“I could even play a guy. All you need to do is dress me up, add a white beard. I could be Sir John Falstaff, knight of the realm in King Henry the Fourth!”
“Speaking of beards,” I say. “I was wondering about a man with a beard. Kind of eccentric. He ties his boat to the dock. He lives up our way. He said his name was Doug.”
“You mean Doug Ingram? He’s a fisherman, built his log house all by himself.”
“Yes, I think that’s him.”
“He’s handsome for an old guy. Sorry. You know.”
“He is good-looking,” I say.
“In a gnarled sort of way, right? Keeps to himself. Total hermit,” she says, examining her fingernails. “But he’s a good artist. You can see his paintings on display in the library.”
My excitement must be obvious. Rachel gestures to the door. “You’d better hurry if you want to go see them. Sometimes they close for lunch.”
As I park my bike outside the library, I recall rolling my suitcase down the cracked sidewalk, briskly, toward the ferry landing. Where was I going, walking so fast? The clang of metal against the dock, the abrasive call of seagulls—it all echoes in the wind. I take a deep breath and climb the steps. The sign on the window reads, Mystic Community Library. The heavy wooden door squeaks as I push it open.
Inside, the library smells of old books and wood floors, pine cleaner and dust. Two large rooms, on either side of a narrow central hallway and staircase, are lined with shelves of books. To my left, a woman sits behind a desk marked Checkout/Information. Trim and elegant, her cinnamon-colored hair tied back, she sports a soft gray sweater, jeans, and rimless oval glasses. The library is quiet, except for the occasional swish of paper.
She looks up briefly and smiles at me, and I slip down an aisle. I’m in the mystery section. Two other patrons peruse the shelves, and a woman in a knit cap and sweater sits in a study carrel, reading.
I wander around and spot a series of vibrant watercolors along the back wall, and all down the hall leading to the restrooms. The signature at the bottom right of the paintings is barely legible: D. Ingram. The man with the wild white beard and crazy eyes captures whimsical images of Mystic Island—the desolate, starkly beautiful beaches strewn with driftwood and kelp; crabs scuttling across the sand; cormorants floating on a log on the sea; a breaching orca in the distance, against a backdrop of gray mist. Ingram understands the shades of gray of the northwest winter, but when I look closely, the layers of yellow and blue appear, brushstrokes of green, an underlying brightness.
The landscapes of dense fir forests and the stark seascapes give way to close-up studies of conch shells, volcanic rock, an outcropping along a sheltered cove. I recognize Doug Ingram’s dock in one painting, and his boat bobbing on the waves. Another image suggests his view of the ocean from high on the bluff. And then, he painted a person, a woman walking away from him on the beach. Barely a black silhouette with her hair flying, her summer dress flapping in a splash of red against the dark hues of a Northwest autumn evening. Something about the painting evokes a sense of deep melancholy, regret—the past walking away. The woman’s beauty is conveyed in her shape, in her gait, in the way the sky lights up around her, like a faint halo.
In the next painting, he moves closer to her, and now the pattern of roses on her dress comes into focus. In the next image, he leaves the beach and offers a view of the woman through a café window, as if he is glancing in at her as he passes on the sidewalk. I recognize the Moonside Café down the road. The ocean is faintly reflected in the glass, her profile in shadow inside. Strong jaw, full lips, high cheekbones. Wild, dark hair. She looks like me, but not enough to give me pause. Not enough to make me believe she’s a doppelg?nger. The paintings end here.
Who is she? Why does she haunt Douglas Ingram? It can’t be a coincidence that he mistook me for her on an island I’ve visited before. I can’t help but believe he holds a key—to what, I don’t yet know.
I go back to the front desk. The librarian smiles up at me. Her nametag reads Frances. At close range, she appears older than before, white hair mixed in with the cinnamon, tiny creases next to her eyes, giving her a perpetual smile. “How may I help you?”
“The painting in the hall,” I whisper, although there is nobody around to hear.
“Yes, isn’t he gifted?” She clasps her hands on the desk.
“Do you know any of the history behind the paintings?”
Her brows rise, and her smile widens. “Are you thinking of purchasing one? He’ll be thrilled. He may not show that he’s thrilled, but he will be.”
“I’m interested in the one with the woman in the café. Do you know anything more about that one?”