The Fall Line, page 5
Its chin resting on its thick body, the snake didn’t move. She certainly didn’t want to rouse it and was thankful she hadn’t put her feet on top of it. Feeling threatened, the snake would almost certainly strike first and ask questions later. She watched it, looking for any indication it felt unsafe, and moved her hand slowly toward the strap on her pack, hooking her fingers under it. Slowly, with cool reptilian smoothness, the copperhead turned its triangular-shaped head to face her. The head was the telltale sign it was venomous—those wide cheeks provided space for long retractable fangs and venom glands. It flicked its tongue, tasting the air. Its infrared-detecting pit organs, which looked like a second set of nostrils, were undoubtedly sensing her. Pit vipers, such as copperheads, could see heat signatures. Other than the flicking tongue, it was motionless and seemed untroubled. In one fluid movement she moved back several steps, pulling the pack with her, until she was out of the snake’s strike zone. At least she hoped she was. The snake lifted its head a few inches, tilting its nose upward as if curious.
Feeling safe at a distance and emboldened by the jolt of adrenaline, she admired the snake’s beauty. Sketchbook still in hand, she took advantage of the unexpected opportunity to draw the magnificent, if terrifying, creature. She’d been this close to a copperhead only in the herpetarium at the zoo. When encountering snakes in the wild, usually all she saw was a tail disappearing quickly in the grass, as they were eager to get away. Statistically, most snake bites came from copperheads, and this fact had given them a bad rap for being aggressive, but it was really just a result of their hunting method. They found a good spot and hunkered down to wait for prey to wander by, ambushing rather than stalking. Usually, copperheads struck people because they’d accidentally stepped on them or put their hands too close, not seeing the snakes because they were so well camouflaged. The Southern species, like this one, were redder than their Northern cousins, having evolved to match the local red-clay soil.
A copper-red copperhead. She smiled at her invented rhyme and stopped drawing, taking in a quick breath. The skinny-dipper’s words reverberated in her mind. “Watch out for Ol’ Red,” she’d said. How could she have known she’d cross paths with this big coppery-red snake?
“Are you Old Red?” Jordan asked gently.
The snake didn’t offer any answers. It dropped its head, resting its chin on its back. While drawing the copperhead, she ruminated on her question. Snakes, like many animals, were creatures of habit and had territories. Maybe this spot, with the protection of the rock and a nearby water source, was its preferred place to sit and wait for dinner to amble by. If Leda walked past here on her way to her favorite swimming hole regularly, she might have learned that and, having seen him more than once, given him a nickname. It seemed a logical answer.
Jordan made notes about color, listing the names of pigments she’d use to recreate them in a painting: umber, burnt sienna, cadmium orange, and yellow. Exact color was hard to remember later, and while taking a picture with her cell phone was easy, the images were never quite right. When she had realized that the more she relied on her phone, the less able she was to recall details, she’d weaned herself from automatically grabbing it every time she saw something interesting. She learned more about the thing she was looking at from drawing it than from looking at a photo. She took her time, capturing the form of the snake, its patterns, the light and shadows. Glancing back and forth between the page and the snake, she felt certain she’d make a painting of him. When the drawing was done, she closed the sketchbook slowly and slipped the pencil into the side pocket of her shorts.
“If you are Ol’ Red,” she said softly to the snake, “Leda says hello.” The copperhead flicked its narrow tongue as if in reply.
Leaving the snake in peace, she returned to the river road, being extra careful where she put her feet until she was back on the gravel roadbed. Passing the SUV parked near the sandy beach, she encountered two young twenty-something men, one lanky and bearded, the other shorter, blonder, and clean shaven, dragging kayaks out of the water. Talking and laughing, they exuded the energy of puppies.
She paused and waved to them. “Good day on the river?”
The bearded man waved back. “Great day,” he said, his teeth flashing white against his dark beard. The shorter one smiled and nodded vigorously.
“Could I ask you a question?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled at the Southern politeness. She was ten years older than them at most, but they treated her with respect reserved for elders. “Do you know when the Cahaba lilies will bloom?”
The blond kayaker winced and shrugged, seeming unsure. “Maybe a week? Ten days?”
“They’ll start pretty soon after the water level drops,” the bearded one said.
“And then the river won’t be nearly as much fun to run, I bet,” Jordan said.
“No, ma’am,” he said while wriggling out of his spray skirt. “Not nearly.”
“When do you think the water level will drop?”
“Depends on how much it rains,” he said with a laugh, dropping the bundle of wet nylon fabric onto the seat of the kayak.
“It’s not an exact science, is it?”
“No, ma’am. It’s not.” He grinned. “But I suspect they’ll be in full bloom this side a’ two weeks.”
“Thanks for your insight. I appreciate it.”
“I’m guessin’ you’re not from around here?”
“I’m from Chattanooga.” He looked at her skeptically. She knew she didn’t sound like she was from Tennessee, but she didn’t offer any additional explanation. A deer fly landed on her arm, and she swatted it away before it could bite.
“Well, if you’re around, the Cahaba River Society does guided canoe trips while they’re in bloom. You can sign up online.” He slipped one arm into the cockpit of the kayak and hoisted it onto his shoulder. His blond friend carried his up to the SUV and tossed it effortlessly onto the rooftop rack.
“Yeah?” She glanced at the swift, murky water. “I’m not sure I’m skilled enough for that kind of canoeing.”
“Oh, they’ll only go out when the water is calm, not like this. They take kids out all the time. You’ll be all right.”
She imagined seeing the lilies by floating through them. “That sounds pretty cool.”
“It is,” he said. Standing in front of her with one arm inside the kayak balanced on one shoulder and gripping the paddle in his free hand, he waited as if expecting to be dismissed.
“Thanks for the information. You guys have a good day.”
“Thank you, ma’am. You, too.” He nodded and strode to his car.
The men had secured their kayaks by the time she reached her 4Runner and appeared ready to leave. She adjusted the air conditioner to high and waited for them to pass before pulling out into the road, enjoying the cool, dry air blowing on her skin. As she left the preserve, she realized she hadn’t seen any other cars. Where had the woman, Leda, come from? Maybe a trail led down to the swimming hole, and if so, where did that trail come from? She’d investigate later. Right now, she could think only about getting back to Palmer House for a cool shower and a fresh cup of coffee.
Chapter Four
Jordan lightly touched the tip of a loaded brush to the wet surface of the paper, letting the pigment pool and deepen a shadow under the snake’s body. After putting the brush in water, she leaned back in her chair to scrutinize the copperhead snake coming to life on the paper in front of her. It was a portrait of the one she’d seen by the river the day before. Wondering if the snake was male or female, she’d consulted an animal guide. The only visual differences were in size, she’d read, with the females larger, so she decided the big snake was a she. Jordan had nearly finished the painting, but the eye needed a bit more attention. Although she’d done her best to make the snake not look menacing, the flat head and eye ridge made her seem stern and humorless. Snakes smiled only in cartoons, so maybe that was one reason so many people didn’t like them. They seemed to lack any sense of mirth that made mammals, humans included, so charismatic.
She stared at the narrow, vertical pupils of the snake’s eyes. How could she give the snake an expression suggesting depth rather than malice? She glanced back and forth between the drawing in her sketchbook and the painting, dissatisfied. Van Gogh had written that he wished he could destroy his paintings and keep only drawings. It sounded crazy, but she understood what he meant—the drawing in the sketchbook had a freshness and vivacity that came from her direct experience of observing the snake, and it was difficult to replicate that quality in the painting over which she labored.
She twisted to reach for her phone on the table to take an in-progress photo and felt a rush of cold air, like an ice cube, roll across the back of her neck. She flinched, and her hand abruptly connected with the lid of her open laptop, tipping it off the table. She lunged out of her chair too late to grab it. It landed with a crack on the concrete floor.
“Shit.” Jordan spat out the word as she picked it up. A black blob appeared in the corner of the screen, and horizontal lines like a multicolored barcode replaced the wallpaper photo of a misty mountain range. “No, no, no. Damn it!”
Jordan put the laptop on the table and stared at it while she pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead. She couldn’t believe she’d just broken her almost-new computer, and all because of the weird air-conditioning. She ran her fingers through her hair, across the top of her scalp, and clutched the back of her neck. The air felt fine now—not cold, no draft. In fact, it was still almost stagnant. “What the hell is up with these buildings?” Jordan huffed.
The painting, distracting her momentarily, looked great. The snake seemed three-dimensional and came alive at a distance. She was satisfied with the painting, but very unhappy with herself for cracking the screen. The files on the laptop were probably fine. She had everything backed up, and it was still under a warranty that included screen replacements for drops, she reasoned with herself. But it was a major inconvenience. The closest store was probably in Birmingham, nearly an hour away, and they would certainly have to send it out for service. She’d be without the computer for a few weeks, at least. Maybe she should just deal with it when she was back home in Chattanooga and could go to her local store.
Unsure what to do, she puffed her cheeks and closed the lid. Her watch caught her eye; it was later than she thought. Not surprisingly, she’d lost track of time, which often happened when she was working. The party at Maddie’s would begin in twenty minutes, so she’d have to figure out what to do about her laptop later. With her phone, she took a quick photo of the painting, rinsed the brushes in the corner sink, and placed them, bristles up, in an empty cup to dry before rushing over to the house to wash up and change clothes.
Jordan took a quick shower and surveyed her limited wardrobe while towel-drying her hair. Maddie had said it was casual, but expecting an academic crowd, she wasn’t sure what might be most appropriate. She settled on tan denim pants with a light blue, V-neck shirt and slipped a carnelian-bead bracelet on her wrist, clipping the matching beaded necklace around her neck. After quickly applying makeup and finger-combing her hair with gel, she appraised herself in the cheval mirror in the corner of the bedroom. She looked presentable and couldn’t help but wonder if she’d look attractive to Maddie.
Maddie had told her not to worry about bringing anything, explaining that there would be plenty of food and drink. Still, Jordan didn’t feel right showing up empty-handed. Who didn’t like a cheerful bouquet of flowers? Fortunately, she had found fresh-cut flowers at the farmers’ market from a woman who turned out to be the grumpy goat farmer’s daughter. Seeing the goat’s-milk soaps and cheese samples on the table next to buckets of flowers, she’d made the connection and introduced herself as the new temporary neighbor. After a pleasant conversation—mostly about her father’s little dog, Jack, who’d visited Jordan every one of the five days she’d been there—she’d walked away from the stall with a log of herbed chevre, two bars of soap, and a beautiful rustic bouquet of delphinium, iris, foxglove, and black-eyed Susans, with fern-frond greenery.
Jordan retrieved the flowers from the kitchen, where she’d kept them in a pitcher of water. Momentarily forgetting about her broken laptop as she rewrapped the cheerful bouquet with the kraft paper and twine she’d saved, she smiled at the thought of presenting them to Maddie when she arrived at the party.
* * *
The cars parked along both sides of the street indicated that Jordan had come to the right place. She found a spot down the street and walked back to the neatly landscaped, contemporary ranch-style house. After she wiped the perspiration from her forehead, she pressed the doorbell and heard a sharp bark before the door opened.
Maddie stood on the other side of the threshold holding a margarita glass in one hand and the doorknob in the other, balanced on one leg. Her other leg was outstretched, holding back a bright-eyed black shepherd mix with white toes, a white patch on its chest, and a furiously wagging tail. Maddie’s lips lifted into a smile that reached her eyes, her expression matching the gleeful shepherd’s.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.” Maddie tilted her head toward the living room. “Please come in. Are those flowers for me?”
“Yes.” Jordan offered them. “Thank you for inviting me. I’m sorry I’m late. I got caught up painting.”
“No worries. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Maddie closed the door, taking the bouquet with her free hand. She put her nose into the colorful flowers and smiled, seeming to savor the scent. “These are beautiful. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” Jordan turned her attention to the friendly dog dancing around her. “Well, hello there.”
“Chip likes you. First-time visitors usually get a lot of barking and playful feinting.”
“Hey, Chip.” Jordan squatted to pet the dog. “He’s beautiful.”
“She, actually. She was a feral puppy. I found her on campus with a chip bag—Golden Flake Flaming Hot Barbecue potato chips, to be precise—stuck on her head. The poor thing was desperate. I called her Chip before I knew her sex, and the name stuck.”
Jordan petted her between her upright ears and stroked her thick coat. “Well, Chip, you are one fine and lucky dog.” Jordan laughed at Chip’s expression. Mouth open with lolling tongue, she looked like she was smiling.
“Do you have pets? You certainly have good dog mojo.”
“I do. I mean, I did.” Jordan stood up, feeling a pang of sadness. She missed her big, friendly tabby cat. “I lost my cat unexpectedly recently. A blood clot.”
“I’m sorry.” Maddie sounded sympathetic. “It’s hard enough when you know it’s coming. Unexpected is worse. Did you have him a long time?”
“He was fifteen when he passed. He was my buddy, who got me through college, grad school, and then some.”
“That makes it even harder.”
“Yeah…I’ve been thinking that, after this residency, I’ll be ready to look for a kitten or maybe an adult cat who needs a home. Or maybe one will just show up. Sometimes they choose you, you know?”
“I do. I never planned to have a dog like Chip.” Maddie smiled at the dog, who turned and looked adoringly at her when she said her name. “Rescuing her and keeping her was the best decision I ever made.” She held up the flowers as if suddenly remembering they were in her hand. “Let’s take these to the kitchen, and I’ll put them in a vase. Everyone is in there or out on the deck. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
Jordan and Chip followed Maddie through the living room and dining room to the spacious kitchen. The rooms were open and bright, the decor neat. Jordan noticed a lot of books.
“Do you like margaritas?” Maddie asked over her shoulder.
“I do.”
“Good. They’re the specialty of the house tonight.”
Walking into the kitchen they were greeted by the whir of a blender and people gathered around a granite-topped island covered with platters of finger foods. French doors led to a deck outside, where more people were gathered.
“Everyone, this is Jordan Burroughs, our new artist-in-residence,” Maddie said as she grabbed a vase from a shelf and unwrapped the bouquet. She put water and the flowers in the vase and placed it in the center of the island. Then she pointed at each person, naming them, concluding with the margarita maker, Ciera, a plump, dark-skinned woman with a dazzling smile.
Jordan smiled at everyone. “I hope there’s not a quiz later.”
“The only question tonight is frozen?” Cierra lifted the pitcher and then pointed to a carafe on the counter next to an ice bucket. “Or on the rocks?”
“On the rocks, please.”
“Good choice,” Maddie said, picking up her glass and shaking the ice in it. “I’ll make one for us both.”
“More for those of us out on the deck.” Laughing, Ciera topped off drinks in the kitchen before heading to the deck, clutching the almost-full pitcher to her chest.
“Oh, wait. Another question—” Maddie held up an empty glass. “Salt or no salt?”
“Salt.” Jordan watched as Maddie expertly salted the rim of glass, dropped in ice cubes, and filled it from a large carafe. “Thanks,” Jordan said, taking the stemmed glass.
“You’re welcome.” Maddie peered out the window over the sink and pointed to the darkening sky. “I’ll be right back. I need to go lock up the chickens.”
“You have chickens? That’s so cool.”
“Yep. A little flock of six pampered birds.”
Jordan took a sip of her drink, the balance of tart and sweet perfect, and the proportion of tequila in it was generous. She watched as Maddie walked to the door with Chip following at her heels, tail sweeping back and forth with each step. She’d almost asked if she could tag along to see the chickens, but now, cocktail in hand, she knew she shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach. While the platters looked ransacked, there was still plenty of food, as Maddie had promised. She reached for a pimento-cheese finger sandwich, which was perfect—a layer of spicy cheese spread between two soft white slices of bread, cut at a diagonal with the crust removed. She ate a second one while listening to the conversation between a man and woman seated on bar stools closest to her—Peter and Elana, if she remembered their names correctly. They seemed to be talking about barware.
