“Annabeth,” said Grady, leaning into the room, “Car’s fine.” He held the keys toward her, then touched her shoulder as she took them from his hand. “I had the boys wash the car for you, since you had to go to the trouble of coming all the way in for nothing.”
“Why, thanks,” said Annabeth.
It was just a little white lie, not the truth, and she didn’t really have to visit Julie, but she drove in that direction anyway. Her mind was a jumble. She touched her lips, then blushed again, alone in her car. Thrilling, something thrilling about that, there with Grady.
“Mommy!” trilled little Bobby, opening the door, “See! Aunt Annabeth can come with us. I thought so.” He nodded sagely, impressed with his own wisdom.
“Where can I go with you?”
“To the mall for the pictures.”
Julie walked into the room, accepting a hug. “You’re not working?”
“I do have an occasional day off. I’m sorry I’ve had so little time for you lately.”
“It’s all right. We’re going to the mall now. Actually I had wanted to ask you to come along to help with little Bobby, but I didn’t want to be a burden.”
“Oh, honey, you’re not a burden. What help do you need?”
Julie smiled shyly, “I’m getting my picture taken, you know, Glamour Poses.” She laughed, embarrassed to admit it. “For Bobby, for his birthday.”
Annabeth smiled. “Well! How exciting!”
“So you want to come, watch little Bobby while I pose?”
“Sure I do.”
“This is exciting, isn’t it,” whispered Julie as they walked through the door of Glamour Poses, a little storefront in the mall which offered makeup professionally applied, dress up clothes of all sorts, and photographers trained to help the client imagine she was as beautiful as Cindy Crawford, at least for an hour. It was as far from a real modeling session as imaginable, but still it was fun. Even if the makeup artists were just girls barely out of high school who’d taken a short class to turn their natural interest into a marketable ability, it was more help than most of the local housewives got with their appearance.
“What do you think?” asked Julie, turning toward Annabeth, who was reading a book to little Bobby.
“You’re gorgeous!” enthused Annabeth. “You look just like a movie star!”
Julie smiled, pleased with herself. “I like this makeup. They’re good colors for me.”
“Yes, you look great.”
“We sell the makeup, if you want to buy any.”
“You know, I think I will,” enthused Julie. “We should do you too,” she commented to Annabeth, suddenly inspired.
“Me? Nah!”
“Yes! We can take some pictures together, for Dad, and some alone. Come on, let’s! My treat.”
“Oh I don’t know.”
“I’ve already decided.”
The makeup girl walked over to Annabeth, then led her toward the wardrobe room, where she chose a low-cut gold lame top that was little more than a piece of fabric that was designed to drape over the chest of a woman of any size. “This will look wonderful on you. You have a lot of gold in your skin and hair.”
“Gracious!” Annabeth reached for something far less dramatic, a simple white blouse, but the girl took it right out of her hand.
“This is it, really. Trust me.”
“You certainly have a lot of confidence,” laughed Annabeth.
“I have a good eye. Now let’s get you made up.”
Annabeth followed her once again to the makeup bar, where she was seated beside her sister.
“You have excellent skin,” proclaimed the girl. “Nice, small pores.”
“Soap and water,” laughed Annabeth.
“Put some of the violet on her,” commanded Julie. “We have the same blue eyes.”
Annabeth watched silently as the girl made her up, and indeed she did have a good eye. Instead of the harsh contrasts most of the girls chose for a pseudo-theatrical look, Annabeth was painted with subtle colors, pinks and violets, and some shading in the hollow of her cheeks which accented her cheekbones and had a slimming effect. In a matter of a few minutes, the girl stood back and admired her work, nodding to herself.
“You ought to wear makeup,” insisted Julie. “You look fantastic. Ten years younger and twenty pounds thinner.”
“I do wear makeup.”
“Okay, then, you ought to wear more makeup!” laughed Julie, “Now let’s get those pictures taken before we turn into pumpkins.”
“I saw that in a movie,” mused little Bobby.
The pictures taken and their adventure over, Annabeth drove back to her house, where she sat at the kitchen table for a quick bite as Rogers the cat wolfed down his dinner. Thinking she’d finally call that woman from the art show, Annabeth rummaged in her purse for the card she’d been given, but instead found the three Polaroids the photographer had taken as preliminary test shots. She sat for a moment, looking at each shot, then spreading them out on the table in front of her.
How amazing. It looked like someone else entirely. She reached in her purse again, this time pulling out the satchel of cosmetics her sister had bought for her as a treat. Annabeth gathered up the photos and the makeup and she walked toward the hallway, where a mirror hung. She scrutinized her own face. The bones weren’t bad. She was pretty, well, not bad.
In search of better illumination, Annabeth climbed the stairs then walked into her bathroom. She noticed how the slight shading in the hollow of her cheeks gave more definition to her face, how the violet at the corners of her eyes created a deeper twinkle. “Just like painting a bird on a chair,” she mused. Setting the bag of cosmetics down on the vanity top, she walked into the bedroom and opened the drawer by her side of the bed, and there she deposited the pictures.
Back in the bathroom, Annabeth let the warm water run in the sink. She repeatedly lathered her hands, then lifted them to her face, the makeup dissolving from her skin and flowing down into the basin, a silken spume of color that lasted for but a moment then disappeared down the drain.
*
“The great thing about all these pieces is that they’re one of a kind,” said Becky Varnum. “Of course you wouldn’t want to sell these. They’re your treasures. Nothing like the little boxes and key racks I sell at all these local shows.” Small and lively, with short hair dyed a vivid red and an animated style of communicating, Becky was obviously pleased with Annabeth’s invitation to see her house and have lunch rather than just a telephone conversation in which she could share her information anonymously.
They sat on the sofa in Annabeth’s living room, plates of fancy sandwiches with fruit salads and a platter of cookies on the coffee table in front of them. After having given Becky a tour of her house, Annabeth served lunch, thinking it would be pleasant to sit and talk casually. Handing Becky a plate, and then taking her own, Annabeth asked, “How long have you actually been selling at craft shows?”
“Only five years or so. And of course I usually go to shows only right in this area. Mmm, this is wonderful chicken salad.”
“Thanks. It’s the pecans. Where do you get the things you paint?”
“I just get them at the hobby shop. I paint them, charge anywhere from double the cost up to ten times or more, plus labor and materials, then sell them.”
“But can there be that many shows around here?”
“Well, I’ve gone as far as to Orlando. And Birmingham. Pensacola. Usually no more than a day’s drive. Sometimes I persuade Shep to come with me and then we have a good time, staying in a motel, going out to eat. Usually I make enough to cover what we spend.” Becky laughed then continued, “In the summer I do a couple a month, usually on weekends. And of course in November and December there are a number of shows.”
“So you and your husband travel together. How fun.”
“Yes, we have a great time. I was a housewife for a lot of years. Six kids!” Becky grimaced good naturedly. “The last on
e moved out seven years ago—when I was fifty. I didn’t know what to do with myself.”
“They grow up too fast, don’t they?”
Becky nodded. “I loved it when my kids were small. I was always baking cookies and sewing clothes. Scouts. School trips. Birthday parties.”
Annabeth smiled, “Yes, all of that.”
“Then I just kind of wandered into the hobby shop. It was next door to the bakery. I have a weakness for sweets.”
Annabeth nodded, “Me too.” She gestured along the length of her body, “And here’s the proof.”
Becky laughed. “I’m sitting on mine.”
“So go on about the hobby shop.”
“Yes, right! So I bought a couple of wooden boxes, some paint and I was started. By the time I ran out of people to give them to it seemed like I needed a new hobby or else I should sell them. And now it’s like this is one of the best times of my life. I love traveling around, talking to people, it’s just fun.”
“And you get to have romantic weekends with your husband.”
“Yep. That too. Except after a day doing a show, we’re usually too tired for the romance. But hey—it’s still fun.” Becky had an engaging smile and a good-natured way of describing her life and laughing about it.
“I thought that I’d drive around, check out some stores like Etta’s, see if I could sell to them. Maybe buy unpainted furniture or stuff at flea markets.”
“I’m sure there are quite a few in every direction.” Becky reached down to brush one of the legs of the coffee table. “I just love your work. So full of life. Darling little frog there among the mushrooms. So vivid and bright.”
Annabeth smiled, “Thanks. I think I paid about five dollars for that coffee table in nineteen-seventy-three.”
“It must have taken you hours and hours to paint it, though.”
“I paint pretty quickly. It took a couple of days, not working full time, of course.”
“I’m impressed. It takes me quite a while to do mine, maybe because I’m always looking at a picture I’m copying. What would you put on those boxes I paint?”
“You could put anything on them. Flowers, birds wearing jewelry, children playing at the beach, shells, kittens, puppies, on and on.”
“Do you think you’d be interested in drawing some little sketches that I could copy? Then I wouldn’t have to steal my designs from those coloring books. I would pay you, of course.”
Annabeth thought for a bit. “How many sketches would you want?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A couple dozen? Would five dollars a sketch be too cheap? I’m sure they’re worth more. Actually you could keep the originals if you wanted and I could make a color Xerox for me. And they could be small. You wouldn’t even have to fill in all the colors.”
Becky’s energy was contagious. Annabeth could envision the designs Becky wanted so easily that it didn’t occur to her to refuse. “Okay, sure. And if you don’t like them you don’t have to pay for them.”
“Why wouldn’t I like them? Your art is beautiful.”
“That’s so sweet of you to say.”
“Listen, why don’t you come along to the next show—mid-October I think. We could share a booth. Of course we’d each keep our stuff separate, but we could take turns at the table, ride together. It could be fun.”
“I don’t know how much I’d have ready to sell that quickly.”
“Make a lot of small things. Letter holders. Only don’t make boxes and key racks! Nobody would buy mine if they had yours.” Becky stretched out her hand and rested it briefly on Annabeth’s arm, smiled at her, then reached for few more cookies, which she ate with obvious pleasure. “It’s been so nice meeting you today.”
Genuinely touched, Annabeth replied, “It’s been nice meeting you too.”
“I think we could be good friends.”
“You know, I think so too. And I could use a good friend now.” Sensing a bond with Becky, Annabeth opened up and told her about Maggie, completing the story with, “And it just doesn’t make sense. I could see it if the kids broke up permanently, but they’re right back together.”
“Oh, I don’t think it has anything to do with the kids. She probably just feels threatened by all the changes in your life.”
“It wasn’t my idea for my husband to leave me.”
“It’s been my experience that things happen when it’s right, don’t you think? Maybe it wasn’t your idea, but it was probably for the best.”
Annabeth bit the inside of her cheek, thinking about Becky’s comments, but not saying anything.
“And now you’ll build a new kind of life with new people. Maybe Maggie is afraid she won’t be one of them.”
“Maybe, but that’s pretty hard for me to imagine.”
“Give it some time. You’ll work it all out.”
After Becky left, Annabeth sat quietly, thinking about their conversation. So many people lately said how talented she was. Was this the first time anyone said it or the first time she’d heard it? Could it really be that Maggie thought she’d leave her or their friendship? She’d never left anyone in her life. It just didn’t make sense.
Carrying the dishes and the platter of leftover cookies, Annabeth walked into the kitchen, set them down on the table, picked up the phone, and dialed Maggie’s number, not having a clue what she would say. On hearing her friend’s voice, she began, “Maggie, listen to me. We’ve been friends since first grade. All our lives. I don’t want you to be mad at me and I certainly would never be mad at you. Can’t we stop this feud now?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re not feuding. Not at all. I’ve just been very busy. You know how busy I am with the kids. Oops, Peter’s calling me right now. We’ll talk another time, okay? Gotta go.”
Annabeth continued to hold the phone to her ear, long after the connection was severed. Eventually she replaced the phone in its cradle, reaching for a cookie from the plate on the table. Relaxing into her thoughts, she sat quietly munching cookies, and soon the leftovers were consumed. Becky was probably right, and eventually it would all be resolved. Annabeth banished from her mind the sorrow over her friend and turned her focus to the sketches she would do for Becky. She hadn’t done that sort of thing in ages. Where were her watercolors anyway?
Annabeth walked outside to the detached garage where her furniture painting equipment was. There were paints in many colors, brushes in a variety of sizes, rags, lacquers, sealants, but no watercolors. Back in the kitchen, she peered under the sink. No watercolors. The den was basically R.J.’s domain. She glanced in the door but was certain there was nothing of hers in there. The night tables beside her bed were smallish cabinets, two doors at the bottom, a slender drawer above. Opening the doors wide, Annabeth removed an old sketch book, which she tossed onto the bed. There was also a folio of colored pencils, but no watercolors. Pulling the drawer open, she spotted the photographs made at the mall. Annabeth sat on the bed then, and gazed down at her likeness, staring first at one shot then at the next. She smiled briefly, then tossed them back in the drawer, sliding it shut quietly. She hadn’t done any watercolors in a long time; they must be up in the attic; that was the only place left.
At the rear of the second floor was a door, and that lead to a narrow stairway, at the top of which lay the attic. Opening the attic door, she entered, hearing the creaking of the old floor boards beneath her feet. A lifetime of memories was stored neatly in drawers, trunks, boxes, and even an old armoire. Not stopping to look closely at anything there, Annabeth walked to a cardboard carton sitting in the rear corner. Inside were several big pads, one of which contained watercolor paper, a large set of pastels, a plastic tool box which held her oil paints, and a set of watercolors in tubes which were mostly unopened. Annabeth removed what she needed along with a plastic palette and a folded piece of old cloth which contained a cluster of brushes. Pausing for an instant to touch a large table which was pushed to the side wall and partially covered with boxe
s, Annabeth sighed, briefly remembering the day R.J. and Rum carried it upstairs from the dining room, then she closed the attic door and walked back down the stairs to the kitchen.
Pulling a large plastic tarp from under the sink, Annabeth covered the kitchen table and then spread out her paints. Stopping only once to walk into the living room and turn on the stereo, Annabeth painted for hours. When it began to grow dark outside, she switched on the overhead light and continued painting. Eventually every inch of counter space, the kitchen table, and the dining table were covered with pictures. Some were in series— children at the beach; kittens of all types with their mothers; hidden spots in nature which featured the tiniest places like the worlds under toadstools, undersea pictures, a gopher in his burrow. Some were individual pictures of the sort of quaint scenes Annabeth usually painted on her furniture. They weren’t the dainty watercolors that are the custom, but instead were more like sketches with color, ideas set down on the page but not fully articulated.
After hours of non-stop work, Annabeth’s neck and eyes ached, her fingers were tight and cramped, her legs stiff, her back knotted, yet still she painted. When she could no longer lift her arm, Annabeth glanced at the clock. It was three in the morning. “Imagine that,” she said aloud to the cat, who was seated placidly at her feet. She rose then and treated the bewildered feline to another can of food, despite the fact that he had not asked for it. “Let’s see,” she said, walking through the room, stopping at each painting to examine her work. All but the last were dry and she separated them into piles which she mentally labeled: not too bad, all right, and terrible. Flipping them over so that the cat couldn’t mess them up with his foot prints, she left the three piles on the counter and switched off the light, climbing the stairs, walking stiffly into her bedroom then tossing her clothes into the hamper. She washed her hands and face, pulled on a nightgown and climbed exhausted into the bed.
She slept almost instantly, and in her dreams she walked through grassy meadows, a heavy pack on her back, herself younger and her children small tots clinging to her hand. Together they moved through the fragrant grasses, the gentle rustling of fruit tree branches overhead. Off in the distance was her home, but how odd it looked. It was her house but it wasn’t her house. Annabeth squinted toward the dwelling ahead of her. Pulling the girls along, they moved faster but the house got no closer. Momentarily distracted, Annabeth looked up at the sky. It was a perfect blue, vast and untroubled by clouds. When she looked back down, Laurel was gone. Off in a distance was a bus and Annabeth could see her daughter inside waving to her. “Is today a school day?” she mused to Sally, who was too little to speak.
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