Author's note on "Sunshine Girl":

         In early July, 2001, an artist I know told me she had to put something in a show at her local gallery that involved collaboration. Would I please write a story she could illustrate--short and fast? Sure, I said, sticking my neck out. And then I wrote "Sunshine Girl," posted it to the Story Arts writing group, and got some good feedback. I polished a good deal, and my friend liked the result. She painted some cute watercolor illustrations. Then we talked about how to display the "collaboration" in the gallery. After some confusion, I mentioned that my wife makes books. So we asked my wife, and she made a little book with the story in it that we could hang from the framed illustrations. They hung the show on Wednesday, August 8, and started lettlng people look at it on Thursday. Big party Saturday for the official opening of the show.

        Saturday afternoon, before the party, we got a call from the gallery. They'd sold the whole thing--illustrations, story and book-- for $375. The buyer agreed to let it stay on display until the show was over at the end of the month. That made it a really good party. :-) The show was at the Ogunquit Arts Collaborative Gallery on Bourne Lane near Shore Road, in Ogunquit, Maine.  In June, 2002, the story was published in LoveWords, the e-zine, as well.

         To see some pictures of the installation, click right here.

         And here's the story:

                                                                              © 2001 Carter Jefferson
Sunshine Girl

by Carter Jefferson


         Lori Jacobson, glowing in a pink flowered sun dress, strode confidently into the gallery, then stopped while her eyes recovered from the outside glare. Her friend Scott followed. Sarah Canfield looked up from her work table.

         "Hello. Have you been here before?"

         "No, we just came up from Portland. It's our first time." Lori smiled, then took in the contents of the room in one swift glance. "Wow! What are you doing here, with such a great place, in a town like this?"

         Clapboard stores selling souvenirs spread along the main street on either side of Sarah's small gallery. T-shirt shops. A magazine kiosk. In the window of a shop across the street, a taffy machine strained in constant motion, pulling, pushing, rolling, shaping, to package candy for children who towed parents clad in coverups and sandals. A little farther, Fun-o-rama, with its pinball machines and shoot-'em-up games. Beachfront tacky. People a bit farther north claimed the town was a suburb of Boston.

        "I like it here, and lots of people drop in," said Sarah. "Make yourself at home. Look around." Then she picked up a brush and went back to the watercolor she was working on.

         Lori turned to the wall by the door and began to examine the pictures displayed: etchings, screen prints, woodblocks; rooftops, houses, streets, some of local scenes, some of Italy and France. After a while, she turned to Sarah.

         "Are these yours? They're lovely!"

         "Most of the ones on that wall are mine." Sarah then gestured toward the rear.  "The ones back there are all by other artists who live around here."

         Lori slowly made her way around the small shop, then began to flip through a collection of small etchings in a wooden box marked "Maine blueberries." She stopped and pulled one out.

         "Hey, Scott! Take look at this--these are a little different!" She handed him a shrink-wrapped mat.

         "Crazy! That's weird!" He laughed and shook his head.

         "Yeah, I like it!" Lori put the etching, a beautifully drawn cartoon with a spurious Latin tagline, back into its place, and looked again at the prints on the wall above. Then she noticed a series of bright pastels to her left, and gasped.

         "Oh, my God!" She approached the wall, reverently. "Look at that!"

         Sarah came out from behind her table. She and Scott watched Lori move closer to the set of four small pastels, each one a spectrum of colors on a light background, a medley of breaking waves, clearly recognizable but almost abstract.

         "That one! I want it! I want them all, but I'll take that one, on the left. It's perfect!" She backed away, still intent on the pastel. She came near again, looked at the price, lettered on a tiny sticker below the frame. "Six hundred dollars! Maybe I don't want it, after all." She frowned. "Yes, I do. Scott, we decided to get at least one good piece, let's do it."

          "I don't know," Scott said. "You're the expert, but maybe we ought to think about it."

         Sarah stood watching, a few feet away, until Lori spoke to her.

         "We're getting an apartment--finally. We had to wait until I graduated from college and got a real job, but now we can be together in our own place, and I want at least one piece of good art. We'll get more, when we get some more money."

         "It's a lovely piece of work," Sarah said, "and the artist is well known."

         Scott frowned at Lori. "Yeah, but we don't have much money now. We can wait a little. Let's think about it for a while, at least." His neck showed a tinge of red, and he shook his head. Then Lori spoke to Sarah once again.

          "Could you hold it for us, for just a week? We can come back next weekend. Just a week--we'll be back then for sure."

         "I can't really hold it." Sarah paused. "But I rotate these things regularly--it can go in the back room for a while, out of sight."

         Lori stared at the picture, rapt, while Scott stood, hands in pockets, apparently studying a pottery bowl. A few minutes later, he turned to the door. "Let's go get something to eat."

        "We'll be back." Lori spoke to Sarah, and then followed Scott back into the merciless sunlight, her face still turned toward the little pastel.

                                                        * * *

         Luck led them across the street to a real restaurant, not a hotdog stand, where varnished booths stood dimly bathed in orange light from lanterns above. A waitress conjured a table in the crowded room, offered drinks, left menus behind as she hurried away.

         Visions of pastel waves intruded as Lori scanned the list of evening specials.

         "I don't know what I want," Lori said. "I'm still thinking about that picture."

         Smiling gently, Scott slightly cocked his head. "You know we can't afford it."

         Impulsively, she touched his hand. "I know. But I think I don't care."

         "But you have to care!" Scott drew his hand away and frowned. "We need to put our money someplace where it'll work for us, invest it. We can't waste it."

         "I don't waste money, Scott--you know that."

         Silent, he drew back to read the menu. "Hey, pick something! The girl will be back for our order in a minute."

         "Okay. I'll have the grilled chicken. With mashed potatoes. I'm sick of fries." Outside, the light grew a little weaker as sunset neared.

                                                     * * *

         Ten days later, Lori drove her old blue Neon down Route One under an overcast sky and turned east, toward the sea. Dark limbs, heavy with damp leaves, arched over the road. Ahead she glimpsed the ocean as her windshield began to mist, then, a moment later, she saw the deserted beach, its sand as gray as the water and the sky. On the main street bored families wandered aimlessly, crowding shops, children fretful in the damp atmosphere, eating ice cream cones in the forlorn yellow light of store windows. She parked in the half-filled lot and opened her door to a chilly breeze.

         Just inside the studio door, she stopped and stared, looking for her pastel. She finally found it, hanging by the front window as if still waiting for her. Sarah, standing behind the desk, looked up.

         "I'm sorry," Lori said. "I can't buy the picture. I should have told you sooner."

        "What's the matter? Come on in!" Sarah looked at the sunshine girl, now drab in a gray sweatshirt and jeans.

         "No apartment. No Scott. No picture."

         "Oh, I'm so sorry! Come on in, don't just stand there!" Sarah came out from behind her desk. "Tell me about it." She held out her free hand, beckoning, then laid a stack of papers on the work table.

         "Not much to tell. It's a really old story. Scott is practical, he says. He wouldn't budge. I knew he could be stubborn, but not like that. He wouldn't even listen to me. Said I was stupid." She began to cry. "I wish to God I'd never seen the damn picture!"

        "I don't think so," Sarah said, pulling Lori into her arms. "I think you had a narrow escape."

         Lori held on to her and sobbed. Then she backed up a few inches and looked at Sarah. "I'm not stupid, you know. I majored in art history. I got a job in the library in Portland. I know a good picture when I see one, and we could afford it. He's just stubborn." She pulled away, rummaged through her backpack for a
handkerchief, and dried her eyes. "Damn fool. I mean me."

         "No, you're just fine. So what's next? Tell me."

         "I guess I'll run home to Daddy and Mother. Back to Fryeburg. I haven't thought much about it."

        Sarah frowned. "Well, think about it. Do you still have that job?"

         "Yeah. I haven't had time to talk to them."

         "Can you live on your salary? Or borrow something from your folks?"

         "I wouldn't have to borrow much." Lori stayed slumped against the desk. "I worked all through school, and I've got some money saved. But we had plans . . . ."

         "Then what's the hurry? Why don't you stay in Portland for a while, see how it goes?"

          "I could do that, I guess." Lori walked slowly over to the pastel and stared at it for a long moment. She backed away, took a deep breath, then stood up straight.

         "The hell with it." She wrestled a wallet out of her backpack, pulled out a credit card, and handed it to Sarah.

         "Scott didn't want me, it turned out. But I've still got my job. I won't die. And I want that picture." Finally, she smiled.

                                   ---The End-- 
Memories
Author's note on "Sunshine Girl":

         In early July, 2001, an artist I know told me she had to put something in a show at her local gallery that involved collaboration. Would I please write a story she could illustrate--short and fast? Sure, I said, sticking my neck out. And then I wrote "Sunshine Girl," posted it to the Story Arts writing group, and got some good feedback. I polished a good deal, and my friend liked the result. She painted some cute watercolor illustrations. Then we talked about how to display the "collaboration" in the gallery. After some confusion, I mentioned that my wife makes books. So we asked my wife, and she made a little book with the story in it that we could hang from the framed illustrations. They hung the show on Wednesday, August 8, and started lettlng people look at it on Thursday. Big party Saturday for the official opening of the show.

        Saturday afternoon, before the party, we got a call from the gallery. They'd sold the whole thing--illustrations, story and book-- for $375. The buyer agreed to let it stay on display until the show was over at the end of the month. That made it a really good party. :-) The show was at the Ogunquit Arts Collaborative Gallery on Bourne Lane near Shore Road, in Ogunquit, Maine.  In June, 2002, the story was published in LoveWords, the e-zine, as well.

         To see some pictures of the installation, click right here.

         And here's the story:

                                                                              © 2001 Carter Jefferson
Sunshine Girl

by Carter Jefferson


         Lori Jacobson, glowing in a pink flowered sun dress, strode confidently into the gallery, then stopped while her eyes recovered from the outside glare. Her friend Scott followed. Sarah Canfield looked up from her work table.

         "Hello. Have you been here before?"

         "No, we just came up from Portland. It's our first time." Lori smiled, then took in the contents of the room in one swift glance. "Wow! What are you doing here, with such a great place, in a town like this?"

         Clapboard stores selling souvenirs spread along the main street on either side of Sarah's small gallery. T-shirt shops. A magazine kiosk. In the window of a shop across the street, a taffy machine strained in constant motion, pulling, pushing, rolling, shaping, to package candy for children who towed parents clad in coverups and sandals. A little farther, Fun-o-rama, with its pinball machines and shoot-'em-up games. Beachfront tacky. People a bit farther north claimed the town was a suburb of Boston.

        "I like it here, and lots of people drop in," said Sarah. "Make yourself at home. Look around." Then she picked up a brush and went back to the watercolor she was working on.

         Lori turned to the wall by the door and began to examine the pictures displayed: etchings, screen prints, woodblocks; rooftops, houses, streets, some of local scenes, some of Italy and France. After a while, she turned to Sarah.

         "Are these yours? They're lovely!"

         "Most of the ones on that wall are mine." Sarah then gestured toward the rear.  "The ones back there are all by other artists who live around here."

         Lori slowly made her way around the small shop, then began to flip through a collection of small etchings in a wooden box marked "Maine blueberries." She stopped and pulled one out.

         "Hey, Scott! Take look at this--these are a little different!" She handed him a shrink-wrapped mat.

         "Crazy! That's weird!" He laughed and shook his head.

         "Yeah, I like it!" Lori put the etching, a beautifully drawn cartoon with a spurious Latin tagline, back into its place, and looked again at the prints on the wall above. Then she noticed a series of bright pastels to her left, and gasped.

         "Oh, my God!" She approached the wall, reverently. "Look at that!"

         Sarah came out from behind her table. She and Scott watched Lori move closer to the set of four small pastels, each one a spectrum of colors on a light background, a medley of breaking waves, clearly recognizable but almost abstract.

         "That one! I want it! I want them all, but I'll take that one, on the left. It's perfect!" She backed away, still intent on the pastel. She came near again, looked at the price, lettered on a tiny sticker below the frame. "Six hundred dollars! Maybe I don't want it, after all." She frowned. "Yes, I do. Scott, we decided to get at least one good piece, let's do it."

          "I don't know," Scott said. "You're the expert, but maybe we ought to think about it."

         Sarah stood watching, a few feet away, until Lori spoke to her.

         "We're getting an apartment--finally. We had to wait until I graduated from college and got a real job, but now we can be together in our own place, and I want at least one piece of good art. We'll get more, when we get some more money."

         "It's a lovely piece of work," Sarah said, "and the artist is well known."

         Scott frowned at Lori. "Yeah, but we don't have much money now. We can wait a little. Let's think about it for a while, at least." His neck showed a tinge of red, and he shook his head. Then Lori spoke to Sarah once again.

          "Could you hold it for us, for just a week? We can come back next weekend. Just a week--we'll be back then for sure."

         "I can't really hold it." Sarah paused. "But I rotate these things regularly--it can go in the back room for a while, out of sight."

         Lori stared at the picture, rapt, while Scott stood, hands in pockets, apparently studying a pottery bowl. A few minutes later, he turned to the door. "Let's go get something to eat."

        "We'll be back." Lori spoke to Sarah, and then followed Scott back into the merciless sunlight, her face still turned toward the little pastel.

                                                        * * *

         Luck led them across the street to a real restaurant, not a hotdog stand, where varnished booths stood dimly bathed in orange light from lanterns above. A waitress conjured a table in the crowded room, offered drinks, left menus behind as she hurried away.

         Visions of pastel waves intruded as Lori scanned the list of evening specials.

         "I don't know what I want," Lori said. "I'm still thinking about that picture."

         Smiling gently, Scott slightly cocked his head. "You know we can't afford it."

         Impulsively, she touched his hand. "I know. But I think I don't care."

         "But you have to care!" Scott drew his hand away and frowned. "We need to put our money someplace where it'll work for us, invest it. We can't waste it."

         "I don't waste money, Scott--you know that."

         Silent, he drew back to read the menu. "Hey, pick something! The girl will be back for our order in a minute."

         "Okay. I'll have the grilled chicken. With mashed potatoes. I'm sick of fries." Outside, the light grew a little weaker as sunset neared.

                                                     * * *

         Ten days later, Lori drove her old blue Neon down Route One under an overcast sky and turned east, toward the sea. Dark limbs, heavy with damp leaves, arched over the road. Ahead she glimpsed the ocean as her windshield began to mist, then, a moment later, she saw the deserted beach, its sand as gray as the water and the sky. On the main street bored families wandered aimlessly, crowding shops, children fretful in the damp atmosphere, eating ice cream cones in the forlorn yellow light of store windows. She parked in the half-filled lot and opened her door to a chilly breeze.

         Just inside the studio door, she stopped and stared, looking for her pastel. She finally found it, hanging by the front window as if still waiting for her. Sarah, standing behind the desk, looked up.

         "I'm sorry," Lori said. "I can't buy the picture. I should have told you sooner."

        "What's the matter? Come on in!" Sarah looked at the sunshine girl, now drab in a gray sweatshirt and jeans.

         "No apartment. No Scott. No picture."

         "Oh, I'm so sorry! Come on in, don't just stand there!" Sarah came out from behind her desk. "Tell me about it." She held out her free hand, beckoning, then laid a stack of papers on the work table.

         "Not much to tell. It's a really old story. Scott is practical, he says. He wouldn't budge. I knew he could be stubborn, but not like that. He wouldn't even listen to me. Said I was stupid." She began to cry. "I wish to God I'd never seen the damn picture!"

        "I don't think so," Sarah said, pulling Lori into her arms. "I think you had a narrow escape."

         Lori held on to her and sobbed. Then she backed up a few inches and looked at Sarah. "I'm not stupid, you know. I majored in art history. I got a job in the library in Portland. I know a good picture when I see one, and we could afford it. He's just stubborn." She pulled away, rummaged through her backpack for a
handkerchief, and dried her eyes. "Damn fool. I mean me."

         "No, you're just fine. So what's next? Tell me."

         "I guess I'll run home to Daddy and Mother. Back to Fryeburg. I haven't thought much about it."

        Sarah frowned. "Well, think about it. Do you still have that job?"

         "Yeah. I haven't had time to talk to them."

         "Can you live on your salary? Or borrow something from your folks?"

         "I wouldn't have to borrow much." Lori stayed slumped against the desk. "I worked all through school, and I've got some money saved. But we had plans . . . ."

         "Then what's the hurry? Why don't you stay in Portland for a while, see how it goes?"

          "I could do that, I guess." Lori walked slowly over to the pastel and stared at it for a long moment. She backed away, took a deep breath, then stood up straight.

         "The hell with it." She wrestled a wallet out of her backpack, pulled out a credit card, and handed it to Sarah.

         "Scott didn't want me, it turned out. But I've still got my job. I won't die. And I want that picture." Finally, she smiled.

                                   ---The End-- 
Carter Jefferson