Given the dampness, the door stuck. Annie had to push on it with her shoulder.
She found Sarah sitting in her rattan chair to the right of the front door, from which she could take in the impressive views of the city and still see who came into her house. How, Annie wondered again, had this woman ended up painting such an intimate portrait of a Linwood? With her fair skin and horsey jaw, her faint eyelashes and eyebrows, she had none of the wealth and sophistication of the Linwoods. Her reddish, softly curling hair was erratically chopped, probably by her own hand, and going gray ungracefully. But her eyes were a vivid, penetrating blue, her best, and most revealing, feature.
She studied Annie without moving from her chair. Today she wore navy stretch pants and an oversize white polyester pullover with a fuzzy, bright yellow sunflower stamped on the front. She was a tall woman, at least five ten, but whatever condition she suffered from had left her stooped and gnarled. Despite her swollen, twisted joints, she continued to work, which Annie found nothing short of amazing. Her bungalow seemed as suited to her lifestyle as her functional attire. It was set up less for living than for working. Every available space—shelves, counters, cupboards, walls —in both the kitchen to the left of the front door and the living room to the right was crammed with canvases, paints, brushes, supplies, paper, drawings, books. Yet Annie detected nothing deliberate or affected about how Sarah lived. She wasn't playing to anyone's idea of who she was or how she should live but her own.
"Did you get the painting?" she asked without preamble.
Annie nodded. "I had to pay more than I thought I would."
"Over ten thousand?"
"No. Five on the nose."
"Then there's not a problem. Where is it?"
"Down in my car. I thought I should make sure you were here before I brought it up."
"Where else would I be? Go get it, please." Her thin mouth twitched into the self-deprecating smile of a woman who had no illusions about who she was. "I'll wait right here."
Annie retreated and raced down the stone steps back down to the street, her pulse racing. Her first two visits to the pink cottage, peculiar as they were, hadn't given her a false reading of the reclusive artist's talent. Even one quick glance at Sarah's work had reassured her that she was right. Here was a stunning artistic discovery.
Otto gave her no trouble when she removed the painting. Indeed, he seemed glad to be rid of it and immediately reclaimed the entire back of the station wagon. "Behave," Annie warned him, and started back up the steps. She was slightly winded from excitement and exertion. The painting, at least, wasn't heavy, just awkward. She wondered if the girl who'd sat for Sarah had framed it herself, if she'd ever even owned it herself. Would she be disappointed now, as an adult, when her husband reported that he'd tried to buy it and failed?
All was fair at an auction, Annie reminded herself. If Garvin MacCrae had wanted to pay ten thousand and ten dollars, he'd have gotten the painting. She needn't feel guilty. But as she labored up the stone steps, breathing in the damp smells of the northern California winter, she remembered his expression at her mention of his wife and felt a pang of regret. Still, the painting was Sarah's work. She had a right to it, and she'd paid for it, fair and square.
"Set it over in the corner," Sarah said when Annie, slightly winded, came through the door.
She leaned the painting against a kitchen counter. Seeing it amidst other examples of Sarah's work, Annie was even more confident of her assessment. This was the artist early in her development. Her style wasn't set, wasn't polished, but it was very much there.
Using her walker, Sarah pulled herself slowly to her feet. She seemed to be in more pain today; perhaps the dampness made her stiffer. She struggled over to the counter where Annie had set the painting. "She was a lovely child." Her eyes misted unexpectedly. "I didn't do her justice."
"Then it is your work," Annie said, her excitement subdued by Sarah's unexpectedly somber mood.
"Yes." Her voice was barely audible. She tried to straighten but winced in pain, her spine remaining stooped. She turned to Annie, her vivid eyes shining with tears. "Thank you. I knew I hadn't made a mistake when I chose you."
"Why did you? Choose me, I mean. I haven't quite figured that one out."
Sarah shrugged, then said simply, "I've been to your gallery."
"I know, but that doesn't explain—"
"Yes, it does."
"I don't understand."
Sarah smiled, her tears subsiding, and for a moment she might have been a gentle, maternal older woman instead of an eccentric recluse. "It was the painting behind your register that convinced me you were who I wanted."
Gran's painting. "It's a watercolor my grandmother did of our cottage in Maine. Most people dismiss it as tourist art."