traffic light that might have stopped him remained a bright, beckoning green. A few miles later the sign for William Randolph Hearst’s sumptuous estate tempted him, but before he reached the Castle, he entered the perimeter of Milford-Haven and somehow knew
this
was where he wanted to stop.
Turning off the highway, he nosed into a main street that passed through a valley between hills. On the hills were perched tall pines, houses nestled among them. Parking in a diagonal spot outside a row of shops, he turned off the car engine and allowed himself a moment of silence before opening his door. Leaving the car’s top down, he closed the door, stretched, and breathed deeply of ion-rich air, laden with thescent of pine.
A whiff of sizzling meat wafted past Zack’s nostrils, and he glanced up Main Street to discover its source. Instead of tracking it, he continued wandering from shop to shop, gradually noticing that each one housed original arts or crafts of some sort, and that the village he’d discovered was not so much a tourist town as it was an artists’ colony. Every store’s windows were decorated for the season—some with an autumn elegance, some with a whimsy of goblins and ghosts. Outside the local Chamber of Commerce, he perused the visitors’ rack and pulled out a colorful map.
Tracing a finger over the page, he saw a drawing of a gallery called Finders, then looked down the street and saw its sign. He walked the few yards and stepped through the front door, setting off the pleasant sound of door chimes. A voice with an accent—French or French Canadian—greeted him with, “Good afternoon, Sir. My name is Nicole. May I ’elp you?”
“Oh. Thanks. I was just reading about your gallery here and I wanted to see it for myself.”
“C’est bien! We
represent a cross section of styles here. We have everything from nature to ’igh technology and from modern to realism.…
Her spiel seemed well rehearsed and as she continued to talk, Zack found himself processing the accented words: “ehv-rrreh-thing,” and “tech-no-lo-jee”, finding her a little hard to follow.
“Well, if I can explain anything to you about our artists, or their work, please do not ’esitate to ask.” As she walked away, her heels clicked on the stone floor, and her hips swayed, confined chicly in a tightly fitted skirt.
“Okay thanks,” he called after her.
She glanced back just in time to catch him looking at her posterier, and gave him a smile.
Zack lifted his gaze, returned the smile and said, “I’ll just have a look around.”
He strolled through the room gazing at the paintings.
The atmosphere here is so casual… not like visiting a museum
. Just then, his stomach growled.
I’m alone in here at the moment, so no one else heard that. I must be getting hungry
. But he enjoyed keeping the hunger at bay a little longer with the pleasant thought of discovering some delightful little lunch spot. His eye fell on a nice painting that had captured some of the local charm … pines, ocean, mist.
Very restful
. Then he saw an arresting image: in the center of a canvas bisected by the horizon—sky above, ocean below—a sperm whale breached. Though its tail was submerged, the entire body hung suspended above the waves as though the creature were trying to escape the water.
Nothing peaceful about this painting. It’s all energy. And there’s something baleful in that eye
.
He continued walking until he discovered another room, realizing the gallery was larger than it had seemed at first. Coming around a corner, he was stopped by what he saw.
The painting hung alone on the far wall—a window to another world… a lost world of primeval forest and untrodden seashore, a dreamscape where footsteps left no prints in a sun-dappled, sandy cove.
Zack stood transfixed, his breathing heavy and deep, heat rising up his neck. As though mist from the painting might cool his face, he drifted closer to the canvas, and waited to
this
was where he wanted to stop.
Turning off the highway, he nosed into a main street that passed through a valley between hills. On the hills were perched tall pines, houses nestled among them. Parking in a diagonal spot outside a row of shops, he turned off the car engine and allowed himself a moment of silence before opening his door. Leaving the car’s top down, he closed the door, stretched, and breathed deeply of ion-rich air, laden with thescent of pine.
A whiff of sizzling meat wafted past Zack’s nostrils, and he glanced up Main Street to discover its source. Instead of tracking it, he continued wandering from shop to shop, gradually noticing that each one housed original arts or crafts of some sort, and that the village he’d discovered was not so much a tourist town as it was an artists’ colony. Every store’s windows were decorated for the season—some with an autumn elegance, some with a whimsy of goblins and ghosts. Outside the local Chamber of Commerce, he perused the visitors’ rack and pulled out a colorful map.
Tracing a finger over the page, he saw a drawing of a gallery called Finders, then looked down the street and saw its sign. He walked the few yards and stepped through the front door, setting off the pleasant sound of door chimes. A voice with an accent—French or French Canadian—greeted him with, “Good afternoon, Sir. My name is Nicole. May I ’elp you?”
“Oh. Thanks. I was just reading about your gallery here and I wanted to see it for myself.”
“C’est bien! We
represent a cross section of styles here. We have everything from nature to ’igh technology and from modern to realism.…
Her spiel seemed well rehearsed and as she continued to talk, Zack found himself processing the accented words: “ehv-rrreh-thing,” and “tech-no-lo-jee”, finding her a little hard to follow.
“Well, if I can explain anything to you about our artists, or their work, please do not ’esitate to ask.” As she walked away, her heels clicked on the stone floor, and her hips swayed, confined chicly in a tightly fitted skirt.
“Okay thanks,” he called after her.
She glanced back just in time to catch him looking at her posterier, and gave him a smile.
Zack lifted his gaze, returned the smile and said, “I’ll just have a look around.”
He strolled through the room gazing at the paintings.
The atmosphere here is so casual… not like visiting a museum
. Just then, his stomach growled.
I’m alone in here at the moment, so no one else heard that. I must be getting hungry
. But he enjoyed keeping the hunger at bay a little longer with the pleasant thought of discovering some delightful little lunch spot. His eye fell on a nice painting that had captured some of the local charm … pines, ocean, mist.
Very restful
. Then he saw an arresting image: in the center of a canvas bisected by the horizon—sky above, ocean below—a sperm whale breached. Though its tail was submerged, the entire body hung suspended above the waves as though the creature were trying to escape the water.
Nothing peaceful about this painting. It’s all energy. And there’s something baleful in that eye
.
He continued walking until he discovered another room, realizing the gallery was larger than it had seemed at first. Coming around a corner, he was stopped by what he saw.
The painting hung alone on the far wall—a window to another world… a lost world of primeval forest and untrodden seashore, a dreamscape where footsteps left no prints in a sun-dappled, sandy cove.
Zack stood transfixed, his breathing heavy and deep, heat rising up his neck. As though mist from the painting might cool his face, he drifted closer to the canvas, and waited to
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