Speaking as if a teacher to her student, Beatrice cleared her throat and began, “Of course, you remember how I badgered you to publish not just your stories about Creola, but your stories about your own life?”
“How could I forget?”
“But, dear heart, you’d given up. ‘Use them to fire up your barbecue,’ said you.”
“Guilty.”
Beatrice pursed her lips and fluttered her eyelashes. “I simply took the bull by the horns, as my former husband, ah yes, as Carlos used to say. Take a look at this.”
Beatrice took a book from the top of the stack and presented me with it. The bright yellow cover framed a pretty watercolor painting of a suburban ranch house. Its front yard was filled with a flock of pink plastic flamingos surrounding a family of four. The author’s name was concealed by a sticker reading Autographed Copy. But the title left no doubt what this book was. Honey’s Beeswax.
I looked at Beatrice. “I’m simply thunderstruck! Honey’s Beeswax. I don’t know what to say.” I shook my head and frowned. “Beatrice, you never would admit you’re a writer. You’ve blown your cover now!”
“I’m not a writer. I merely made a few mental notes about the crazy things you told me as we walked on the beach. Then, after I read the stories you sent me on the computer disc, I merely added some organization and some artwork.”
“Merely? I’m speechless.”
“Thank goodness you weren’t speechless last summer, or we’d not be sitting here today.”
“You make a valid point.”
“Look inside, see my drawings? You are permitted to give me a great deal of acclaim for these!”
“Oh my goodness, yes, I certainly will!”
“Yes, indeed. There’s the scene with the bomb squad and your son’s hand grenade.”
“How I love the look on the neighbor’s face! That’s Bruce, perfectly!”
“And surely you remember the raccoon in your attic?”
“Wish I could forget. That poor, frightened creature! His hair is standing on end.”
I thumbed through the beautifully detailed pen-and-ink drawings accompanying each chapter. As I’d suspected during my very first visit to her cottage, drawing was Beatrice’s forte. “Your artwork is amazing.”
“Of course, it is.”
“Author, artist, and you’re modest, as well.”
“One can’t be too humble.” Beatrice pointed to the story about Beau and I getting locked in the cemetery. “That’s one of my favorites.”
“I love the expression you drew for Beau when the bolt cutters broke.”
“Captured his shock, I thought.”
“He’ll appreciate that.”
I turned to the chapter about the roof work. “I can almost feel rain on my face.”
“Honey, I’m so glad you are pleased. Just remember, you did all the telling, dear girl. I simply put it down on paper. It took me about three weeks, perhaps four. No, I must be completely honest with you. The compilation, I’ll not call it ‘writing,’ was a good five weeks of off-and-on work. I did take time to do other things, but only to avoid making you feel too guilty. I know how you are.”
“You do know me well.”
“I added a few sketches and made a phone call to an old friend who owns a printing company.”
“A former husband?”
“Heavens no, not even a boyfriend. But, Honey, don’t you see? Your personal stories are now, finally, a book.”
“With more than a little help from you. Thank you, my friend.”
Was I surprised? Definitely.
Embarrassed? Some.
Angry? Maybe a little. I was angry with myself for not sticking to the task of completing my own work. I thought back to the morning when I pitched all the stories in the garbage.
But no, anger wasn’t exactly what I was feeling either. In truth, it was gratitude. Beatrice had accomplished something that I couldn’t or simply didn’t do for myself. I was feeling sincerely grateful for her perseverance.
“I was right on one point, my talented friend. You are a terrific artist.”
“Merely a hobby, mine are only doodles, my dear.”
“Will you look at this one!”
Several years prior, Beau had had it with a cottonwood tree that sprouted into a real Jack in the Beanstalk tree. The gargantuan plant seemed to grow two feet every time Beau turned his back on it. Within a few years, the cottonwood towered over our house, stretching its limbs over half the roof. The wicked tree produced round, nut-like fruits which it rained down on our driveway. We took our lives in our hands every time we carried out the garbage. It was like navigating a field of greased marbles.
Armed with his chainsaw, Beau climbed atop our roof and attacked. “Tree, you are mine.”
There was something strikingly fiendish about my husband’s intensity. One by one, branches dropped to the ground. The man was in his glory, but the tree fought for one last victory. It conjured up a curse. Beau had cut all but the last three limbs when suddenly he started to slip. Only a strong gutter kept him from a serious injury. Because he didn’t get hurt, the scene in my story was very, very funny. So was Beatrice’s sketch of it.
“Beatrice, you really captured Beau’s panic. Look at the stark terror in his eyes! I love how you drew the ends of his fingernails flying off as he’s desperately trying to grip roof shingles.”
Thanks to Beau’s new fear of heights, the tree, which had assumed a palm-like shape, was eventually taken down by a professional. It became kindling which, try as we did, would never burn.
In that way, I suppose, the tree did triumph.
“And look at this sketch! Thank you, Beatrice, for making me appear rather fetching in this drawing with the kitchen mop. Why, you made me almost svelte. I still can’t believe my inventive and usually successful husband actually attempted to unclog the sink using the garden hose.”
Beatrice laughed. “Get towels, lots of towels,” she said in a deep voice, mimicking Beau. “I’ve broken the whole damn house!”
“What a disaster. Though it wasn’t a laughing matter that night. It was almost eleven o’clock before Beau gave in and called a plumber. The only one we could find at that late hour rolled in, literally rolled in, around midnight. Weaving and bobbing like a buoy, the aged hippy was as drunk as a skunk.”
“Speaking of skunks.” Beatrice flipped pages to one of the last chapters. “I included the ill-fated creature who got himself lodged in your heat vent. I’d never before drawn a skunk’s eyes! Took me a few tries to capture his glower. I eventually turned back to one of my sketches of Beau for inspiration.”
We both laughed.
She added, “Who would think that shooting the skunk with a tranquilizer gun would cause him to spray?”
“Apparently it was news to our exterminator, too.”
“Did it really cost four-hundred dollars to get rid of the stench?”
“Yes, and it was worth every cent.”
“Don’t you mean ‘scent?’ Excuse the pun, ah-hem.”
I happily skimmed through the other sketches. “I was curious about how you captured our faces so well. Especially Beau.”
“I knew your facial structure well enough to draw you from memory, but Beau wasn’t as familiar to me. Remember the night Beau cooked the steaks for us? When you were busy in the kitchen and he was cooking at the grill, I made some preliminary sketches of his features. It was as easy as pie to adjust his wonderfully expressive face for the drawings.”
“This book has been your plan for some time, I see.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I can’t wait to show it to my family.”
Beatrice handed me a copy tied up with ribbon and bow. A rolled sheet of artist’s paper was tucked inside the bow. “A small token from me to thee. Open the book, Honey, there’s an inscription inside.”
I unfurled the paper. It was Beatrice’s drawing of Beau and me standing on the beach with the Gulf of Mexico in the bac
kground.
I beamed. “This is a treasure, truly it is. Thank you!
“You’re welcome.”
I opened the book.
My dear Honey,
This IS your book. I just put a few appropriate sketches in with your well-scripted words. You will never know how much our strolls on the beach meant to me. Thank you for your stories, thank you for your time, and most of all, thank you for your friendship.
I rejoice that you are counted among my Dear Ones.
Sincerely, Beatrice
I was in tears. I clutched the book to my chest and leaned over to give my friend another hug. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted it. A brilliantly colored, hand-painted shawl was draped around a wheelchair, one folded up and put to the side behind a box of books. Hers. It had to be. The shawl suddenly slid to the floor to reveal Beatrice’s secret.
I was speechless.
Beatrice smiled. “Uh oh, I see you’ve noticed my new mode of transportation.”
I nodded.
“I’ve had to use it more and more of late. The truth is, I have to use the blasted thing all the time. Last summer was fantastic for me because I could walk for a couple of hours, sometimes longer, each day. Often my spurts of energy arose from the joy you brought to me.”
“Only two hours?”
“Yes, sadly, my illness does limit me.”
“You gave me your only walking time?”
“Don’t be so dramatic, my dear. Those magical hours made up the best minutes of my days. And, don’t you dare forget, the pleasure of your company added many hours for me.”
“Oh, Beatrice.”
“Now, don’t you start!” Her English accent theatrically enhanced, it became apparent that the fiercely proud woman wanted no sympathy from me. “In actual fact, I can get along much more efficiently using my chair. Why, I’m faster than I’ve been in years.”
A voice came over the loudspeaker. “Attention, authors, please get to your places, your customers will be entering the building in ten minutes.”
“You need to go to your own booth, now,” Beatrice said gently.
I refused to leave. I needed to be with Beatrice, to simply “be.” She understood. I continued to gaze at her and, sadly, at the wheelchair which now held her frail form captive. Beatrice ignored any sympathy I offered. She was uncomfortable with any show of pity.
In a few minutes, a couple came up and thumbed through “Honey’s Beeswax.” Beatrice seemed relieved by the diversion. “Excuse me, Honey, while I sign my work. Paying customers, you do understand.”
I feigned being miffed. I needed time to compose myself.
The couple purchased several copies as gifts. “We could share some funny experiences about living in an older home,” the wife said. “George and I surely will recognize one another in these pages!”
The husband commented, “Judging from the drawings, your hero sounds like as big a bozo as me!”
Beatrice defended Beau, “Oh yes, but as of late, our hero has become quite capable.”
When the couple moved on, I said, “How can you keep a straight face with me sitting here? This is so bizarre. Didn’t you want to say, ‘Look, there stands Mrs. Bozo?’”
“I am very much an actress, didn’t you know?”
“Is there no end to your secrets?”
“I was a bit concerned that you’d be angry with me. After all, I did filch your work.”
“Beatrice, I meant it when I suggested that you use these stories as you please. All they were doing was sitting in my computer for me to read from time to time. You’ve given the characters life. Not only that, you’ve added your marvelous drawings. I just wish I’d thought about artwork, myself. Your sketches truly enhance the words. By the way, will you please tell the cover artist how well I thought that turned out? I love the pink flamingoes!” I’d written a story about Beau’s office buddies surprising us with the plastic flock as a prank.
Beatrice patted herself on the back. “Thank you so much, you very fine water-colorist, you!”
I stared at her tearfully, again. “You do it all, my friend, you do it all.”
Beatrice accepted my praise with a smug sigh.
“Now, to business. I want to buy copies for my friends, that is, if you will kindly favor me with autographs.”
“My pleasure.”
“I’ll take ten books, please. You will accept a personal check?”
“If you’ll produce proper identification, stranger. Silly woman, of course, I will!” Beatrice pantomimed ringing a bell. “You’re sure to be my big sale of the day, Honey Newberry!”
While Beatrice was signing the copies, I wrote a check and asked her about Jennings.
Beatrice replied, “He’s smashing, darling girl, he’s simply smashing. You and I will do lunch one day soon, and I will fill you in on everything my fabulous young man is doing.”
“I’d enjoy that. But, please include your son. I can’t wait much longer to meet him.”
Another customer walked up and Beatrice turned her attention to the woman. “I’ve kept you here far too long, Honey. It’s really very sweet of you to stay, but from one author to another, I must insist that you go and man your own table.”
“That can wait. Besides, I can watch my place from here. Look, Beatrice, you can see my publicist, the lady wearing the green and white suit, she’s sitting there with Creola’s Moonbeam. Also, I’ve got my cell phone and she can quickly signal me.”
“Whatever you say, dear.”
“I’ve missed you. I’m overjoyed to find you here!”
“I planned it.”
“I don’t doubt that one iota.”
“Deary me, don’t let me forget. I must, simply must purchase my own copy of Creola’s Moonbeam. It will be signed, naturally?”
I produced one from my bag. “Happened to have a copy with me, and it’s yours. No charge.”
“What? A freebee? Marvelous! Thank you.”
With that I quickly penned a few words:
My dear Beatrice,
Creola’s Moonbeam would never have come to be without your influence and support. Thank you for that remarkable gift, in truth, for the gift of yourself. That said, your counting me among your Dear Ones is your greatest gift of all.
I hope you will enjoy reading about Creola with the understanding that you took up where she left off.
With my love, Honey
“Thank you,” Beatrice said. My throat was too tight to answer. I just nodded. Beatrice went on, “I’ve been very pleased with the interest in this book. People really like your stories, Honey. Those who have read Honey’s Beeswax tell me that they identify with your experiences.”
“That’s nice. Beatrice, let’s not talk about the book. Let’s talk about you. I want to know —”
“Now, now. I’d rather discuss the book.” Beatrice then sat ramrod straight, looked at me for a moment, then said quietly, “My dear Honey of a friend, I suspect it will sell all of its first printing well before I die.”
I put my face into my hands and cried.
“Not don’t you get maudlin on me, Mrs. Newberry.” Beatrice gently touched my shoulder. “Just look at it from my point of view. I’ll get to do cartwheels in Heaven.”
I sat there, crying, and laughing.
Creola whispered in my ear. Life’s all about how we live, Moonbeam. Not how we die.
Chapter 17
I dressed slowly for Beatrice’s memorial service. Beau offered to drive me, but I insisted on going alone.
The ceremony, held in Atlanta, was extremely well-attended, especially considering Beatrice hadn’t lived in the city for years. “Lived.” It was devastating for me to realize that Beatrice no longer lived.
Everyone was saying much the same thing. The charismatic woman was the type of person who was never expected to die. To her Dear Ones, like me, Beatrice seemed immortal.
I had the immediate consolation of seeing people about whom she had so frequently talke
d. I was meeting my fellow Dear Ones, the remarkable artists and writers who peopled Beatrice’s world. I was surprised and honored to learn that many of them had actually heard of me.
As I perused the crowd, the artists were particularly easy to spot. I made that assessment based mostly on their garb — flowing fabrics, hats with flowers and feathers, and fabulous jewelry, likely hand-crafted, one-of-a-kind pieces, many with the flavor of international travel. There was very little in the style of a typical Southern mourning. The church was awash with reds and oranges, bright pinks and yellows.
My own somber outfit was embarrassingly out of place. Even so, my blue dress had been carefully selected. It was the soft slate of a Blue Heron, the blue of a Gulf coast sky just before a summer storm. My thought was to bring her much-loved Gulf of Mexico to Beatrice for one last time.
“Honey!”
In his kilt with all the trimmings, Oscar broke through a group of people and gave me a warm and sincere embrace. It was if I was being hugged by a small bear. I appreciated every squeeze from the burly little gray-haired beast.
“Oscar, dear man. I’m very, very sorry. Are you holding up all right?”
“My heart is broken.”
“You two had been friends for so long, I know.”
“Beatrice was my wife.”
“Wife!”
“Aye.”
“But she said —”
“Oh, she did like her little jokes.”
I felt as if I might faint on the spot. Wife. Husband. Mary Pearle had been right when she suggested there was more to Oscar and Beatrice’s relationship.
“Aye, my wife, that she was, the dear darling. I can no longer remember which years we were married, nor between which two husbands I fit. I like to believe I was one of favorites.”
I hugged Oscar once again. “Oscar, she once told me that you were the ‘Dearest of her Dear Ones.’ You are absolutely right to think she was partial to her handsome Scot.”
“There you have it, girl! I was the only Scot, as well!”
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