Fay Robinson - Christmas On Snowbird Mountain

“To tsu hwa.”

“To tsu hwa,” she repeated several times until she’d memorized it. “Thank you for the story. I feel like…like I’ve been given a gift.”

“You’re welcome.” He stared at her a moment longer than was healthy for her heart, then looked away. “I need to check my messages and return my calls. Do you mind?”

“No, go ahead. I’ll wander about, if that’s okay.”

“Sure. On that table is a mosaic I’m repairing for a 1930s era pool, and over there’s a ceiling I’m designing in conjunction with another company in California. The rest are…I don’t know…different jobs and separate pieces for a museum show. Look all you want.”

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, after reviewing his work and overhearing his telephone conversations, Susannah had decided that Ryan Whitepath was the most gifted person she’d ever met, but also the most disorganized.

She supposed his problem was a right brain, left brain thing, or that his overabundance of creativity had been offset by his lack of order.

His mosaics were brilliant, the colors earthy and the designs so stunning that Susannah felt spiritually changed just looking at them. But from a business standpoint, the man was hopeless.

He had no system for organizing his quotes and keeping up with correspondence, and apparently hadn’t sent out invoices for work he’d completed weeks ago. The clutter on his desk made her cringe.

He tried to pull up a letter he’d typed on his computer to discuss with someone on the phone, but he couldn’t find it. After several failed attempts, a lot of grumbling under his breath and the accidental deletion of a file, Susannah walked toward him.

“Here,” she said, leaning over his shoulder. “Let me help before you do something you can’t repair. What’s the customer’s name?”

“Health Systems of North Carolina.” He spoke into the phone receiver. “Hold on a minute longer, Mr. Baker. We’ve almost got it.”

She couldn’t find a folder that resembled the name so she did a search and came up with one document called healthnc.doc.

“That’s it,” he said. He read off the figures to his customer and promised him an invoice within the week. When he’d ended the call, he asked Susannah how to print it, since he couldn’t remember the procedure.

“You can go into your File menu and down to Print, hit Control-P on your keyboard, or click on this icon on the toolbar. See how it looks like a little printer?”

He tried to print, but got an error message. “What the—? I did what you said.”

She reached over and pushed a switch. “It helps if you turn on the printer.”

“Oh, yeah. That makes sense.”

She printed two copies. He seemed surprised when they actually came out into the tray. After, she used a utility program to retrieve the file he’d deleted and restore it to its original folder.

“Thanks for the help. I bought the computer expecting it to save me time. But I forget from one day to the next how to use it. Pretty stupid, huh?”

“Success takes practice.”

“Nia’s better at it than I am. It’s downright embarrassing to have to ask a six-year-old for help when I do something wrong.”

She cleared off a spot on the corner of his desk so she could sit.

“May I make a suggestion? You’d be able to find things more easily if you kept your quotes, correspondence and billing linked in this one program. It would also reduce your aggravation, especially at tax time.”

“I don’t know how to do all that. Typing a letter takes me two hours as it is, and then I can never find where I saved them—if I remember to save them.”

“I could set up a billing system and teach you how to use it and your computer in exchange for a few mosaic lessons. Until I quit my job to travel, I ran an office for twenty-three attorneys. I’m proficient in all the software programs you have here, and I’m available for the next eight weeks. I could really have you rolling on this thing by Christmas. And I know that being more organized would save you a lot of time.”

“Thanks for the offer, Susannah, but like I said earlier, I’m overwhelmed with contracts and I don’t have time to train anyone. Or to learn anything new myself. On three separate occasions I’ve tried hiring office staff, but nobody worked out. Having someone nearby asking questions all the time proved to be too distracting. I couldn’t concentrate.”

Dispirited, she nonetheless couldn’t blame him. “I understand.”

“But let’s take a look at your work. Maybe I can recommend someone else who can give you lessons.”

He reached for the sketchbook she’d left propped against the chair holding her jacket, but she jumped up and grabbed it first. She clutched it to her chest. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m embarrassed. Your work is so incredible and mine, I realize now, is amateurish.”

“With your enthusiasm, I doubt that. Where did you study?”

“I didn’t, not really. I had a year of basic drawing classes at Auburn University and grand dreams of being a portrait artist, but then…well, something happened in my personal life that forced me to return home. I ended up getting a two-year business degree at a community college.”

“How many years ago were those drawing classes?”

“Nine, unfortunately.”

“That’s a lot of time. Have you been drawing or painting since then?”

“Only sporadically. Recently I’ve started back in earnest, though.”

“Let me see.” He held out his hand. “I won’t sugarcoat my opinion, but I’m rarely brutal.”

With nervousness, Susannah gave up her art pad. He sat down in the office chair again while she reclaimed her former position on the edge of the desk.

He took his time examining each drawing, without making a comment about any of them. He’d flip a page, study for a minute or so, and then flip again.

Most of the drawings were of people she’d met in the past few months. Some were of her mother as she’d been before her illness, when she still remembered how to laugh and her eyes weren’t clouded by confusion.

A piece of loose yellow paper fluttered from the pad to the floor when he turned a page, and Susannah realized with horror that it was her Life List.

Ryan picked it up, gave it a cursory look and stuck it in the back of the pad. He went on to the next drawing.

Thank you, God. She’d never intended anyone to ever see her desires so blatantly scribbled.

He closed the sketchbook and handed it to her. “Your drawings aren’t bad. I wouldn’t call them good, but considering that you haven’t had a chance to develop your skills, you’ve done okay.”

“So do I have any talent?”

“I see evidence of it. You probably won’t ever be a professional artist, but with some practice you could develop into a gifted amateur.”

“I’d be happy with that,” she told him, pleased. “I’m really only drawing for myself. I don’t expect to make a living at it.”

“Then keep doing it. Draw what you like and do it often. You’ll see a big improvement fairly soon.”

“And what about mosaics and tile-making? Do you think I could learn the techniques?”

“I think so, although I warn you that crafting people in tile is extremely hard and that’s the subject you seem to like drawing the most.”

“Oh, I don’t care what kind of design I do. A leaf or a cloud would satisfy me as long as whatever I make will be around for a long time.”

He pulled out an address book, jotted down the names of teachers in the southeast and included phone numbers.

“Try some of these people.” He passed her the list. “Tell them I recommended you.”

“I will. Thanks for your help. And your honest opinion. It means a lot to me.”