for one of Chloe’s brushes and began pulling
the bristles through a scrap of newsprint to remove pigment.
“You’ll get the hang of it.”
“I sure hope so.” Chloe went to work on another brush. “Gwen,
please tell me that you’re not really a beginner.”
Gwen laughed. “No, I’ve been painting for years.”
“Then … why this class?”
“I’ve taken beginner classes many times. I—”
The lights went off. In the sudden silence, the sound of adoles-
cent laughter and pounding footsteps.
“I think some nisser are playing pranks,” Mom said. She made her way to the wall and flicked the switches again. “Some of the
volunteers preparing the museum for Christmas obviously
brought their children and grandchildren along.”
“My sister and I used to do the same thing,” Chloe admitted to
Gwen. “It seemed so hilarious when I was eight.”
Gwen chuckled. “Perhaps I should think twice about leaving
my paints here overnight. I don’t want some disgruntled elf to mix my colors.” She reached for a baby food jar of muddy-looking turpentine. “As I was saying, I keep taking classes because I always
52
learn something new. And there aren’t any other painters where I
live.”
Chloe had grown up in Stoughton, Wisconsin, where it was
impossible to walk down the street without seeing rosemaled
embellishments on shutters, business signs, park benches. “Well,
your work is beautiful,” she said, nodding toward Gwen’s tray. “Do you compete in the annual Exhibition?”
“No way .” Gwen lowered her voice. “I give people like your mom a whole lot of credit. I do this for fun, and that whole competition aspect …” She shook her head. “I think the point of entering is to inspire other artists, and to celebrate one’s
accomplishment. That’s probably the case for most people, I guess, but I’ve heard some pretty nasty remarks over the years.” She set
the first brush aside and reached for another. “Sour grapes from
people who didn’t win a ribbon, most likely.”
Chloe remembered the complaint she and Roelke had over-
heard the evening before about last summer’s exhibition. “I sup-
pose judging is somewhat subjective, too.”
“To a point,” Gwen conceded. “The process has to be transpar-
ent. The judges provide critiques, and the good ones are clear and constructive. But every once in a while …”
Chloe swished her brush in some paint thinner, wiped it on
her palm, and frowned at the traces of red paint left behind. “Like last year, maybe? I heard someone complaining about—about the
Gold Medal.” At the last moment she backed away from saying
Petra’s name aloud.
“There were a lot of complaints,” Gwen murmured. “Two
painters had accumulated enough points that if they earned a blue
ribbon, they’d each earn a Gold Medal. Petra Lekstrom did just
53
that. But a lot of people thought that Petra was scored too high,
and that Violet Sorensen’s work—which got a red ribbon—scored
too low.”
“So Violet ended up one point short of medal status, right?”
Chloe tested her brush again. Dammit! Still threads of pigment.
“Right. Violet painted a butter churn, and it was stunning.”
Gwen gave Chloe a What can you do ? look. “There were a lot of mutters about Petra somehow influencing one of the judges. But
there are three judges, so it wouldn’t be easy to do.”
“I know that winning a Gold Medal is huge,” Chloe mused.
“Beyond the honor, it leads to all kinds of opportunities.
Well—you know that, of course, since your mother is a Medalist.”
Yes, Chloe thought, I do know a bit about that. “What did Petra
enter in the competition?”
“An antique trunk.”
Petra had painted an immigrant trunk? Chloe winced.
“I
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