Page 7 of The Hampton Beach Café
The star of the show, though, was a huge wooden sculpture in the display window. The twisted driftwood was splashed with different colored wax dripping in interesting shapes. One of the extending branches ended a few inches from the ground, and the deeply pigmented blue wax had managed to reach all the way to the mirror the piece was created on.
The highly polished window let Frances look directly at herself and the artwork simultaneously. It created a strange and almost nostalgic feeling in her. There were so many things that could go wrong with the piece. Something could break, or the wax could dry an ugly color––and in some places, it had––only to be covered up partially with another more attractive one. The thin wax that only just covered the texture of the wood beneath looked like it could crack and fall any minute, but amongst all that fragility was a structure of driftwood that had reshaped itself along with the sea.
No. I’m not cold,she decided as she made eye contact with her reflection. She was just moving with the sea. This escape had been intended as a distraction, something to make her feel better about the whole forsaken debacle, and it was working––she tended to feel less guilty about that.
Her reflection waved at her.
A jolt of shock made her jump. She couldn’t also be losing her mind on top of everything else, could she?
Refocusing, she realized that she wasn’t hallucinating. She was just looking like a fool––there was a person inside the store who was waving at her.
Awkwardly she waved back and tried to cover her embarrassment by gesturing to the closed door, silently asking if they were open.
Not as if she couldn’t see the large piece of paper with “open” written on it in green highlighter.
The person inside strode to the door and opened it for her. He was a tall, dark-skinned man with a wide smile on his face.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he said in a pleasingly deep voice.
He stepped back while holding the door to make room for her. As she stepped through, Frances smiled back and pointed to the coffee cart that sat in the corner.
“Does that thing work? I obviously need it…” she said, “…and there’s no need to be sorry.”
The man laughed now, and it was just as pleasing as his speaking voice––Frances wondered if he could sing.
“Works as well as I can poke and prod at it,” he said. “I’ll do my best.”
She could tell it was meant in good humor, but internally she flinched––it seemed like she couldn’t entirely switch off her business mind after all.
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll listen to you,” she said, looking around the walls heavily loaded with paintings and photographs. Several sculptures stood around the room, though none were as delicate as the tree in the window.
“I like the candle tree,” she said offhandedly. “Though I suppose it’s not really a tree…”
“It was once,” the barista said. “It doesn’t have a name yet, but I think candle tree sounds cool. It’s all about contrasts––soft and warm wax meeting the cool sea, flowing wax, and solid timber.”
Secretly pleased that she had been right about the intended meaning of the artwork, she added, “the liquid form of the wax mirrored in the ocean, yet it could break so easily compared to the solid nature of the wood that moves and floats in the water, allowing itself to be reformed by it.”
“Yes!” he exclaimed, handing her the cup of coffee. “You're an artist?”
“Oh, no,” Frances said quickly. “I love art, but I could never….”
“No, no, no. I am removing the question mark…you are an artist if you’re talking about art like that.”
Giggling now, Frances decided it was easier to nod and agree than explain just how bad she was at drawing and painting. At least, she had been the last time she had tried at a paint and drink event for a friend's fortieth birthday. That had been a total disaster. They were supposed to paint a chair with flowers perched on it like a crown. She’d had fun, splashes of color and bold outlines, but in the end, she had realized too late––everyone else had just painted the chair. The teacher had been nice, calling it impressionistic and abstract, but Frances had seen how her friends glanced at each other uncertainly at these words.
Taking the coffee he handed her, Frances decided to introduce herself.
"Thank you. I’m Frances.”
“And I’m Vincent. Is this your first time in Hampton beach?” he replied.
Frances blinked hard as she processed the question, taking a second too long to reply according to the slightly raised eyebrow on his face.
“No! No, I’m actually from here…I just didn’t realize I’d been away for so long. I seem like a tourist now…”
“Oh, well, no offense intended,” he said. “So you’re a local girl who made good in the big city?”
She raised the coffee cup to her lips, taking a moment to bite her tongue. Even though he seemed like he was genuinely trying to be friendly and joke with her, she was tired of that particular joke after decades of hearing it. It seemed that no matter how good she got, how high she rose in international risk management, or how many billionaires begged her for advice––people always came back to the fact that she was from a small town.
