“Same here.” Cassie seemed to mean it, which was a relief. “Look, why don’t we have a cup of coffee? Or tea, if you’d prefer?”
“Coffee sounds good.”
“I have a pot going in back. We can sit and talk back there, if you like.”
“Fine.”
Cassie led the way through a door behind the sales counter, into a narrow back room half-full of shelves piled with cardboard cartons. A worktable cluttered with tools, pieces of driftwood, and other items took up most of the remaining floor space; but at the back, next to a window that gave a good view of the nearby Victorian house and garage and the bay beyond, was a table supporting a Mr. Coffee. A yellow paisley armchair flanked the table and matching curtains were hung in the window. Cassie motioned for her to sit, then bustled around collecting cups, inspecting them for cleanliness, pouring and serving.
Alix asked, “You are the C. Lang who did the paintings out front?”
Cassie set her cup down and pulled a swivel chair, the kind secretaries use for typing, over from the worktable. Her expression was guarded as she said, “Yes, they’re mine.”
“I found them very interesting. They grab your attention.” Alix paused, then decided to lie for kindness’ sake. “I like them.”
Cassie relaxed and smiled, pleased. Like many artists of modest talent, she had probably been hurt many times by casual and thoughtless criticism. “Thank you. They’re the main reason this gallery exists. All the rest of the stuff-well, you’ve seen it.”
“Where do you get your seascapes?”
“A fellow up the coast. He turns them out to order.”
“And the shell things?”
“Most are from a mail-order house in Portland. The nicer ones come from Florida.” She gestured at the worktable. “I do the driftwood birds myself. They’re awful, but easy to make; and they sell better than anything else I stock.”
Alix shook her head sympathetically and sipped her coffee. Her headache had lessened, and she felt warmed by both the hot drink and the company. “You’re somewhat isolated here,” she said. “Do you live alone?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t it worry you sometimes?”
“Not really. I have a handgun and I’m a good shot.”
“Oh. I’m afraid of guns myself.”
“I grew up handling them. My father belonged to the NRA.” Fortunately for Alix-who was pro-gun control- Cassie did not want to discuss the subject any further. She said, “But tell me about you. Are you interested in art?”
“Actually, I’m an artist myself.”
“You are? For heaven’s sake!” The woman seemed genuinely pleased. “What kind of work do you do?”
Alix told her, describing some of her more interesting projects and mentioning both her sketches for Jan’s book and her future business venture. When she had finished, Cassie looked so impressed and wistful that she quickly said, “But that’s enough about me. Tell me how you came to start this gallery. Have you always lived in Hilliard?”
The other woman looked startled, almost shocked. “Oh no! I was born in Eugene, lived there most of my life.”
“When did you move here?”
A certain reticence had come into Cassie’s expression, a kind of closing off. “Only a year ago. I… I was divorced, and I’d always liked this part of the coast. Hilliard seemed like a good place to start over.” She smiled wryly. “Too bad I didn’t know about the lack of tourist trade.”
“You’re making ends meet, though?”
“Just barely. I own the house and the gallery outright-I bought them with my divorce settlement. And it doesn’t cost much to live here.”
“Have you made many friends among the locals?”
“Acquaintences, yes. I know almost everyone in the village. But no, I’m not friends with anyone.”
“Are they such hard people to know?”
“Oh yes. Hard to know, hard to talk to. Particularly when you don’t have much in common with them-and I don’t. Hilliard’s a cultural wasteland. High culture to the people here is watching the Super Bowl on the widescreen TV at the Sea Breeze Tavern.”
“I’d gathered as much.” Alix looked down into her coffee cup, thinking of her last visit to Hilliard. “Tell me, do you know a couple of local fishermen named Mitch Novotny and Hod Barnett?”
“Yes. Why?”
It didn’t seem as though Cassie had heard about Jan’s run-in with Novotny, and Alix didn’t care to enlighten her. “My husband and I saw them at the general store last week,” she said. “I’ve been curious about them.”
“Oh. Well, Mitch’s family has been in Hilliard for generations, and as far as I know they’ve all been fishermen. It’s a funny thing about villages like this.”
“What is?”
“People just keep on doing the same things, generation after generation,” Cassie said. “I don’t suppose Mitch’s way of life is much different than his father’s or grandfather’s, except now they have TV. And higher taxes, of course.”
“Is the same true of Hod Barnett?”
“No. He moved here several years ago from Coos Bay, I gather. He owned his own boat for a while but lost it just after I moved into town; couldn’t make the mortgage payments. Now he works as a deck-hand for Mitch, not that that makes him a living wage. Mitch can barely make ends meet himself. The fishing all along the coast has been poor the past three seasons.”
“Yes, that’s what my husband told me.”
“Hod lives in a little trailer in that encampment on the north end with his wife and three kids. Must be awful to have to live like that. There are no utility hookups, and they have to haul water from a central faucet. Adam Reese has made some improvements since he moved in, most of them for free, but the conditions are still primitive.”
“Adam Reese?”
“The local handyman. Lillian Hilliard has him building shelves in her storeroom these days; she’s the only one in the village with any money. You’ve met her, I’m sure?”
“Yes,” Alix said.
“I guess you could say Lillian epitomizes the spirit of Hilliard-if it has any. She’s the last living member of the founding family, and so proud of it that when she married she insisted on keeping the family name. There’s a consensus in the village that the husband-Ben Gates, I think his name was-died young because it was the path of least resistance, certainly easier than standing up to Lillian. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was true.”
“She does seem to rule that store with an iron hand.”
Cassie smiled, not warmly. “Oh, she does. Collects gossip, dispenses charity-when she feels like it-and pronounces judgment on everything that goes on in town. If there’s ever anything you need to know about anyone in Hilliard, just see Lillian.”
Alix nodded, vaguely uncomfortable, thinking that Cassie-given the chance-might rival Lillian Hilliard in the gossip department. She hoped she hadn’t been too candid about herself, imparted too many personal details to a virtual stranger.
She finished her coffee and then looked at her watch. “Oh, it’s getting late. I’ve got to get moving-laundry day.”
“Please stay. Have another cup of coffee-”
“I’d love to, but I do have to go. Perhaps we can get together soon, though. Have you ever been to the lighthouse?”
“Out near it, but never inside.”
“I’ll show you around, then, if you’d like to come out.”
Cassie smiled. “I’m already looking forward to it.”
