Hungry for Love

by Nancy Frederick

  She walked with Sally for a while longer, and the house seemed a bit closer. Why had they journeyed so far from home? Fearing that Sally would tire before they completed the trip, Annabeth stopped to rest, pulling her daughter down beside her. Dozing in reality, and briefly in her dream, Annabeth looked about, still in the meadow. Sally! Where was she? Off in the distance, she spotted her daughter, waving to her from a tree house where Sally was playing. She walked up to the tree house, but Sally waved her on, making it clear that Annabeth was to go on without her.

  She walked some more, sensing that she was getting closer, knowing she would arrive soon enough. What is this, she thought, pulling the heavy pack off her back and dropping it to the soft ground. Reaching down, she tried to unzip the pack, but the zipper stuck. Tugging harder, she was able to budge it, and inch by inch it opened, revealing the contents inside. There were framed portraits of the people in her life. Her parents. Maggie. Her husband. Julie. Where are the girls’ pictures, she wondered, but there were none. Look at this, all my report cards. A heavy bundle of paper, fastened by two rubber bands, was much larger than all her accumulated report cards might really have been. At the very bottom of the bag was a collection of art materials which was tightly sealed. Leaving all but the art materials lying at the base of a tree, Annabeth rose, thinking, I can come back for these later; they’re too heavy now. The pouch, much lightened, hung easily on her shoulder, and she walked into the distance toward her home.

  Remembering nothing of her dream upon awakening, Annabeth glanced at the clock. Ready to tense, thinking she had to hurry off to the drugstore, she thought for a moment and relaxed again. It was her day off. She wished she could snuggle back down for a while, but instead she rose, dressing and brushing her teeth. The cat, startled by her haste, leapt from the bed and raced down the stairs, although he was probably not hungry. She fed him immediately and downed a glass of orange juice as she baked a batch of cupcakes for Julie to take into little Bobby’s class, and while they were in the oven, she flipped through the work of the previous night. Next time she would work a little longer on each one.

  There was a flea market outside of town, and although it wasn’t well stocked on a weekday, Annabeth went there nevertheless. She found a couple of small, spindly tables, some old recipe boxes, a couple of wooden bowls, one wooden compote dish, and about a dozen other small pieces of the general variety classified as this and that. The whole lot fit easily into her trunk, and Annabeth drove then to the hobby shop that Becky had recommended. There she acquired a bit more of this and that.

  Back at home, she set up a makeshift work table of plywood on a couple of sawhorses and applied a base coat of white to everything. Allowing the paint plenty of time to dry, Annabeth walked back into the kitchen where she washed her hands, prepared some lunch and took it into R.J.’s den. When it had been built, this room was designed as a retreat for the man of the house, and had been paneled with dark wood, which remained. One could imagine the mahogany desk and heavy drapes at the window, although there was nothing like that in there now. An old table, of the Formica and metal variety, sat in a corner, next to a dented metal filing cabinet. The bookcases at the rear of the room contained an outdated set of encyclopedias as well as a collection of atlases, travel books and an assortment of maps R.J. had assembled over the years. How many trips had he planned and how few had they actually taken? Once they were even set to move up North, a plan that R.J. was certain offered him every opportunity he had lacked in Gull’s Perch. They had gone so far as accepting a deposit on the house, but before it was time to sign the papers he changed his mind, and so they stayed put.

  Most of the room was filled with the infamous and mostly unused gym equipment. An old couch, covered in ragged, garish plaid, that had once belonged to Mother Welner, was pressed against a wall, and reaching for an atlas, Annabeth sat on the couch eating her lunch and looking over the book.

  She had lived in Gull’s Perch all her life, but she had driven no farther than an hour beyond its limits. She knew where the surrounding towns were, of course, and she knew how to reach them, but until now there had never been a reason to devise an itinerary. Following the spidery lines on the atlas’ pages with her finger, she envisioned the trips she would take, the stops in each small town to check for shops that might want to buy some of her things. Looking down at the map made it real. She had only to prepare a reasonable number of items over the next couple of weeks, load the treasures, as Becky called them, into her car, and then go traveling.

  Highway Ninety-eight lay on the edge of the state, running along the water, and it connected all the coast towns in the panhandle from Pensacola to Panacea, where it turned inland toward Tallahassee. Considered the scenic route, it provided a spectacular vista in either direction out of Gull’s Perch, whether the view was of the pristine Gulf waters or through the forests of pine that once covered the entirety of the state. Going east, one saw the little beach towns with their insignificant but charming cottages on the seaside, or in the least elevated areas, houses built on stilts so tall their bottom floors were essentially floating at second story level. To the west lay elegant communities of newly erected Victorian homes that looked more like doll houses than human dwellings, golf resorts with high rise hotels and condominiums, all dotted with charming ponds, little inlets and marked duck crossings. Each spot was a vacationer’s paradise because of the famous white sand beaches that even in the hottest weather remained cool to the touch.

  Wisely realizing that all the towns on that route catered to tourists and would therefore have shops like Etta’s, Annabeth selected it. Equipped with R.J.’s atlas, which she would not need, a sports bottle of ice water, a tote containing a sandwich, some fruit, and a bag of cookies, she set out on her exploration, the trunk full of the newly decorated items she had readied.

  It was the first time Annabeth had undertaken any such project on her own, and she was petrified. It was worse than having to perform in a play. She wanted to turn the car back around and forget the whole thing. Whatever would she say to these people? They’d think she was just some silly housewife out to pester them. Over and over as she drove, Annabeth rehearsed a series of opening lines. Her heart raced each time she imagined having to walk into a store with her work, and only the thought of her house and how she was going to save it gave her the will to keep going.

  Thinking intermittently about R.J. and his travels, for the first time she understood the lure of his vending machine business and of being on the road. Driving like this was liberating; it was exciting to be able to go anywhere she wanted. How hard it must have been for him to be trapped all those years as a mechanic, penned up inside when he yearned to be free and out in the world. How hard to work on the planes when what he wanted was to be the glamorous aviator flying them.

  The approach to each small town was pretty much the same. There would be miles of open road, followed by an occasional dwelling, then a business here and there and finally a cluster of houses and shops that defined the town, then everything in reverse until there was more open road again. Stopping in front of her first possibility, Annabeth pulled from the trunk two large shopping bags filled with small items, but instead of pushing them back into the car and racing away as she wanted to do, the image of her house floated into her mind, so she took a deep breath and walked into the store, which was empty except for the proprietor, a woman who was much too old for the skin-baring sundress she sported.

  In a way which she hoped was friendly and confident despite the knots in her stomach, Annabeth smiled at the woman “I wanted to show you these,” stammered Annabeth, then gaining more courage, she continued, “To sell.” She set the bags down at her feet, reached down and pulled out a couple of the small items and set them on the counter.

  “Hmm,” said the woman noncommittally, which inspired Annabeth to remove a few more pieces and offer them to her. “Interesting,” was the comment, and Annabeth continued piling her work on the counter. “Do you hav
e a price list?”

  Annabeth swallowed hard. A price list! “They’re all one of a kind. I planned to price them individually.”

  “That’s fine.” The woman offered Annabeth her hand, saying, “I’m Maud Bullock.”

  Annabeth relaxed a bit then, shaking her hand and replying, “Annabeth Welner. So nice to meet you.”

  “And you’re the artist?”

  “Yes, I painted them all.”

  “Let’s see, what do we have here? Two dozen pieces.”

  “Actually it’s twenty-eight items. But I’ll be painting more.”

  “We won’t be getting busy for Christmas gifts until after November, of course.”

  Thinking this was a rejection, Annabeth nodded, smiled, and picked up a couple of items to return them to the bag. “Oh, I understand.”

  Placing her hand on Annabeth’s arm so the pieces remained on the counter, Maud continued, “But I could buy a few now. If the price is right, of course.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s great.”

  “This wooden compote, for example. How much is this?”

  Annabeth did some fast calculations. She had paid six dollars for it at the flea market. Becky said anywhere from double the original cost up, plus time and materials, but surely that was too much for these, so hesitatingly Annabeth said, “Twelve dollars.”

  Maud reached under the counter for a pad of paper, then began rapidly jotting down the prices as Annabeth quoted them. “And this?”

  “Oh...fourteen.”

  “And this?”

  “Nine.”

  They continued like that for a while until each item had been priced by Annabeth.

  “Well, let’s see. That’s three-hundred and thirty-six dollars. For everything.”

  “You’re certainly good at math,” commented Annabeth, completely unsure of the accuracy of Maud’s addition, but not wanting to appear rude by asking her to check the figures with a calculator.

  “Suppose we make it an even three-hundred?”

  “You mean you want them all?”

  “It’s a big risk for me, of course, but I want to help you out. Encourage you to keep at it.”

  It wasn’t hard at all! Annabeth left the store with the cash in her purse, feeling a bit sad that her adventure was being cut short by the fact that she had nothing left to sell and no need to call on any other stores. She drove toward home then, running the figures back and forth in her mind. Three hundred dollars...that was one-hundred-thirty-two profit. Amazing.

  Later that week, she sat at her dining table with Becky to deliver her sketches.

  “Oh, Annabeth,” Becky exclaimed, “They’re all just beautiful. This is real art, not silly craft designs. You ought to have a coloring book of your own. Or greeting cards. Or a calendar. I bet lots of craftspeople would want to copy these sketches. Even if they could think up ideas of their own.”

  Annabeth smiled at Becky’s effusion. “Thanks. I’m so happy you like them. I was afraid they were too ordinary.”

  “Ordinary! They’re charming as can be. Have you given any more thought to coming to the next show with me?”

  “I went on a selling trip. Sold everything to the first store I went to. Made a-hundred-thirty-two bucks profit.”

  “That’s great. How many pieces?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “All the same?”

  “All different. Flea market stuff. This and that, you know. I did what you said—doubled the price. There were supposed to be three-thirty-six, but the woman bargained me to an even three-hundred.”

  “And you added in the cost of the materials and ten dollars an hour for the labor?”

  “What? No. I didn’t think the woman would go that high.”

  “How do you know? Did you give her a chance to say no? Anyway, your things should be more. They’re one of a kind, not all the same. They’re treasures. Of course you have to sell cheaper to a store than you would at a show. But you could play it by ear. Shop around, make comparisons. That’s what I thought you were going to do, not go off and sell everything right away like that.”

  “So you think I was wrong to do it?”

  “No, of course not. I just want you to get what they’re worth. Well, in crafts we never get what our things are really worth, but at least you should get as much as possible. After all, a-hundred-thirty-two isn’t a lot for two weeks work.”

  “The woman seemed pretty fair to me.”

  “Well, if you’re satisfied, then that’s all right. But I hope you’ll come with me to the show.”

  Annabeth nodded. “Okay, sure I will.”

  “Here I am telling you to get what your things are worth and I’m paying you five bucks a drawing.” Becky shook her head. “I feel guilty. I’m cheating you. At least I’m only going to Xerox them, not take the originals.”

  “Oh, go on. Take them. I can always do more.”

  *

  Annabeth set aside a dress she was finishing for Julie then walked to the bedside table and opened the tin where she kept her knick knack profits. It held less than three-hundred dollars because she was now busy painting more pieces and paying for them without selling any. And that included the money from Etta. Five weeks work and three-hundred profit. It hardly equaled income enough to save her house. But Becky said she undercharged. How was she to determine what her pieces were worth? Surely those little local shops couldn’t afford to pay the sort of prices Becky described. Annabeth pondered the situation, then thought of the gallery she had visited with Laurel. They charged respectable prices, in fact, they seemed to overcharge. Reaching for the phone, she dialed New Orleans information.

  Trying to sound self-assured, Annabeth spoke into the phone, “Hello. May I speak to the manager, please.”

  The voice that replied was a sophisticated, effete drawl, cultured and certain of its own superiority, “This is Mr. Paris Landry. I’m the manager. How can I help you?”

  “I’m interested in selling some pieces to your gallery.” Annabeth was amazed at herself. She actually sounded confident.

  “What sort of pieces?”

  “I do hand-painted designs on various knick knacks. Bowls. Recipe boxes. Letter holders. Small pieces of furniture.”

  The voice became more nasal and supercilious as the conversation progressed. “What other galleries feature your work?” he asked.

  “I’ve only just begun to sell. Although I have sold my pieces to a couple of local shops.”

  “I see. What is your price range?”

  “Well, I’m still trying to determine that. So far it’s been about twenty-dollars for the smaller items. More for things like rocking chairs.”

  “Have you ever been to our gallery?” Landry’s voice made it clear that he was barely tolerating Annabeth and her overtures.

  “Yes, it’s lovely.”

  “Yes it is. Then you must surely realize that we don’t offer much in the low-price range, or knick knacks at all for that matter. We sell objects d’art of the finest caliber.”

  Annabeth heard the scorn in his voice, and realizing how foolish she was to be calling such a place, replied, “Yes, of course.”

  “We do see artists and their work, of course. Generally on Thursday and Friday. And we review portfolios. You could always drop yours off.” The tone in his voice made it clear that he doubted Annabeth had any such thing at the ready. “You are local?”

  “No, I’m in Gull’s Perch. My daughter lives in New Orleans.”

  “How nice for her. Now I really must go. Feel free to drop off a portfolio anytime.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Annabeth sighed as she lowered the phone into its cradle. A portfolio. Not that Mr. Paris Landry would have any real interest in seeing such an item even if Annabeth possessed one. It wasn’t a bad idea—from now on she would take pictures of her pieces before selling them.

  There was no sign yet of fall, there in early October, and the ice cream counter was as busy as ever. When Grady Hawkins walked in the door, Ann
abeth knew that it was quite possible that he was searching for a snack to relieve the heat, yet still she tensed up. There had been several customers each hour, and two sat at the counter now. Grady nodded to them in a way that made Annabeth wonder if he knew them, then walked all the way to the other end of the counter, forcing Annabeth to follow him.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Annabeth!” he said in a voice that sounded deeply wounded, “Is that any way to greet an old friend?” He bestowed on her his most dazzling grin.

  Feeling more and more tense, she managed a shy smile and asked politely, “How are you? How’s Doug?”

  Ignoring the mention of his brother, Grady replied, “I’m just fine. In fact I’ve been thinking a lot about you. But of course you knew that.”

  “What?”

  “You can’t give a guy a sizzling kiss like the one you gave me and not haunt his memories.”

  Annabeth blushed, remembering that scene in the auto dealership. Not knowing how to reply to Grady, she remained silent. When he reached his hand out to capture her own, she automatically stepped back a pace, eluding his grasp and causing him to frown.

  “You’re an interesting woman, Annabeth. Feminine yet sexy.”

  Annabeth looked around to see if anyone had heard his comments. “Excuse me,” she said, and began to walk toward the other end of the counter where a young mother waited with her toddler for some ice cream.