Stowe Away Read online

  “That’s a shame. I was going to invite you to a little gathering I’m having at my house tonight. Eight p.m. I think you might like what you see there.” Despite her serious tone, there was mischief in her eyes.

  Sam sighed. “A social event? I’m not sure I remember what that is.”

  “I’d be happy to remind you.”

  “Is there a particular dress code for this gathering?”

  “Sam, I’ve never seen you wear anything other than jeans, black boots, and gray sweaters. Do you even own anything else?”

  “I have a diverse wardrobe, thank you. I just haven’t had an occasion to show it off since I’ve been back here.”

  Maria rose to leave. “Well then, I insist you come in a red cocktail dress. Plunging neckline. Something short that shows a lot of leg. Stilettos.” Sam cursed the blush that burned her cheeks. From ten yards away, Maria called over her shoulder, “Bra optional!”

  Sam groaned and turned her attention to the thankless task of getting her wet and muddy dog into her car.

  A couple of hours, a shower, and an entire bottle of doggie shampoo later, the residents of Eva’s house were clean. Dolores agreed to do her evening crossword puzzle at Eva’s, which was fortunate, because it took both of them to get Sam’s cranky and agitated mother to bed that evening. Alone in her room, Sam opted for gray slacks, a lightweight green blouse, and black loafers, hoping to demonstrate to Maria that her wardrobe wasn’t the definition of drab. She skipped her usual ponytail and even applied mascara. With her hair layered around her face and the blouse bringing out her eyes, she barely recognized herself in the mirror. The haunted pallor she’d had since moving home warmed a little; she looked like someone with something to look forward to. On her way out of her bedroom, she grabbed a jean jacket in case the temperature dropped later that evening.

  The cuckoo clock on the wall in the kitchen chirped the melody for eight thirty as Sam stood at the door, physically ready to depart, if not emotionally. There was something profoundly different—and inexplicably harder—about leaving someone else in charge of Eva instead of sneaking away in the night with Eva unattended.

  “Have a good time tonight, dear,” Dolores said.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. She shouldn’t need anything, but if she wakes up and is cranky, there are pills in the bathroom—”

  “Sam, honey, go. We’ll be just fine.”

  “Are you sure?” Dolores pursed her lips, and Sam backpedaled. “Not that I don’t think you’re capable. I just—”

  “Sam,” Dolores said with a hint of warning. “Go.”

  Google Maps informed her that Maria’s house was a mile and a half away, and the warm evening air and promise of alcohol enticed Sam to walk. It was after nine when she double-checked the address and confirmed she was on the right stoop.

  The house was set back from the road, and large oak and maple trees populated the front yard. The path from the sidewalk to the porch wound around a dozen knee-high lights, a bench, and a flowerbed currently playing host to a rabbit. It scampered away as Sam strode up the path. The house was a charming L-shaped New England cottage, complete with red shutters, a rocking chair on the porch, and a metal rake leaning against the porch railing, waiting for an autumn that always came early to Vermont. Soft lighting emanated from the front window, and a faint smell of cinnamon wafted through the door. The porch light was on, and a rug in front of the door introduced itself with the words, Hi, I’m Mat. She took a breath and knocked on the red door, hoping she wouldn’t be spending the evening with people she went to high school with but no longer remembered. While she waited, she transferred a bottle of port from her left hand to her right.

  Brendon opened the door and leaned against the doorframe. “Hey, Legs,” he said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Did she have long legs? She’d never really noticed. She scowled at him; he was much more endearing when she wasn’t on uncertain terrain. “Welcome. I’ll take your wine and jacket. You can head downstairs, but please enter quietly. Alfredo is on a roll, and there’s hell to pay if you interrupt him.”

  “Alfredo? As in, Alfredo’s Auto Mechanics?” she asked as she handed over her jacket and the port.

  “One and the same.” Brendon gestured down the hall.

  After Sam passed a dining room on her left and a hallway that likely led to bedrooms on her right, she moved through a heavy oak door and descended into a large, dimly lit, finished basement. The right side of the room contained a wet bar complete with barstools. A dartboard hung on the wall between the sink and fridge. The remaining space was divided into a carpeted sitting room and a hardwood floor with full-length mirrors, a ballet barre along the wall. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the two walls of the sitting area. At present, mismatched love seats, ottomans, and rocking chairs were scattered about the room. A brown baby grand piano occupied the far corner, in front of which was an intricately carved wooden music stand. A series of easels stood clustered along the side wall, their contents covered with a lavender bed sheet. A dozen people were perched on the various chairs and couches, focused on Alfredo, who stood in the center of the room. He had a low, gravelly voice, and he gesticulated animatedly toward various features of an architectural model perched on a low table beside him.

  She silently found an unoccupied chaise near the bottom of the stairs, where Brendon joined her. She divided her attention between the burly mechanic, who was explaining green methods of heating and cooling, and the other occupants in the room. Pauly, wearing corduroys, suspenders, and a button-down shirt, sat nearby. Leaning against the bar, Maria had donned the exact outfit she’d described to Sam, who now pondered the status of her host’s undergarments. She rolled her eyes at herself and continued surveying the room. A young woman wearing all black, maybe sixteen or seventeen, was taking notes, her pen flitting quickly across a steno book. A middle-aged couple she didn’t know shared a loveseat, and an elderly gentleman sipping what looked like a gin and tonic reclined on a deep chair with his feet propped up on an ottoman, his expression skeptical. Father Mark leaned forward in his chair and toyed with one of his rings. Alfredo finished his presentation and bowed his head a little when everyone clapped.

  As the applause faded, Father Mark cleared his throat. “I guess my first question is a financial one: green architecture is still so new that the materials and installation, as I understand it, are quite expensive. Does that mean green architecture is reserved for the wealthy?”

  “It’s a great question, Father Mark,” Alfredo said. “It’s really more of a policy issue—there needs to be subsidies and tax incentives if green design is going to have an impact for lower class citizens. And inevitably, as the technology gets more advanced, some things I’ve featured here—especially the recycling mechanisms that recapture energy from wasted hot water—will become more affordable.”

  The older man with the gin and tonic shifted in his chair. “There seem to be two operations at play here, and I think it’s important that we don’t conflate them. The first is add-ons that make existing structures more efficient. The second, however, is green design that starts from the ground up. What Alfredo’s model indicates is that if you begin with an empty lot, you can use ground elevation, foliage, outdoor water features, and even the orientation of the foundation and window placement with respect to the angles of the sun to create a wholly green structure.”

  “Well, Earl’s right, of course. Retrofitting an existing dwelling is way more accessible than starting from zero. But retrofitting will only ever get you so far if the structure’s built on the top of a hill where the sun hits it all summer long.”

  “Yeah, but like, you’re not suggesting people tear down houses and start over, right? That can’t be energy efficient,” the young woman in black said.

  “No, of course that would be impractical and a huge waste of resources. Retrofitting is a very sound option in most circumstances.”


  “I wondered if we could talk about Alfredo’s model,” Pauly cut in.

  “Right you are, Pauly,” said the middle-aged woman on the loveseat. “These theoretical issues are interesting, no doubt, but let’s get specific. Alfredo’s designed a fascinating house, and I want to know if he thinks it could actually be built.”

  For the first time, Alfredo looked a bit sheepish. “Well, I hope so. I’d like to retire here some day.”

  Maria strode to Alfredo and put her hand on his back. “I’m sure we have loads more to say to our resident designer, but let’s save it for more informal chats during break. For now, we should move on. Hunter?”

  As Alfredo joined the circle of spectators and the teenager in black took her place in the center of the room, Sam puzzled over what kind of gathering this was, exactly. With everyone watching her, Hunter closed her eyes and began reciting poetry.

  It was awkward to watch her standing there—unseeing, swaying slightly—but the verse was actually pretty good. It tended toward unnecessary angst, as one might expect from a teenager, but she used language well, interspersed some nice imagery, and employed some well-placed allusions to other writers. Her style was reminiscent of Whitman, although her content was more in line with Dorothy Parker. She clearly needed help with her performance, but Sam closed her eyes for a moment and noted that the girl had a nice voice and spoke well.

  When she finished, applause broke out across the room; she opened her eyes and looked startled for a moment, as if rediscovering where she was. Giving them a sheepish smile, she cleared her throat. “So, as you all know, this is my first time presenting at the salon. I would be grateful for any feedback you could give me.”

  Sam felt Maria’s eyes on her, encouraging her to speak, and she found herself offering the young poet some detailed compliments and gentle suggestions for improvement. A few others in the room did the same, and then Maria stood.

  “Let’s take a break everyone.”

  Sam headed over to Maria as other guests milled about chatting, refilling their glasses, or pointing at features of the architectural model on the table.

  “So what do you think of my salon?” Maria asked, grinning proudly.

  “Definitely not what I was expecting. It’s wonderful. I’m impressed, truly. How long have you been doing this?”

  “Oh, we started last year. It’s grown a little over time, and we’ve lost some original members, but we meet every other week or so to share our work with each other. Wine?”

  She nodded and followed Maria to a table with glasses and various bottles of alcohol and sparkling juice.

  “So Alfredo’s an architect? I thought he was a mechanic.”

  “He’s a mechanic by trade and an architect by passion. Like many of the salon members, he firmly believes in keeping his hobby separate from his paycheck. His love of architecture started when he visited a couple of countries in Europe a decade ago, after his son graduated college. As soon as he returned, he converted his son’s old bedroom into a studio so he could draft and make models at home. But he fears if he were to turn architecture into a career, he’d start to resent it. Or so he says.” She poured wine into a glass and handed it to Sam.

  “I suppose that makes sense.” Sam took a sip. “So everyone here has some artistic practice as a hobby?”

  “Not exactly. See that older man Hunter is talking to? Earl Munroe. He played viola in the Boston Symphony Orchestra for forty years. He retired a couple of years ago when he grew weary of city life and moved here.” Maria’s mirthful eyes grew serious. “When he plays, Sam, you’ll get chills. I swear, I thought I was in heaven.”

  Maria put her hand on Sam’s back and guided her over to Hunter and Earl, who were having an animated discussion about Brahms. Sam’s mind drifted, as it often did, to Natalie. For the first time, she wished Natalie were in Stowe with her, rather than wishing herself in San Francisco. Natalie would love the variety of art she could experience through this salon and would be thrilled to meet a professional orchestral musician.

  She blinked her musings away and extended her hand to meet Hunter and Earl.

  Fifteen minutes later, Maria interrupted her guests’ informal conversations to call everyone back to order. “Before we resume, I’d like to take a moment to introduce our newest salon member, Samantha Latham. Sam, why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself?”

  Introducing herself had been awkward even when she knew exactly who she was and what she wanted. “Um, I’m Sam. I live in Stowe. With my mom.”

  Maria crossed over to her and put a hand on Sam’s arm. “Why don’t you tell them about your artistic pursuits?”

  “Right. Um, I like poetry. Sonnets are my favorites, but I’m also a fan of epic poems and some blank verse too.” She left out that she actually wrote these forms.

  “Well, perhaps your knowledge of poetry will prove useful to some of our salon members,” Father Mark said. Sam looked up and found his eyes warm and encouraging.

  “Maybe. Thanks.” She looked around. “Thanks for including me, everyone. I’m looking forward to learning more about your work.”

  Maria nodded, then turned her attention elsewhere. “Father Mark, would you care to take the floor?”

  With Maria’s help, Father Mark pulled the two easels from the corner into the center of the room and threw off the sheets covering them, revealing two paintings. Sam could only describe them as modern, abstracted versions of Renaissance “Jesus art.”

  Her eyes never left the paintings as she listened to his presentation. “I started with Carravagio. His paintings of the Madonna with child are unparalleled and were groundbreaking for their time. I was curious about blending new painting techniques with an ancient and iconic subject matter. He used a lot of gold leaf, but these days, gold doesn’t mean what it meant to him. So, I wanted a modern equivalent, something that had both financial value and nobility to our society. Because it’s the information age, I turned to e-mails, websites, Facebook posts, and so forth. I printed them out on different colored paper, and then I cut these papers into small pieces I could shape into a mosaic of sorts. I used acrylic on the canvases to recreate abstractions of the images of the Madonna and child, and then dropped the mosaic pieces into wet paint. I wanted the paint to show through, because ultimately, paint is my medium, and I’m not really a mixed-media artist. But I’m pleased that the bits of paper here recall the bits of gold in gold leaf.” He pulled out his laptop and showed the room the images of the original paintings. “I think the concept was good, but I’m not happy with the composition. I don’t think it’s enough to change the media in order to modernize the painting. I think the relationship of the Madonna and child has evolved in church doctrine, and also in popular culture. The next paintings I do in this series will try to capture some of those changes.”

  Raised Catholic, Sam had given up on the church when she decided in high school that its doctrine didn’t leave much room for women or gays. She was debating the wisdom of asking him to elaborate on what he meant by the evolution of the Madonna and child relationship when she heard her mother’s name.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said, it’s been a while since I’ve had work to present, but Eva’s advice from last time was really helpful,” Father Mark said. “Would you mind mentioning that to her? It really meant a lot to me.”

  Sam’s cheeks burned. Here was yet another facet of her mother’s life that people in Stowe knew more about than she did. Unwilling to ask what Eva’s involvement in the salon had been, she merely nodded.

  “Thank you. So, I’ll open it up to questions or comments.” During the pause before comments began, he fidgeted with his collar. Sam glanced over to find Maria studying her.

  While the guests disbursed, Sam lingered, helping Maria and Pauly wash wine glasses and refrigerate cheese plates. When they were alone, she asked as nonchalantly as she cou
ld, “So, my mom came here?”

  “She did. It was basically her idea. She and Pauly were drawing one day, and she and I got to talking about how artistic many of the people in this town are. She mentioned what a shame it was that people didn’t share their work with each other, and I started droning on about the artist salons in France and how beautiful I thought they were. She just shrugged and said, ‘No reason it can’t be beautiful here, too,’ and that my basement would be perfect.”

  “Complicated woman, that Eva; there’s so much about her I never knew. Guess there’s so much I’ll never know now.” Sam nibbled on a cube of Cabot cheddar.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say it’s too late.” Maria refilled Sam’s wine glass. “You’re here, she’s here. Talk to each other.”

  “Maria, some days she can barely remember the word for ‘coffee.’”

  “Brains work in mysterious ways. You of all people should know that.” The side table and bar now cleared, Maria put a stopper in the bottle and put it behind the bar. “Put a paintbrush in her hand. Give her some clay. Let her find herself through art. That’s how she survived in her first life. I don’t see why it should be any different in her second.”

  Too stunned to say anything, Sam’s mind returned to a heated conversation she’d had with Natalie during their sophomore year about the value of different intelligences. Natalie exalted those who might not understand quantitative physics but whose knowledge of composition, space, and materials dwarfed Sam’s. There’s really only one kind of intelligence, and it’s directly related to understanding basic principles of physics, chemistry, and language, Sam had told her. If you haven’t gone to college, you’ll never have it. Sam had always been embarrassed that Eva had only graduated from high school.