Hungry for Love (82 page)

“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 one 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 boxes, 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. 

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.