Chapter 3

My greatest passion has always been art. From the moment I was taught to hold a crayon, I drew pictures on any medium I could find, even the walls of our house. The threat of a severe spanking could not keep me from drawing wherever I wanted, because the need to draw was over-powering. I knew instinctively how to draw objects, where shadows and light should play on my subject. When visitors would drop by, my parents proudly showed off my display of art that kept the fridge decorated 24/7. Mother made sure I had plenty of paper and crayons or colored pencils in my room. I overheard her tell one of her friends once that she hoped I would get it out of my system soon. But I didn‘t. Art was the embodiment of my soul and would never disappear as long as I lived.

One day when I was around eleven, Father watched me draw pictures in the dust on the coffee table before I wiped it clean. He called to Mother, “Gladys, we should find Vivian an art teacher.”

Mother replied heatedly, “Earl, we aren’t going to waste money on lessons that won’t help her in the real world. In fact, I think she should take piano lessons. Everyone loves music.“ She didn’t like the idea, because she had bigger plans for me--marriage to Trent Sawyer, Mother’s favorite subject.

But neither of them could deny my talent. I believe Mother only changed her mind because one of the “Founding Four” family members said at the Junior High art show that I had talent that should be explored. A few months later, the art teacher at the high school Mr. Watts, began giving me weekly art lessons. I lived for them and was an eager student, who applied herself with passion. Mr. Watts exclaimed to everyone, except my Mother, that I had true talent. He encouraged me to consider a career in art and not to enroll in the local U like everyone else planned, but to attend a top ranked art school far from Blueberry Ridge. I wanted to soar away from this town and with his belief in me, I knew I could stand the flight.

When Mother would send me out on any type of errand, I always brought along a small sketchbook and pencil, because I never knew what I might see during my travels that might inspire a painting or a drawing. Once in route to deliver a batch of blueberry jam to old Mrs. Hatch, the ex-piano player at the church who was now an invalid, I spotted a red-tailed hawk sitting on top of someone’s mailbox. It didn’t move a feather as I approached. Just stared at me with its head cocked to one side. I slowly lowered the basket of jam to the group and painstakingly pulled out the sketchpad and pencil. With lightning quick strokes, I sketched the bird, wondering if maybe it had heard Mr. Watts speaking of my great prowess with pencil and paper and decided it would pose so magnificently for me.

On the day I met James Bow-Ridge, III I was sitting on a log, sketching the blueberry blossoms. I was as pleased as I knew Mother would be that the bushes were overflowing with blooms. If the weather stayed in our favor, we would have an extraordinary crop this year. I didn’t hear him approach until a twig snapped under his foot, about a yard away from where I sat. With a startled gasp, I looked up, fearing it would be a wild animal of some sort.

It was an animal, alright--a blonde male about my age with wavy hair, side-burns and a lean wiry body. He was about my age. The guy seemed as shocked to see me as I was to see him. With a cigarette hanging from his lips, he had a roughness that none of the local boys portrayed. He took the cigarette from his lips and spoke with a slight arrogant tone, “So, this is where the local girls come to blossom into womanhood.”

I blushed, not knowing what to say, so I remained silent. He moved closer to see what I was doing. “Drawing flowers? Is that what you girls do around here for fun?” He asked.

His questions irritated me. I had the distinct feeling that he thought of me as a country bunny--dumb and dull. With a flash of anger, I retorted rudely, “No, sometimes we dance naked by the lake during the harvest moon.”

With a quick snort of humor, he replied, “Oh my, a bit feisty, are we?” I didn’t answer. There was a moment of silence as we studied each other. Then he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Vivian Wilde.” I really didn’t want to tell him but Mother had bred a very polite girl.

“And are you?” He raised an eyebrow, as he paused before taking a draw off his cigarette.

Confused by his question, I said, “Yes, my parents are Earl and Gladys. We live on the old Stanton farm.”

He bent double from laughter. “That’s not what I meant.” After his moment of mirth was over, he stared down at me before saying in a tired bored voice, “God, I’m stuck in this hick town with a bunch of naive babies.”

Suddenly, it dawned on me what his question insinuated. I didn’t like him. And since he was being so rude and bold, I asked, “Who are you?”

“Do you want the abridged version? Or the full Monty?” I didn’t answer. Only continued to stare at him in the same vein he stared at me--with a touch of arrogance. “I am James Caldwell Bow-Ridge, III, the irresponsible son of the admirable James Caldwell Bow-Ridge, Junior who is the son of the ethereal James Caldwell Bow-Ridge, Senior, who is rich, powerful and insane.” He gave a mock bow and then said, “But you can call me Javelin. That’s what my friends in Miami refer to me as. Pleased to meet you, Miss Vivian Wilde, blueberry girl and 'arter'.”