Tumbling Blocks

by Earlene Fowler

  After verifying everything with the caterers, I took a deep breath and sat back in my high-backed office chair. Was there something I was forgetting? D-Daddy was supervising the cleaning of the museum. The artists from the co-op were straightening up the studios and deciding what of their creations should be displayed, hoping to score a little attention for themselves from the visiting Los Angeles journalist. Everything was on schedule.

  I contemplated calling Gabe, just to see how he was doing, then squelched the urge. I might be tempted into discussing his mother, and I swore to myself I was staying out of that. Instead, I called Dove to tell her about Kathryn’s condition.

  “Hey, Gramma.”

  “Hey, granddaughter. How’s things in town?”

  I sighed, not knowing where to start. “No murders in the Ortiz household yet, though we’ve come close a few times.” I updated her on the most recent development between Gabe and Kathryn, including her MS.

  “What a shame. How’s Gabe taking it?”

  “I don’t really know how he’s taking her condition because he’s so wrapped up in being upset about being the last to find out.”

  Dove’s voice was sympathetic. “Can you blame him?”

  “I suppose not. But it was a sticky call for me. I didn’t want to be the one to tell him about his mom’s condition, but I hated holding out on him.”

  “That’s just one of those places where you just can’t win, honeybun. Don’t worry too much about it. He’ll come around. You said he seemed more settled this morning?”

  “His note didn’t sound angry.”

  “Then if I were you, I’d get on to whatever business you have today and let things work themselves out.”

  “No wise homily about mother and son relationships?” I lightly mocked.

  “Mind your own beeswax? That wise enough for you?”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Okay, guess I can’t misunderstand that.” I sat up in my chair and brushed some crumbs off my desk pad. “I do have plenty of other things to worry about today. Want to hear something absolutely maddening? Constance roped me into speaking at the 49 Club Christmas luncheon today.”

  “Didn’t they already have a speaker?”

  “I guess whoever it was canceled at the last minute. So I have to warm up the audience for Nola Finch, who people are really coming to see.”

  “You’ll do fine. You ready for your opening tonight?”

  “Thank goodness for D-Daddy and the docents. They have everything under control. You are coming, aren’t you?”

  “Me and Isaac will be there in our fanciest threads. Anything you need me to do for you?”

  “A little prayer might help. Not for me, so much, but for Gabe and his mama.”

  “Already got that covered. Now, I have to go feed my geese before they storm the kitchen.”

  On my way out through the museum, I stopped by Abe Adam Finch’s painting one more time. D-Daddy had done an excellent job hanging it. Light reflected off the old hacienda’s pale adobe walls, illuminating the details of the animal faces painted among the small odd-shaped leaves. What was he trying to say in this painting? Like a lot of outsider art, his message appeared to be private until he chose to reveal it.

  It was now eleven o’clock, still plenty of time to get to the luncheon. The Forum, a large, Greek-style building used for a variety of San Celina’s society gatherings, was, fortunately for me, only ten minutes away in downtown San Celina.

  I sat in my office for a few more minutes with my eyes closed, trying to calm my nervous stomach. No matter how many times I spoke in front of groups, I always had stage fright. There were many things I loved about my job, but this was not one of them. And I wouldn’t even feel relief after the luncheon, because I had another speech tonight. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. By tomorrow this would all be over.

  The Forum was one of San Celina’s newer buildings, where many clubs and private citizens held their special functions, wedding receptions or charity auctions. It had a large kitchen built to accommodate the specific needs of catering companies and had a huge, airy ballroom-size hall that I’d seen decorated in every way imaginable from a colorful, pinata-themed Cinco de Mayo dance to a wedding whose theme was gnomes and fairies to Western hoedowns with fiddle music and tri-tip barbecue to fancy ladies’ luncheons that featured models wearing Chanel suits and music by the Santa Celine Mission orchestra.

  I arrived a half hour early to orient myself and scope out what type of microphone and podium were being used. I parked in the back next to two pink vans with EmmyLou’s Creative Catering painted on the side, and entered through the kitchen where Constance, not to my surprise, was giving the catering company detailed instructions on how to do their job. With Constance’s back to me, I gave the woman she was chattering at a sympathetic smile. Her face looked familiar, and I realized I’d seen her photo in the San Celina Tribune a few weeks ago. Her name was Prudence, and her catering company was new and was named for her rescued greyhound, Emelia Louella. Being the new kid on the block was probably the reason she was catering this function for Constance. All the established catering companies had, no doubt, been conveniently booked this day. Constance had a tendency to leave chewed-to-the-marrow bones in her wake.

  After Prudence assured Constance that everything would be fine, Constance turned to face me.

  “It’s about time you got here,” she said, her thin nose quivering like an anxious rabbit. Her back was to Prudence, so this time I was on the receiving end of a sympathetic smile from the beleaguered caterer. “Are you all ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, not elaborating.

  “What are you going to talk about?” she demanded.

  I forced a smile and said, “I’m going to talk about Abe Adam Finch and his painting.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Why not?”

  “What will Nola talk about? You can’t talk about the same thing.”

  “I’m sure we’ll cover different aspects,” I assured her. “I’ll talk about acquiring the painting, what it means to our museum and a little about outsider art—”

  “No, no, no!” Constance interrupted. “You cannot do that. You must talk about something else.”

  I have to admit, I was flummoxed. It was less than an hour before the luncheon, and she was telling me I had to come up with a completely different subject? So much for the notes I’d so neatly printed on three-by-five index cards. I lifted my hands in frustration and found my voice. “Constance, I can’t believe—”

  “Oh, fine,” she said, throwing up her own hands. “Just talk about the museum. Try to make it interesting. This is our special holiday luncheon.”

  She turned and stomped out of the kitchen, leaving me to gape at her departing back. The clatter of pans and chatter of the catering staff continued on as if nothing significant had happened. They’d probably seen meltdowns like this a thousand times.

  “This is it,” I said to no one in particular. “I am quitting this job and going to work at Target.”

  “I could use a server,” Prudence said.

  “She’s impossible, but she is also the museum’s biggest donator.”

  “Want a cream puff?” Prudence asked.

  I declined her offer and went out to my truck to think. What could I say about the museum that these women hadn’t already heard? I felt my stomach twist into a knot. This time, I seriously was considering turning in my resignation. What would life be like if I didn’t have the museum and, even more important, Constance Sinclair, to worry about? I could spend more time at the ranch working the cattle with Daddy—he wasn’t getting any younger—or do some more decorating on our house or even sit on my porch and relax for ten minutes.

  I was thinking about what a wonderful lady of leisure I could be when someone tapped on my truck’s window. It was Nola Finch.

  “Oh, hi,” I said, opening the truck door. I glanced at my watch. How long had I been woolgathering? “Is it time for
me to go on?”

  “No, no,” she said, laughing lightly. “I just talked to Constance and wanted to touch base with you.” She was dressed in a simple hunter green wool suit with a silk ivory T-shirt. Her apricot hair was pulled up in a neat chignon, and she was wearing an obviously handmade necklace of amber and some kind of dark green stones. She had an elegant, creative flair to the way she put her clothes together. I wondered if she ever regretted giving up her own artistic career to oversee her uncle’s.

  She smiled at me. “Constance told me that she told you that you couldn’t talk about my uncle and his painting.”

  “Yes, but it’s okay. I’ll just ramble on about the museum, what we do there, the other artists who work at the co-op. Nothing that these women haven’t heard before, but it’ll be so boring that they’ll love it when you take the stage.” Then, realizing how that might sound, I backtracked. “I mean, not that they’re not thrilled to hear what you . . . about your uncle, I mean . . .”

  She touched my arm. “Benni, it’s okay. I told Constance that I actually preferred you be the one to talk about my uncle’s painting. I came out here so we could coordinate what we were going to say. I assured Constance, there’s plenty to say about my uncle, enough for both of us.” She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial tone. “Between you and me, I’ve done more than my share of these ladies’ luncheons, as I’m sure you have. I’m positive half of them will be nodding off and the other half will be fidgeting and wanting us to hurry so they can have dessert.”

  I laughed, liking this woman more and more. “You are so right. How about I talk about outsider art in general, what it is and why it is so popular now, and end my talk with how important it is to the folk art museum to acquire your uncle’s painting. Then you can move right into his life story and what he is doing now.”

  “That sounds perfect. It’ll be over before you know it.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears.”

  We walked into the decorated ballroom together and looked for our respective place settings. She was seated with Constance and two of the board members of the 49 Club. Their four-person table was front and center of the podium. I found my name at the table that hosted the three nominees. It was set off to the right side, closest to the swinging kitchen doors. Its placement was very telling.

  “Welcome to the cheap seats, Benni,” Bobbie said. Francie and Dot both shot her aggravated looks. They obviously didn’t have Bobbie’s sense of humor about our not-so-prestigious table.

  “At least we’ll get served first,” I said.

  “Or last,” Francie said in a grumpy voice.

  “Oh, cool your spurs, Francie,” Bobbie said, patting her on the back. “Before you know it, you’ll be president of this snobby group of overbred racehorses.”

  Dot gave Bobbie a horrified look.

  “Oh, Dot, you’ll get in too,” Bobbie said. “I can’t imagine why you would want to, but you will.”

  “Bobbie,” Francie said, her voice tight and angry. “Why are you even here if you don’t want to be a member?” She leaned over her gold-rimmed china plate, painfully obvious in her desire to be a part of this group. What was sad was, knowing the way women like Constance worked, Bobbie would be the one asked, simply because she didn’t want it, and that impressed snobby people more than anything.

  “Promised my mama I’d try, so here I am.” She leaned back in her chair, her brown and white western-style suit looking as out of place at this affair as a clown costume. The women of the 49 Club definitely preferred to dress in a more Brooks Brothers or Chanel style.

  Echoing my own thoughts, Dot said, “No doubt, just because you don’t really want it, you’ll be the one they vote in.” Her tone was bitter.

  Bobbie just shrugged and sipped the three-olive martini in front of her.

  Please, I thought, let this be over soon.

  After our lunch of a chicken breast covered with a surprisingly tasty cheese sauce, real mashed potatoes, fresh green beans and hot sourdough rolls, I suffered through the business portion of the meeting. There would be a short break when we were encouraged to look over the silent auction items lining the back of the hall, reminded by Constance that the money would go for books and personal items for needy children. They would be part of the Christmas baskets being passed out by San Celina Social Services in conjunction with local churches, scouting and FFA groups.

  “Dig deep, ladies,” Constance said into the microphone. She looked pointedly at our table, her message clear.

  “For cryin’ in a bucket,” Bobbie said, standing up. “We’re supposed to buy votes now?”

  I headed over to the long tables of donations hoping I’d find something appropriate for Kathryn for Christmas. Elvia had solved my gift dilemma for Ray yesterday. She’d found an antique orange crate label: San Celina Express Navel Oranges. It depicted an old steam train barreling through a grove of orange trees. I’d immediately dropped it off at the framer’s and would pick it up in a few days. I meandered down the long line of donated items, passing up the impractical gifts like days at a local spa or a weekend at a luxury hotel in San Francisco.

  At the end of the table, there was a necklace made by a local jewelry artist who wasn’t a member of our co-op. It was an interesting mixture of stones: amber and turquoise separated by carved sterling silver beads. It was the sort of necklace that any woman could wear with either a fancy blouse or a man’s T-shirt. There were four bids with the last one being seventy-five dollars. Knowing Christmas was getting close, I rashly put down one hundred fifty dollars. If I won it, I’d tell Kathryn that the money went to books for kids. She’d like that, I was sure. During this time the three nominees mingled with the rest of the club members, obviously trying for that one last impression to secure votes. From what I understood, the voting would take place as they left, with them dropping their ballots in a locked box at the door for Constance and the other two board members to count later.

  Both my speech and Nola’s went off without a hitch and actually sounded like we’d coordinated them. She didn’t reveal anything new about her uncle but gave the same publicity spiel I’d read in countless art magazines: his desire for solitude, his little house in northern Nevada (she pointedly didn’t name the town, something I’d noticed before), his love for his art. There was a short question-and-answer period after her talk, and someone asked, “Do you think your uncle will ever come out to San Celina and immortalize our county? We have some beautiful places to paint here.”

  Nola smiled and shook her head, a practiced sadness to her expression. “I doubt it. Though I don’t speak of it much, Uncle Abe’s health is not as good as it once was. Travel is not only hard for him psychologically but physically.”

  “Has he ever been to the West Coast?” the same woman asked.

  “He loves his little place in Nevada,” she said, not exactly answering the question.

  After a few more questions, dessert was served, a layered chocolate-strawberry mousse. By that time the tension at our table was so high that it was starting to give me an upset stomach. Once Constance said her last few words and brought the gavel down to close the December meeting, I quickly said good-bye and hightailed it out of there. On my way out, I went by the auction table to see if I’d “won” the necklace. Luck was with me. I wrote out a check, thrilled I’d solved the mother-in-law Christmas present problem, and picked up the necklace, which was already wrapped in lovely silver paper with bright red ribbon. One less thing for me to worry about.

  It was four p.m. when I dropped by the folk art museum for a last check on things. D-Daddy had everything under control.

  “I’ll be back up here by five thirty at the latest,” I told him. “I have to pick up the dogs, feed them and then change clothes. The caterers should be here by then.”

  “I’ll stay until you get back, ange,” he said.

  I didn’t ask if he was coming to the opening, because I knew that though he loved readying the museum for exhibit openings,
he didn’t like attending them. It had become a sort of tradition that I give him a gift certificate for two to a local restaurant so he could enjoy a peaceful dinner with one of his many female companions while I pandered to the rich and influential of San Celina.

  “Here,” I said, handing him an envelope. I ruined the surprise by saying, “It’s to that new restaurant by the creek, Creole Catin.” I knew that catin meant “doll” in Cajun.

  D-Daddy grinned and nodded his head in approval. “Been wanting to try their crawfish.”

  “I’ve heard it’s great. You’ll be eating better than me tonight, for sure.”

  “I’ll bring you the doggie bag.”

  After picking up a very tired Boo and Scout, I headed home. The house was empty, telling me the twins and Kathyrn and Ray had not returned from their San Celina tour. I briefly worried again that the day would be too much for Kathryn. I hoped I made it clear this morning that it really wouldn’t hurt my feelings if she was too tired to attend tonight.

  After the dogs were settled, I called Gabe at work. His assistant, Maggie, answered.

  “You just caught him,” she said. In a few seconds, he came on the line.

  “Hey, Chief,” I said. “How’s your day going?”

  “Don’t ask. What’s up?” I could hear him trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.

  “Sounds like you’re busy. Are you going to be able to come to the opening tonight?”

  A loud sigh came over the phone. “Querida, I’m sorry, I won’t be able to make it. Things are just piled up here. I’ve got reports that are already late and a meeting with FEMA first thing tomorrow morning. There’s things on the city’s new disaster preparedness plan that I—”