Читать книгу Christmas On Snowbird Mountain - Fay Robinson - Страница 10

RYAN WHITEPATH hadn’t moved or said a word since he arrived. He stood in the doorway holding a sack and stared at Susannah as if she had a second head. She stared back. Not that it was a hardship. On the contrary, she was having a difficult time dragging her eyes away.

The man was extraordinary looking, with black hair falling in shiny soft waves past his shoulders, and rugged, almost harsh, features. If not for the flannel shirt and jeans, he could’ve stepped out of a nineteenth-century painting by Frederic Remington, or been the model for Maynard Dixon’s warrior in The Medicine Robe.

“The woman wishes to speak to you about your art, Ryan,” his mother said. Mrs. Whitepath had offered Susannah a sweet, herbal tea and kept her entertained while they waited for her son and granddaughter to come home.

The older woman—eighty, at least, and no bigger than a twig—was the other woman’s widowed mother-in-law, Sipsey Whitepath, the “Nana Sipsey” Nia had mentioned. She spoke Cherokee and broken English, which meant she was sometimes hard to understand. She also acted as if Susannah had been expected, and that made her a bit uncomfortable.

“Hi,” Susannah said to the man. “I was at the store earlier and met Nia, but I didn’t realize she was your daughter.”

“Who did you say you are?”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve introduced myself. My name is Susannah Pelton.”

He put his sack down on the table. Instead of sitting, he chose to lean with his back against the counter and his arms crossed over an impressive set of chest muscles.

“And you’re from where?” he asked.

“Originally Waycross, Georgia, but the last year or so not from anywhere in particular. I’ve been traveling the country.” She took the hospital pamphlet out of her purse and passed it to his mother who, in turn, handed it to him. “I saw the floor you did for the hospital in Fayetteville, West Virginia, and thought it was exquisite. I was wondering if you’d consider giving me lessons in designing and creating mosaics. I have a couple of months of free time and I’m eager to learn.”

“You drove three-hundred miles to ask me that?”

“And to see more of your work, of course, if it wouldn’t be an imposition.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Pelton. If you’d called I could have saved you the trouble of a trip. I don’t give lessons.”

“Not ever?”

“Occasionally in the summer months I take on an intern from one of the universities, but right now I have too much to do and too little time to do it in. I can’t possibly work with anyone who has no prior experience.”

“I’ll gladly pay you.” She’d already calculated what she could afford, not much, but this was so important she was prepared to dip into her emergency fund.

“Money’s not the issue,” Whitepath said. “I can’t give you lessons. I’m overwhelmed with contracts and it’s going to take every free minute I have to fulfill them. In fact, I should be working right now.”

“I see.” Susannah’s hope dimmed. “Won’t you make an exception this one time? I’ve taken art classes and I have a sketchbook in my truck with examples of my work.”

“I’m sorry. Like I said, I’m too busy to train anyone. It would only put me further behind.”

“I believe I could be a help to you rather than a hindrance.”

“With a broken arm?”

“The break isn’t severe.”

“How did you do it?”

Nia piped up, “She tried to fly, Daddy. I told you.”

“Did you try to fly?” he asked.

“I jumped off a bridge using a parachute,” Susannah explained. “It feels a bit like flying. My landing was off, though, and I hit some rocks.”

He grunted and she could hear censure in it. He thought her a fool for doing something so ridiculous.

“I’m sorry you came this far for nothing, but I can’t help you.” He pushed away from the counter. Apparently he’d decided his discussion with Susannah was over. “Nia, do you have homework?”

“I got to read aloud. And I got to look up ten words in my dictionary.”

“Let’s do it before it’s too late. Go wash your hands so you won’t get the book dirty.”

“Can I read to the pretty lady?” She cocked her head and exchanged smiles with Susannah. Again, Whitepath’s gaze seemed puzzled, as if Susannah had said or done something peculiar.

“We’ll see. Go wash your hands, goosey. Be a good girl. Find a book you’d like to try.”

His expression softened when he spoke to his child, making him look different. Susannah wouldn’t say handsome because it didn’t fit. Less severe was more accurate.

Nia scooted off Susannah’s lap. When she’d left the room, the older woman mumbled a few words in Cherokee. That prompted a quick response from Whitepath. Judging by his scowl, his grandmother had clearly said something he didn’t want to hear.

“Ryan, don’t be rude,” his mother admonished. She turned to Susannah. “Forgive my son. He forgets not all people speak Tsalagi.”

“Sorry, Miss Pelton. I didn’t mean to exclude you.”

“Call me Susannah, please.”

“Susannah.”

She’d never liked her name, but it sounded…appealing coming from his lips. Pleasurable, like the brush of silk against her skin.

“Don’t apologize,” she told him. “I love listening to your language being spoken. I wish I’d bought some books so I could learn a few basic phrases. Tsalagi.” Susannah pronounced it slowly. “I assume that means Cherokee?”

“Yes, the word refers to our language and is one of only a few common to Cherokee here and out west.”

“I don’t understand. You speak a different language from other Cherokees?”

“A different dialect.”

His mother jumped in and explained. “The Eastern Band is a separate entity from the Cherokee Nation in Oklahoma. Most Cherokee here in North Carolina and surrounding states speak Atali and those in Oklahoma Kituhwa. We in Sitting Dog, however, have a mixed dialect that’s not really used on the nearby reservation. I’m afraid a book of phrases would do you little good. You must hear the language spoken, the subtleties of it, to truly understand the meaning of the words.”

“Why is there a difference in dialects if the reservation is so close?”

“We’ve been isolated from each other until recent years because of the mountains. Traditions and lifestyles have evolved differently, as well. Like Qualla Boundary, we have a few mixed-race families because we’ve lived among our white neighbors for many years, but most of our residents are full-blooded. English is our second language rather than our first. We speak mostly Kituhwa, as our ancestors did centuries ago. The dialect is similar to that once spoken by the Cherokee who were relocated to Oklahoma, but with colloquial differences. We borrow from both the Eastern and Western dialects.”

“Well, it’s lovely. Very musical.”

“Yes, a good description. That’s why we so often express ourselves through song.”

“Is Nia fluent in Tsalagi and English?”

“She speaks both and is learning to read and write both. She’s been brought up to learn and respect the language and customs of both races. Her mother was white.”

Susannah had thought so. The child’s skin was light, not dark like her father’s. Her hair was a warm brown rather than black. She could pass for white or Native American.

“Nia mentioned that her mother had passed away. I’m very sorry.”

Whitepath made a strangled sound. He straightened, taking several steps toward her. “She told you that?”

“She said her mother died of cancer.”

He and his mother stared at her strangely again. His grandmother only nodded, as if she wasn’t surprised.

“I’m sorry,” Susannah said. “Was talking to her about it a mistake? If I did something wrong, I apologize.”

“No, no,” Mrs. Whitepath said. “You did nothing wrong. We’re only amazed that Nia confided in anyone. She’s rarely so open with strangers, and she never speaks about her mother. She seems to have taken a great liking to you, though. That’s what Ryan and his grandmother were discussing.”

“I see,” Susannah said, but she suspected there was more to it than that. There was some kind of conflict between the man and the old woman. Sipsey Whitepath seemed pleased, but Ryan looked downright unhappy.

AT HIS MOTHER’S insistence and to Susannah’s delight, Ryan Whitepath agreed to take her on a quick tour of his studio.

“I’ll help Nia with her words while you’re gone,” his mother told him, ushering them out the front door with their coats.

They stood on the steps to appreciate the beauty of the landscape. The old house and its outbuildings sat about halfway up a mountain in a small clearing bordered by hardwoods and evergreens. A panorama of hills and valleys stretched out before them. Dusk had arrived, turning the trees to dark figures and streaking the sky with multiple shades of orange and pink. The scene was breathtaking.

“My God,” Susannah said with a long sigh. “Everything seems too beautiful to be real.”

“The sunrises are just as spectacular. And when a storm rolls through…it’s like nothing else you can imagine.”

“Have you always lived here, Mr. Whitepath? In these mountains, I mean.”

“Call me Ryan. And yes, I’ve lived in the mountains and, for the most part, in this house all my life, except for the years I was away at school. I was born in one of the back rooms. So were my father, uncle, two younger brothers and my sister. My grandmother delivered all of us.”

“Do your siblings live in Sitting Dog?”

“Joseph does. Charlie’s in Winston-Salem and Anita’s a sophomore at the University of North Carolina at Asheville.”

“Is that where you went to school, UNC?”

“I did my undergraduate studies there in painting, but I was lucky enough to get a couple of corporate grants that allowed me to do graduate work in Ravenna, Italy, at The School of Mosaic Restoration.”

“I’m impressed.”

“For my family it was a very big deal, since I was the first Whitepath to ever go to college—actually, the first to even graduate from high school.”

“Really? But your mother seems so well educated.”

“Because she works hard to improve herself. She’s become an expert on the history of our people. She’s also one of the founders of a national project to make sure every child has the opportunity to learn his or her native language.”

“That’s ambitious.”

“But important. Fewer than 150 native languages in the U.S. have survived out of several thousand, and we’ve already lost a major dialect of Cherokee called Elati. She’s determined not to let that happen again.”

“I admire her for preserving your heritage.”

“I do, too. Because of her, I know who my ancestors are. That’s important to me, to my understanding of who I am.”

“What about your father? Is he Cherokee?”

“Yes. His great-great-great-grandparents hid out in these mountains and eluded the soldiers who came in 1838 to relocate them. Their son was born later that year. They named him Numma hi tsune ga, Whitepath, after a chief of the same name from North Georgia who was a half-blood brother to Sequoyah. Chief Whitepath tried to warn against the government’s treachery. But he wasn’t successful at rousing the tribal elders to take a stand and was among those rounded up and marched west. Old and sick, he was one of the four thousand who died.”

“The Trail of Tears. I remember reading about it in my American History classes.”

“My family carries Chief Whitepath’s name in remembrance of what he tried to do. We adopted it around 1900 as a surname.”

“Does it mean anything?”

“To an Indian, everything has a meaning. The white path is the path of happiness in the Green Corn Dance ceremony our ancestors practiced. For a Cherokee of the old time to say he was white meant he was taking the path of happiness, of peace.”

“So where does Ryan come from? That’s obviously not Cherokee.”

“Ryan MacDougal was a childhood friend of my mother’s who died in a fall. She named me for him. These mountains are full of families with Scottish and Irish heritage. You’ll notice the cross-influences in the languages. Our legends are similar, too. Ever heard of the Little People from Irish folktales?”

“Of course. They’re leprechauns. When I was little, I believed they lived in our den.”

“The Cherokee also know of the Little People, the good and bad spirits who inhabit the forest. The Little People are said to take things or move them. Sometimes they’ll leave you a gift, and you’re expected to reciprocate. My father used to swear they were constantly moving his tools.”

“What does your father do?”

“He used to run a shop here on the property with my grandfather and uncle. They made furniture. For the past fifteen years, he’s lived in a little town called Lineville and worked for a trucking company. He and my mother are divorced.”

“Sorry,” she said with a grimace. “I assumed your dad was at work. Am I being too nosy? I find your family fascinating.”

“No, no problem. The breakup was economic more than anything. The business wasn’t profitable anymore, so after Granddaddy died, my dad wanted to move to the city. My mother didn’t. At first he was pretty good about coming home on weekends and holidays, and they tried to keep the marriage going. But over time the visits got more infrequent and then stopped. I haven’t seen him in three or four years.”

“That has to be tough.”

“Everyone took it hard when he moved out, especially my brother Joe who was only seven and particularly close to him.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen. I’m the oldest.”

“So that made you the man of the house?”

He shrugged as if it were no big deal, but Susannah didn’t believe that. Fifteen—thrust into adulthood… The situation must’ve been difficult for him.

He walked down the steps and motioned for her to follow.

“Get your sketchbook and I’ll look at it,” he said, striding over to her truck.

“You mean you might reconsider teaching me?”

“No, but if you want my opinion on your work, I’ll give it.”

WITH HER SKETCHBOOK under her arm, Susannah fell in next to him, trying to keep up with his long strides as they made their way down the driveway. She thought he’d head to a cabin on the right, but instead he turned left toward a long barn.

“My studio’s over there,” he said.

The air was crisp and smelled of sawdust, and in the fading light she could see piles of the stuff rotting behind the building. Snow had begun to fall again.

“This used to be my dad’s workshop,” Ryan explained. The long structure had double barn doors in the middle and a regular door to the left, with an opening below for a pet to go in and out. He opened the smaller door and they went inside. “I needed a large space nearby so I closed in the sides, added plumbing and a floor and made a workshop and apartment.”

Susannah had expected something rustic and dark, considering the exterior, but when he flipped on the lights, she couldn’t hold back her surprise. The interior was spacious and airy, as modern as any dwelling in a big city.

“Wow! This is wonderful.”

“It works well for the business and for me personally. I’m close enough to take care of my mother and grandmother and for them to help me with Nia, but I have my own space and privacy. At least, I feel the illusion of privacy.”

The main floor was his workshop. Long plywood tables made an L along one side and across the back, holding projects in various states of completion. Sketches and vibrant paintings covered the walls. The stairs on the left led to a loft where he lived.

He showed her around the main floor. Shelves under the tables held glass jars filled with tiny tiles of every conceivable color and hue. Larger tiles were stacked in bins along the right wall.

“Do you use commercial tiles or make your own?” she asked, as they walked through the kiln room.

“Both. It depends on the project and what I’m trying to accomplish. If I can’t get the color, texture or durability I’m looking for, I’ll make my own. A good part of my business is restoration, which involves hand-making or painting tiles to match older or antique ones. I often have to experiment with pigments, glazes, bisques and firing techniques.”

“You do all the work here?”

“Mostly. I create manageable sections of tile by attaching it to a special backing I designed myself. When the whole piece is done, I ship, reconstruct and install. I prefer to work from scratch on-site, but that’s not practical because of the time and expense involved.”

They came back to the main room and he showed her his office, in the corner area by the stairs. Papers were strewn haphazardly on his desk, as well as the light table. Everywhere, actually. The whole office needed a good tidying.

A white Persian cat lay stretched out on top of a tall bookcase, and it watched Susannah with eyes like gold jewels, expression haughty.

“Hello,” Susannah called up. “What’s your name?”

“That’s Abigail,” Ryan supplied. “I thought it would be good for Nia to learn responsibility for taking care of a living thing, but I have a suspicion Abigail owns us and we’re her pets rather than the other way around.”

“Cats can be a bit independent. She’s so beautiful.”

“She knows it, too.”

He took Susannah’s jacket and flung it over a chair, then shed his own. Grabbing a rubber band out of his desk drawer, he drew his dark hair off his face, into a ponytail.

“Do you wear your hair long because you’re Native American?” Susannah asked.

“I prefer Indian.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I’m not offended by Native American. The term is just a little too politically correct for me. Others like it, and that’s fine. And to answer your question, no, I don’t wear my hair long to appear more Indian. It’s vanity. With short hair I look about twelve.”

She smiled at his honesty.

“I thought maybe you were trying to look authentic.”

“To do that, I’d have to cut it to stand up in a ridge along the back of my head down to my neck, and then shave the rest.”

She wrinkled her nose but didn’t say anything.

“That was the style for Cherokee men before about 1800, except for the Long Hair or Twister Clan.”

“I don’t think you’d look too good bald.”

“Neither do I.”

“I’m envious of how long and glossy your hair is. And the color’s gorgeous.”

“I was just thinking the same thing about yours.”

He reached out and picked up a strand, gently rubbing it between his fingertips. She hardly breathed.

“To tsu hwa,” he said softly.

“What?”

“Redbird.” He must have realized he was still touching her, because he suddenly let the hair drop, thrusting both hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“Your grandmother called me that earlier.”

“Consider it an honor. The cardinal, or redbird, plays an important role in our legends.”

“How so?”

“It’s revered by my people. There’s a story behind how the bird got its color.”

She waited, but he didn’t go on. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“I can’t tell the story like my grandmother can.”

“Your grandmother’s not here. Come on, don’t leave me hanging.”

Finally he acquiesced.

“Years ago the redbird wasn’t red. He was plain and brown. One day, while gathering food for his family, he came upon a hurt wolf lying on a riverbank. The wolf had chased a raccoon up a tree and the raccoon had sneaked up on him while he was exhausted and plastered his eyes shut with mud. Thankful for the bird’s compassion in helping him remove the mud, the wolf broke open a paint rock, a geode left from a volcanic eruption, and used it to give the bird a bright red coat. When the redbird flew home, his mate was so excited by his new color, she wanted some for herself. But she was afraid to leave their babies too long so she went and got only a little bit of the paint for herself. She was a good mother and hurried back to the nest. Today redbirds are symbols of beauty, kindness, compassion and dedication to family.”

Susannah was thrilled to be compared to the little bird. She’d always hated her hair color, but he’d made her see it in a whole new way.

“That was so lovely. How do you say ‘redbird’ again? To-tso…”

“To tsu hwa.”

“To tsu hwa,” she repeated several times until she’d memorized it. “Thank you for the story. I feel like…like I’ve been given a gift.”

“You’re welcome.” He stared at her a moment longer than was healthy for her heart, then looked away. “I need to check my messages and return my calls. Do you mind?”

“No, go ahead. I’ll wander about, if that’s okay.”

“Sure. On that table is a mosaic I’m repairing for a 1930s era pool, and over there’s a ceiling I’m designing in conjunction with another company in California. The rest are…I don’t know…different jobs and separate pieces for a museum show. Look all you want.”

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, after reviewing his work and overhearing his telephone conversations, Susannah had decided that Ryan Whitepath was the most gifted person she’d ever met, but also the most disorganized.

She supposed his problem was a right brain, left brain thing, or that his overabundance of creativity had been offset by his lack of order.

His mosaics were brilliant, the colors earthy and the designs so stunning that Susannah felt spiritually changed just looking at them. But from a business standpoint, the man was hopeless.

He had no system for organizing his quotes and keeping up with correspondence, and apparently hadn’t sent out invoices for work he’d completed weeks ago. The clutter on his desk made her cringe.

He tried to pull up a letter he’d typed on his computer to discuss with someone on the phone, but he couldn’t find it. After several failed attempts, a lot of grumbling under his breath and the accidental deletion of a file, Susannah walked toward him.

“Here,” she said, leaning over his shoulder. “Let me help before you do something you can’t repair. What’s the customer’s name?”

“Health Systems of North Carolina.” He spoke into the phone receiver. “Hold on a minute longer, Mr. Baker. We’ve almost got it.”

She couldn’t find a folder that resembled the name so she did a search and came up with one document called healthnc.doc.

“That’s it,” he said. He read off the figures to his customer and promised him an invoice within the week. When he’d ended the call, he asked Susannah how to print it, since he couldn’t remember the procedure.

“You can go into your File menu and down to Print, hit Control-P on your keyboard, or click on this icon on the toolbar. See how it looks like a little printer?”

He tried to print, but got an error message. “What the—? I did what you said.”

She reached over and pushed a switch. “It helps if you turn on the printer.”

“Oh, yeah. That makes sense.”

She printed two copies. He seemed surprised when they actually came out into the tray. After, she used a utility program to retrieve the file he’d deleted and restore it to its original folder.

“Thanks for the help. I bought the computer expecting it to save me time. But I forget from one day to the next how to use it. Pretty stupid, huh?”

“Success takes practice.”

“Nia’s better at it than I am. It’s downright embarrassing to have to ask a six-year-old for help when I do something wrong.”

She cleared off a spot on the corner of his desk so she could sit.

“May I make a suggestion? You’d be able to find things more easily if you kept your quotes, correspondence and billing linked in this one program. It would also reduce your aggravation, especially at tax time.”

“I don’t know how to do all that. Typing a letter takes me two hours as it is, and then I can never find where I saved them—if I remember to save them.”

“I could set up a billing system and teach you how to use it and your computer in exchange for a few mosaic lessons. Until I quit my job to travel, I ran an office for twenty-three attorneys. I’m proficient in all the software programs you have here, and I’m available for the next eight weeks. I could really have you rolling on this thing by Christmas. And I know that being more organized would save you a lot of time.”

“Thanks for the offer, Susannah, but like I said earlier, I’m overwhelmed with contracts and I don’t have time to train anyone. Or to learn anything new myself. On three separate occasions I’ve tried hiring office staff, but nobody worked out. Having someone nearby asking questions all the time proved to be too distracting. I couldn’t concentrate.”

Dispirited, she nonetheless couldn’t blame him. “I understand.”

“But let’s take a look at your work. Maybe I can recommend someone else who can give you lessons.”

He reached for the sketchbook she’d left propped against the chair holding her jacket, but she jumped up and grabbed it first. She clutched it to her chest. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m embarrassed. Your work is so incredible and mine, I realize now, is amateurish.”

“With your enthusiasm, I doubt that. Where did you study?”

“I didn’t, not really. I had a year of basic drawing classes at Auburn University and grand dreams of being a portrait artist, but then…well, something happened in my personal life that forced me to return home. I ended up getting a two-year business degree at a community college.”

“How many years ago were those drawing classes?”

“Nine, unfortunately.”

“That’s a lot of time. Have you been drawing or painting since then?”

“Only sporadically. Recently I’ve started back in earnest, though.”

“Let me see.” He held out his hand. “I won’t sugarcoat my opinion, but I’m rarely brutal.”

With nervousness, Susannah gave up her art pad. He sat down in the office chair again while she reclaimed her former position on the edge of the desk.

He took his time examining each drawing, without making a comment about any of them. He’d flip a page, study for a minute or so, and then flip again.

Most of the drawings were of people she’d met in the past few months. Some were of her mother as she’d been before her illness, when she still remembered how to laugh and her eyes weren’t clouded by confusion.

A piece of loose yellow paper fluttered from the pad to the floor when he turned a page, and Susannah realized with horror that it was her Life List.

Ryan picked it up, gave it a cursory look and stuck it in the back of the pad. He went on to the next drawing.

Thank you, God. She’d never intended anyone to ever see her desires so blatantly scribbled.

He closed the sketchbook and handed it to her. “Your drawings aren’t bad. I wouldn’t call them good, but considering that you haven’t had a chance to develop your skills, you’ve done okay.”

“So do I have any talent?”

“I see evidence of it. You probably won’t ever be a professional artist, but with some practice you could develop into a gifted amateur.”

“I’d be happy with that,” she told him, pleased. “I’m really only drawing for myself. I don’t expect to make a living at it.”

“Then keep doing it. Draw what you like and do it often. You’ll see a big improvement fairly soon.”

“And what about mosaics and tile-making? Do you think I could learn the techniques?”

“I think so, although I warn you that crafting people in tile is extremely hard and that’s the subject you seem to like drawing the most.”

“Oh, I don’t care what kind of design I do. A leaf or a cloud would satisfy me as long as whatever I make will be around for a long time.”

He pulled out an address book, jotted down the names of teachers in the southeast and included phone numbers.

“Try some of these people.” He passed her the list. “Tell them I recommended you.”

“I will. Thanks for your help. And your honest opinion. It means a lot to me.”

They put on their jackets. Outside, the temperature had dropped dramatically with the coming of the dark, but yard lights guided their way. The snow was now ice in the low spots of the gravel driveway. Walking was difficult; twice she slipped and nearly fell. Only Ryan’s quick action saved her.

“You need real boots,” he said, supporting her under her good arm. “Those designer things are worthless up here.”

“I have sturdy boots in the truck, but I didn’t expect to be hiking through a blizzard when I got dressed this morning.”

“If you think this is a blizzard, you’ve never been in one.”

When, for the third time, she nearly went down on her backside, Ryan cursed. He picked her up and kept walking as though she didn’t weigh anything.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping you from breaking another bone.”

Susannah should have protested, but he was warm, his arms were strong and, oh boy, he smelled good. The scent was masculine, woodsy.

“Do you usually carry your guests?”

“Only the klutzy ones,” he answered playfully. He smiled, and the transformation truly shocked her.

She’d been wrong before. The man was handsome as hell.