The Artist Retreat

The air smelled of old wood and sea salt. It was a welcome smell, after driving forever on 101, cooped up in her stuffy Toyota. Marabel heaved her bags onto the bed and looked around. The cabin was small and sparse, with just a few tasteful details. A framed photo of the Astoria bridge, a mid-century yellow lamp. Sheer lace curtains in the kitchenette, a view of pine trees beyond. She had booked this place months ago, not entirely sure if she could fit an artist retreat into her budget, but giddy nevertheless. She told herself she would find a way to cover the $500 it cost to stay here for a week. Maybe work extra shifts at the cafe. She had to do this.

She had to do this because she was an artist, but most days it seemed like that came last, at the end of a very long list. Work and bills always floated to the top. Marabel was single, in her 30s, and time seemed to be pressing down harder with each passing year. In her twenties, she had all the time in the world to be an artist. Now she was finding gray hairs, toiling away in obscurity and stressing over whether $500 would leave her with enough money to cover next month’s rent. She had to do this. Because for 7 days, she could be the truest version of herself and for once not worry about the rest of it.

She found the tiny bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Driving for long periods of time always made her face more oily. As she stared at herself in the mirror, her cheeks flushed pink from the water, she took note of another gray streak sprouting amidst her shoulder length brown hair.

It was due to rain the rest of the week and Marabel wanted to stretch her limbs before starting on her creative projects. Even with the windows closed, she could hear the soft, constant roar of the waves. She zipped up her red windbreaker, locked the door and started down the dirt path to the beach, smiling and hardly believing that she was really, finally here.

---

By mid-week, Marabel had found a comfortable groove. She would wake up early, brew a pot of coffee and settle in on the sofa, her legs covered with a scratchy wool blanket. She found that gazing out the window helped prepare her for the day ahead. She would then get to work at the worn wooden desk, either writing in her journal or painting with her watercolors, until lunch time. After eating she would go for a walk to the beach - the rain clouds had indeed arrived, making her grateful for the sturdy duck boots she had splurged on last Fall. Then it was afternoon coffee and more work, until a light supper, followed by shower and reading time.

Marabel had arranged her art supplies inside the desk drawer, which made her feel more like a permanent fixture in this place. One afternoon, Marabel’s fingers grazed something in the far back corner of the drawer. It felt like a book. She pulled it out and examined it. It was a small, black leather notebook. Her skin tingled as she discovered that it was filled with journal entries and what seemed to be drafts of a story. Scrawled inside the cover was, “2001, RM,” but nothing more. She spent the rest of the evening absorbed in the notebook. Whoever the writer was, Marabel felt a deep affinity towards them. The entries revealed sincere doubts about a failing writing career, a divorce, money woes. The story drafts, while rough, were somehow familiar, though she couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Marabel vowed then and there to help reunite this notebook with its long-lost owner.

---

Upon returning home to Tumwater, Marabel set to work. She posted about the notebook online, and asked people to share it widely. Along with a photo, she shared the date, where she found it, the initials and part of a quote from the story drafts. She asked that any leads be sent to her PO box.

As the weeks turned to months, Marabel’s initial excitement at the prospect of finding the owner of the notebook waned. She went from checking her PO box everyday to every week to every two weeks. “Oh well,” she thought, disappointed. “It was a long shot in the first place.”

---

Summer gave way to Fall, the notebook gathering dust on Marabel’s coffee table. While checking her PO box one crisp Saturday morning - she was expecting a package of paintbrushes - Marabel noticed a light pink envelope next to the package locker key. She rarely received letters, and if she did, they were usually for the previous person who rented the PO box. About to toss it into the Missorted Mail slot, she paused as she noticed her own name written in elegant cursive. The return address read simply “RM'' with a New York City address. Her stomach dropped. It had been over 6 months since she found the notebook. She tore open the envelope to find a single sentence written on a piece of creamy, perfumed stationary. The same quote, this time in its entirety, from the notebook. Her fingers shook. Underneath the stationary was a plane ticket, in her name, dated for two day’s time, to New York City. She stifled a scream and ran home to pack.

---

Marabel had been to New York City only once before, when she was 19. She had walked all over Manhattan while on a break from college in Massachusetts, walked until her legs ached. That sort of freedom seemed like a lifetime ago now. She had been able to get her shifts covered at the cafe, ignoring the concerned remarks from, well, everyone. She had a good feeling about this.

“Alright, here ya go,” the taxi driver barked, pulling to stop in front of a row of brownstones near Columbia University. “If you’re not back in 15 minutes, I’m outta here, got it?”

“O-okay,” Marabel stammered, as she hurriedly unbuckled her seatbelt. Heart racing, she crunched over the yellow leaves that littered the front steps to ring the doorbell. The few seconds that passed felt like a millennium. She sunk her hands into her camel coat pockets and rocked on her heels. Maybe everyone was right. This was crazy. What was she doing here?

Then the door opened and Marabel found herself face to face with a woman in her 60s. Her short silver bob framed her face as she smiled and said, “You must be Marabel the Artist. I believe you found something of mine.”

“Uhh, hi, yes, maybe? I think so? Are- are you…’RM’? Did you stay at a cabin for an art retreat back in -”

“2001. Cape Disappointment, yes. Black notebook. Please, come in, dear, you must be exhausted.”

Marabel’s nerves calmed in the warm presence of this woman. She followed her inside to a humbly decorated apartment. In a way, it reminded her of the cabin. A few framed photos, orange velvet sofa, a hanging spider plant.

The sofa sagged a bit beneath her weight as she sat down. The woman brought out a tray of afternoon tea and cookies from the kitchen and said, “Forgive me, dear. I haven’t properly introduced myself. My name is Rita. Rita Mansfield.”

“RM,” Marabel stated.

“Yes, RM,” Rita mused as she poured Earl Grey tea into floral 2 teacups. “Now, I suppose I have some explaining to do, don’t I? But first, do you have it? The notebook?”

“Oh! Of course,” Marabel said, unzipping her backpack and taking out the small black notebook. Rita held it in her hands, smiling faintly. Tears shone in the corner of her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and began to speak.

20 years ago, Rita had indeed stayed at that very cabin to work on her idea for a story. She was recently divorced, in her 40s, close to broke and unknown as a writer. All she had was herself and her ideas. She poured everything into that notebook over the course of her stay, and was later heartbroken to discover that she had lost it. Long story short, the drafts she started in that notebook went on to become a rather successful middle reader series, launching her into the limelight and changing her life forever, under a pen name.

“Wait, what series?” Marabel interrupted, curiosity piqued. “What’s your pen name?”

Rita paused to take a sip of tea. “It’s called The Gnome Tales, by Rosalie T. Moore.”

Marabel’s eyes grew wide and she nearly spat out her tea. The Gnome Tales were more than successful. They were legendary, and the infamously private author was rumored to be quite, quite wealthy.

“Y-you’re Rosalie T. Moore?!?” Marabel stuttered.

“The same,” Rita said, shifting in her seat. “I had no idea the series would become what they have, and I always thought it would be fun to write under a pen name. It stuck.”

Marabel stared at Rita. The woman in front of her, dressed in a simple cotton blouse and jeans, could easily afford to live in a mansion. But instead she lived in a brownstone, sat on weary furniture and brewed tea in a stained teapot.

“...I’d like you to have this,” Rita said, handing Marabel a slim, light pink envelope. “You’ve returned something that I thought I would never, ever see again. It’s a very important part of my life, you know.”

Inside the envelope was a check. For $20,000 dollars. “No,” Marabel squeaked. “No. There’s no way I can accept this. I can’t.”

“I insist,” Rita pressed. “I know how hard it is, living in uncertainty, trying to make it work. I got lucky. But you can’t plan for that. Use this for your career, whatever that means to you.”

“I don’t want a short cut,” Marabel said, louder than intended. “I need to do this on my own. I mean, one time my mom helped me buy an iPad for digital art and then it was like, ‘Oh, of course the artist in the family needs help,’ so now I’d rather just work hard and show them that -”

“You don’t have anything extra to prove because you’re an artist,” Rita interjected, firmly. “It’s okay to say yes to help. What are we here for if we’re not helping each other?”

Marabel’s vision blurred as she thought of her brother and his wife, their new baby. They both held good jobs, owned real estate, yet they still got help. Babysitting, laundry, groceries, gifts, a free place to stay in Hawaii. Why does it seem more vulnerable, more shameful, to ask for help when you really need it? Why did she have to compare herself?

“I.. I just feel like I’m messing up by choosing this path and I have to-” her voice caught.

“Shhh,” Rita soothed. “You wouldn't have chosen it if it wasn’t true for you. No one said it would be easy. You have to keep showing up, everyday, despite it all. Please, let me help you do that.”

Marabel exhaled. “Okay,” she whispered, finally meeting Rita’s eyes. “Okay. Thank you. Thank you, Rita.”

“Good!” Rita chirped, clapping her hands. “Now, all I ask is that you write me from time to time. And you’re always welcome to visit. I suppose I could use a little company.”

---

That evening, soaking in the clawfoot tub of Rita’s guest bathroom, Marabel looked out at the city lights from a high window. Her ticket had an open return date, and Rita had invited her to stay for the week. Her thoughts swirled with the events of the afternoon.

“....thank you,” she whispered again, to the tiles, the dripping faucet, the window.

Who knows. Maybe she could do this after all. She would, at the very least, keep trying.