THE THIEF
By Mary E. Martin
Have you ever been inspired to create a story by a painting? I have and the inspiration lay in a painting by one of my favourite artists, Edward Hopper. You'll see the painting, Automat, on the cover of this story and in the link to my blog about Hopper at the end of this story.
You will meet Celia, who became a major, pivotal character in The Drawing Lesson, the first in The Trilogy of Remembrance. Celia is a strange character and I'm not entirely sure where she came from.
If you'd like to read my blog post about Hopper, you can read it right here.
http://maryemartintrilogies.com/edward-hopper-capturing-private-solitary-moments/
Celia Smith sat alone on the hotel patio above the river. She sipped her coffee and watched the grey water rush toward the falls. The hotel was almost empty. No one would intrude upon her solitude.
She picked up her book. A man and woman entered the patio from the dining room. Arm in arm, they strolled the perimeter of the terrace and stopped to look over the stone rail to the river. Engaged in their own conversation, they seemed not to notice her. A late fall vacation, Celia reflected, ensured the absence of tourists and their children. This couple would not disturb her. Relieved, she leafed through her catalogue of twentieth century painters from the National Gallery.
Appreciation of her copy- editing was noted on the last page of the book, in the smallest print. Cramped in her work cubicle, she had sifted through the minutiae of each artist's life, distilling its essence into a single column of print four inches high.
Celia looked up from the page. The couple continued to walk slowly to the farthest side of the patio. The woman was dressed in a black wool suit— the man, entirely in white. Limping only slightly, he held her arm to walk. They must be in their seventies, Celia thought, as she turned the page. They would not approach her.
At work, she had revelled in the harsh discipline of the allotted text. Her authority extended to fitting words into type-space. In reality, she knew, no real human being could exist in such a careful balance. Her fingers skimmed the glossy pages.
Silhouetted by the last, bright rays of sunlight, the couple approached her. She could not see their faces nor discern their words. Celia turned away. The page fell open to a painting. Soft, willowy figures floated skyward. On the next page, fists of colour with sharp edges burst upward at her eye. Were artists born with daring in their souls, she wondered? Her question disturbed her.
Two shadows crossed her table as she tried to read a footnote. The sun dipped below the horizon and the breeze picked up. The waiter moved to a distant table and began fastening down the blue and white stripped umbrellas.
The pair smiled hesitantly. Celia acknowledged their presence with a slight nod. The gentleman withdrew a scarlet handkerchief from his pocket and bent to whisk two chairs clean. Once seated, he gazed benignly at Celia.
"Miss?" he began.
Celia could not ignore him. A few polite words might discourage a lengthy conversation.
"Good evening," Celia replied. Her nod included both of them.
"Such a beautiful night," said the woman. Celia felt a drop of rain on her arm.
"I could not help but notice your book," the man began. His voice was low and musical. "Do you study art?"
"No, I don't." Celia realized her reply was churlish. To fill the silence, she said, "I work at the National Gallery." The couple looked expectantly at her. "In cataloguing and editing," she added.
