LimeLight

by Melody Carlson

“Your home is charming,” she says. “I adore Craftsman style.”

  “And her art,” says Garth, “is even more charming.”

  Celia laughs. “Yes, Garth has been going on and on about your collection.”

  “Please, sit down. I’ll get our coffee.”

  “Let me help,” offers Garth, right on my heels. The next thing I know, he is carrying the tray, which is actually rather cumbersome and heavy. He sets it on the oversized ottoman, and soon we are all comfortably settled. I wish I’d thought to make a fire in the fireplace. Still, it’s nice and warm in here since the heating oil was delivered yesterday and the furnace has been running ever since.

  “Here are the papers I’ve written up,” Celia says after a bit. “I did some research as to current market values for the pieces Garth told me about. But you may want to consult with someone yourself on the prices; perhaps you have insurance estimates.” She hands me a folder. “I have a copy of our gallery’s insurance policy in there, as well as a brochure about Garth’s work and some background about the gallery and our history. I expect you’ll need some time to go through these things before you get back to us. As you’ll see, our consignment rate is usually twenty percent, but you are doing us such a favor with these valuable pieces that we’re willing to reduce it to fifteen.”

  I open the folder and skim over the pages. I am mostly interested in the values she’s attached to my paintings. But I’m also considering her mention of insurance. I have absolutely no idea as to whether my belongings in this house are actually insured. That was one of the items on Michael’s list—something I haven’t gotten around to yet. It’s unsettling to think that if something catastrophic happened, I might be left with nothing. Perhaps I should consign all my art to the Phoenix.

  “Goodness,” I say when I get to the values. “I didn’t realize the paintings were worth that much. Are you sure?”

  “According to my research, that’s in the ballpark,” says Celia. “Your husband had a good eye for art, especially investment art. These painters have all appreciated a great deal in the past two decades.”

  “I see that.” I continue to skim the paperwork, and everything really does seem to be in order. I am tempted to sign them here and now, but I don’t wish to appear overly eager or foolish. On the other hand, I’m uneasy about my own insurance situation. What if my house burned down tonight? Wouldn’t I appear even more foolish to have lost all my art’s value for lack of insurance coverage?

  Just as I’m about to tell them it’s a deal, I hear someone walking on the porch. Goodness, I hope it’s not Busybody Bea. She should be getting home soon. “Excuse me.” I go to answer the door. To my surprise, it’s Irene.

  “Hello,” she says warmly. “I’m sorry to intrude like this, but I don’t know if you’d gotten your phone hooked up yet. And besides, I don’t have a number, but I wanted to stop by and ask you—”

  “Come in, come in,” I say, knowing that I will appear rude if I keep her standing on the porch. “I have guests, but you are—”

  “Hey, Irene,” Garth says as she enters the room. “Good to see you again. We sure had a great time at your house the other day. Thanks again for including us.”

  “Garth and Celia?” Irene looks at them and then curiously at me. “I didn’t know you all were acquainted.”

  “We just met yesterday,” I explain.

  “Come join us.” Garth pats the sofa beside him. “We’re discussing art.”

  “Would you like some coffee?” I offer.

  “No, thank you.” She sits next to Garth. “But I might take a piece of that shortcake. I have a weakness for it.”

  “Of course.” I pass the plate to her. “So, you are all friends?”

  “Yes,” says Irene. “Garth and Celia were part of my Thanksgiving gathering. Celia made the most incredible yam dish. I didn’t think I liked yams…but she’s changed my mind about that.”

  I feel a twinge of regret for not going to Irene’s for Thanksgiving. Why was I being so stubborn? Or perhaps I was just being too proud. “I’m thinking of consigning some of my art to the Phoenix.”

  “Yes,” says Garth. “Isn’t it exciting? If we had artists of this caliber in the gallery, we could probably get some good media coverage.”

  “What a wonderful idea.” Irene looks at me. “But I’m surprised you want to part with your paintings. They look so wonderful in here.”

  “Well, she might be willing to work a trade,” Garth says happily. “Not straight across, of course. But she likes my art.”

  “In fact,” I tell them, “I was just about to sign these contracts.”

  “Don’t you want to go over them carefully?” asks Celia.

  “They seem to be in order.” I don’t mention my fear about my own lack of insurance. “I don’t see any reason to delay this. Besides, with Christmas around the corner, you might want to get something going right away.”

  “You know, the Christmas parade is two weeks away,” says Irene. “That Saturday could be the perfect time for an exhibition.”

  “Yes, and that would also give us enough time to get out a press release,” says Celia.

  “And, if you like, I could let you borrow all my paintings for that evening’s exhibit,” I offer. “Perhaps for the following week as well.”

  “We could promote it as a one-time-only event.” Celia writes down notes.

  “Perhaps you could talk Page’s friend Audra into playing violin.”

  “That’s a great idea, Irene,” says Garth. “And we’ll serve wine and cheese.”

  Soon they are all spouting ideas, and I take the contracts into the kitchen and skim them once again. Then I sign each one and return the folder to Celia.

  “This is so exciting.” Celia signs her portion of the contracts and hands me back my copies. “It will be our biggest event ever.”

  “And Claudette will be our guest of honor,” proclaims Garth. “Our personal patron of the arts.”

  “Well, you should at least ask her,” says Celia. “She might be busy or not want to be involved—”

  “Of course, I want to be involved. I’ll do whatever I can to make this a huge success. In fact, I could contact some of my art friends in the Los Angeles area. Come to think of it, there were a number of people who had coveted some of Gavin’s finds over the years. Maybe they’ll want to come up here.”

  “Well, we have a lot to do,” says Celia. “I want to work on the press releases.”

  “And I’ll get the van to come back and pick up the contracted paintings,” says Garth. Within minutes Garth and Celia are gone.

  “How exciting,” says Irene. “Garth and Celia are such dears, but it’s been an uphill battle operating an art gallery in Silverton.”

  “Maybe that’s about to change.”

  “I came by to invite you to the Festival of Trees,” says Irene.

  I try to think why that sounds familiar and remember that horrid morning, only days ago, when my sister and friends came to invite me to this very same event. Just the thought of it brings a sour taste to my mouth. “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Are you sure? I’ve heard it’s rather nice this year.”

  “Yes, but thank you for thinking of me.”

  Irene smiles. “You seem to be getting along well, Claudette.”

  “Thank you. I am doing my best. But I’m afraid that I’m still not caught up. I have some laundry to do as well as some other household chores.”

  “Well, perhaps we can do something together next week,” she suggests. “Even if it’s just coffee.”

  “Yes, that would be nice. Perhaps later in the week.” Hopefully I will have some money by then. I give Irene my phone number, hoping she might take this as a hint and call first instead of just popping in unannounced. I am growing very weary of unexpected visitors. Perhaps I should put a sign on my door: Occupant Will Be Seen by Appointment Only.

  “Oh, another thing,” she says as she’s about to leave. “I wanted to invite yo
u to church tomorrow.”

  I take in a breath. “I don’t think so, Irene. I’ve never been much of a churchgoing person.”

  She laughs. “Yes, I figured as much. But perhaps you’d like to come to our women’s book group. It’s a very casual gathering of some interesting women. Page Turner leads it. We’re doing a Christmas novella for December.”

  I consider this. “Can I think about it?”

  “Of course.”

  As Irene drives away in her funny minivan, I wonder why I am so hesitant to participate in new things. Am I truly such a snob? Do I really feel I am superior to these people? Or is it something else? I remember when I lived in this town before, so many, many years ago. How I tried to keep myself apart from people during my youth as well. I think, in all honesty, I did this as a self-preservation tactic. I didn’t want anyone to get close enough to see what my home life was really like. I didn’t want to be teased for the fact that my father was a lush…or that my mother washed other peoples’ laundry to feed her children.

  Certainly I was aware that people knew these things. After all, Silverton was a small town. Even smaller than it is now. But I think I convinced myself that if I could hold people at bay—keep them a good arm’s distance away—I could avoid the sort of intimacy that would lead to humiliation. Because, even as a child, I detested humiliation.

  Thinking of these old things reminds me of my old best friend Caroline. She was the only person I ever allowed myself to get close to as a youth. And even then I held back some. But we did have some good times together, and I would actually enjoy seeing her again. That is, if I could erase the gruesome image she must still have of me from that frightful morning. I’m just not quite sure how one eradicates something like that. Perhaps it’s better to let this friendship go. Or maybe in time, say six months or so, I might make an effort to spend time with her again.

  I wish I could say the same for my sister. I am still greatly peeved at Violet, and I’m not sure that I’ll feel differently in six months or even six years. Oh, I doubt she was really involved in a conspiracy against me. I probably blew that out of proportion. And I cringe to think of the accusations I made against her. The police most likely came to their own conclusions. Thankfully I didn’t attempt to press charges.

  What irks me most about her is the way she has treated me over the years…as if I am to blame for everything. I always feel as if she holds things against me. And yet they seem to be invisible things, for I am never quite sure what it is I’ve done. I chalk it up to jealousy. But you’d think that one could set such pettiness aside at our age. Still, I’m afraid we’ll take it to our graves. I suppose that makes me sad.

  By Saturday evening I have something else to feel sad about. Garth arrives with his van and packing blankets and removes the paintings I contracted for consignment. He promises to bring his paintings to my home after Celia writes contracts to cover them as well, but in the meantime my walls look rather stark and bare. Particularly in the living room. I did not know I would miss the paintings so much.

  I go to bed early, taking the bundle of Gavin’s letters with me. I’m not sure if I expect these letters to bring comfort and relief or if I am just setting myself up for more torture. Nonetheless, I sit in my bed and read, picking up where I left off, shortly after Gavin told my mother about my jealousy of Gala.

  Dear Mother,

  I think you must be right about your daughter’s insecurities. Although I have to admit I questioned that at first. I’m sure most people who know my wife consider her to be anything but insecure. I’ve heard her described as haughty, superior, snobby, shallow…but never insecure. Her identity is so wrapped up in material things and superficial appearances. She needs to dress a certain way, talk a certain way, live a certain way…or she’s perfectly miserable—and she can make others miserable too. Once again, I must assume some of the blame here since I have in essence enabled her. Sometimes I actually feel as if I have created a monster! And yet I do love her. I don’t know what I would do without her. Especially in my old age. She really has some fine qualities. Her humor. Her mind. Her social abilities. Her lively spirit. She really can be good company for an old fart like me. So, please, don’t take my candid communication as complaining. You really do have a fine daughter.

  Love always,

  Gavin

  Well, I’m not quite sure how to take that last letter. I suppose I could see it as a veiled compliment, although that’s a bit of a stretch. And I’m afraid that I must admit that Gavin was only speaking the truth—as he saw it anyway. Naturally I would have thrown a fit if I’d read his letter back then. I would accuse him of being disloyal and mean. Yet, somehow, I feel I can handle it better now. In a way it’s like taking your medicine—it’s bitter, but you hope that it’s good for you.

  There are similar letters of contemplations and musings, and some that seem written simply to cheer up my mother. Once again, I am reminded that Gavin really was a good man, a kind man…a man I took for granted.

  By eleven o’clock, I’ve worked my way up to 1998. Just a few years before Gavin’s death. To my surprise, it seems my mother has experienced some sort of personal revival and, perhaps because they are both in their nineties and facing their own mortality, they both seem to be openly speaking of God. This doesn’t surprise me in regard to Gavin, since I do recall a change in him in the year before his death. But for some reason it surprises me about my mother.

  Dear Mother,

  I’m interested to hear more about this spiritual revelation you’ve experienced. What made you suddenly take an interest in God and the Bible? From what Claudette has told me, you were never religious, never attended church…and now it sounds as if that has all changed. Most people don’t know that I was actually raised in a religious home or that my father was a preacher. It’s a piece of my past I’ve kept hidden from everyone. Even Claudette. I suppose it was partly because I was embarrassed by it but also because my family disowned me when I expressed my interest in motion pictures. Our church was very conservative—no smoking, drinking, dancing, movies…and the list went on and on. As a teenager, I broke all the rules. I sneaked off to the movie theater, smoked and drank occasionally, and danced with “worldly” girls who wore makeup, jewelry, and fancy clothes. My parents didn’t know what to do with me. At one point, I thought maybe I could give it all up. Except for movies. I loved the art of telling stories in film. Finally my parents said I had to choose. So I did. I picked film. Oh, in later years when I was a success, my parents “forgave” me. Their church had changed its position on movie-going (not on smoking or drinking or dancing), and because the films I made were more family friendly than some movies, I was partially “accepted.” But never completely. When my parents died, a wide gulf still spanned between us. Something I was never able to bridge. So now you see my interest in whatever it is you have experienced in regard to God. Please, enlighten me. I am curious.

  Love always,

  Gavin

  My eyelids refuse to stay open, and I set the bundle of letters aside, turn out the light, and consider Gavin’s family history. I never knew any of that. I suppose I never even asked. All I knew was that his family was a bit old-fashioned and lived in Connecticut. The one time we went out to visit, while on our way to New York, Gavin’s father had long since retired. I had assumed from business. I didn’t feel very welcome in their home, and we only stayed for a few hours. But now it makes a bit of sense.

  I can hear Gavin’s hurt in that letter. I can imagine the young man who wanted to please his family but couldn’t. I suppose in some ways I can relate to him. I never felt as if my family gave me the recognition I deserved for escaping the humdrum existence in Silverton. They never seemed to fully appreciate that I had made it in the bigger world.

  In fact, I often felt judged and condemned, especially by my sister. As if her choice to go to college, become a teacher, and raise a family was morally superior to my lifestyle. My mother never said as much, but I susp
ected that she didn’t completely approve of my choices either. It wasn’t until shortly before she passed away that I began to feel a sense of acceptance from her. Now I wonder if Gavin didn’t have something to do with that as well.

  It is all too overwhelming to think about tonight. My brain is tired and weary. Perhaps I will think about it some other time.

  On Sunday I feel dismal and gray—a bit like the weather. I walk about my house looking sadly at the barren walls and wishing I hadn’t consigned my paintings to the Phoenix. What was I thinking?

  To distract myself, and because I have only three bath towels, all of which are dirty, I decide to do some laundry. However, after I load the linens and turn the washer on, I discover I am out of laundry soap. I shake the blue jug several times, but only a drop or two comes out.

  I stand there perplexed, wondering what to do, when it occurs to me that I do have dishwashing soap. Like the laundry soap, it’s liquid and soapy, so why shouldn’t it work as well? I go to the sink, retrieve the bottle of Joy, and fill the laundry soap dispenser cup with the proper amount. Then, quite pleased with myself, I pour this into the washer.

  After that, I go back to the bedroom to get dressed. I would just as soon remain in my pajamas, perhaps even stay in bed all day. But I feel that is like giving in…and after all of my hard work, I don’t think that’s wise. So despite the fact that I have no intention of seeing anyone or going anywhere, I force myself to dress. Not only that, I force myself to make my bed as well.

  To my surprise, I feel a bit better after accomplishing these two rather basic tasks. Perhaps to feel well, one needs to do well. Whatever the case, this little exercise in discipline was probably beneficial. I’m just plumping the last pillow when I hear a loud knocking on my front door, and then the bell is ringing. Not just once but over and over.

  I hurry to see who it is. It’s Busybody Bea. I am tempted to ignore her, but it is difficult to ignore the racket she is making.

  “You’re home,” I say in a slightly bored tone, and the next thing I know, this obnoxious woman bursts through the door and marches straight through my living room. “Where are you going?” I say as I follow her.