Distant Shores (26 page)

Who stopped loving whom?

Were you lying to us all those years?

Do you want a divorce?

The questions were youthful demands for certainty in uncertain times. Elizabeth knew that her answers were too vague to be of much help. How could it be otherwise? Some issues were simply obscured by the fog of too many lost years.

Jamie hadn't written at all. Nor had she returned any of the phone messages Elizabeth left on their machine.

Elizabeth had always been so close with her daughters. This new distance—and their hurt and anger—was almost unbearable. The old Birdie would have crumpled beneath its weight, but the newer, stronger version of herself knew better. Sometimes a woman had to stand up for what she needed, even against her own children. This was one of those times. And yet, the silence ate at her, ruined her ability to sleep well.

“It would have been better to lie to them … or to go back to Jack,” Elizabeth said to Anita for at least the hundredth time since the birthday party weekend. “I could have moved to New York and restarted my old life. Everyone would be happier.” She stepped back from her painting, frowned, then added the barest streak of Thalo purple to the sunset. It was the painting she'd begun the first night Anita arrived. She'd finished four of the pieces for the Stormy Weather Arts Festival, but the rains had forced her back inside. So, she'd turned her attention back to the portrait.

At the kitchen table, Anita sat knitting. She barely looked up. “I don't suppose everyone would be happier.”

“Everyone
else
then,” Elizabeth said, standing back from her work again. It was lovely. Perhaps the best work she'd ever done. “Okay. That's it. I'm done.”

“Can I finally see it?”

Elizabeth nodded, suddenly nervous. It was one thing to be happy with your art. It was quite another to show it off. She stepped aside and let her stepmother stand directly in front of the easel.

Anita stood there forever, saying nothing.

“You don't like it. I know the colors of the sunset are a little crazy; I wanted to emphasize your softness by exaggerating the world around you. You see how it seems that the sky is drawing the color out of you, leaving you a little paler?”

Elizabeth studied the work for flaws. In it, Anita looked frail and ethereal, yet somehow powerful, like an aged queen from King Arthur's court. There was the barest sadness in her gray eyes, though a hint of a smile curved her lips. “Maybe you think I gave you too many wrinkles. I thought—”

Anita touched her arm, but still said nothing.

“Say something. Please.”

“I was never this beautiful,” Anita said in a throaty voice.

“Yes, you are.”

“Lordy, I wish your daddy could see this. He'd put it up on the wall and make sure everyone saw it. ‘Come on in,' he'd say to our guests; ‘see what my little girl did.' ” Anita finally turned to her. “I guess now it'll be me sayin' that.”

On the first Thursday in April, Elizabeth drove to the community college. She found a spot close to the entrance and parked. Light from a nearby streetlamp poured into the car, gave everything a weird, blue-white glow.

From the passenger seat, Anita shot her a nervous look. “I don't know about going to this meeting, Birdie,” she said, wringing her hands together. “I've never been one to air my troubles in public.”

“It'll help, Anita. Honest. I used to call these women passionless, but they're not. They're just like us.”

Anita didn't look convinced. “Okay.”

They got out of the car and walked down the long, shadowy concrete pathway, then pushed through the orange metal double doors. A wide, linoleum-floored hallway stretched out before them, dotted here and there with blue doors.

Anita paused.

Elizabeth took her stepmother's hand and squeezed it gently. She remembered the feeling with perfect clarity; it had been only a few months ago that she herself had been afraid to walk down this corridor. Now she did it easily, eagerly. “Come on.”

At the closed door, she looked at Anita. “Ready?”

“Do I
look
ready? No, I do not”—Anita tried to smile—“but my stepdaughter doesn't care about that.” She puffed up her ample chest and tilted her chin up.

Elizabeth recognized the gesture. She'd done the same thing herself that first time, tried—like a frightened bird—to make herself seem larger. She opened the door and went inside, pulling Anita along beside her.

The first thing she noticed was the balloons. Pretty, helium-filled “good luck” balloons hung in the air, tethered to chairbacks. A few rebels had freed themselves and now bumped aimlessly along the ceiling.

“She's here!” someone cried out, and all at once, the women in the room came together in a crowd. They were clapping.

Elizabeth looked down at Anita. “I guess they like it when you rope in a new member.”

Sarah Taylor pushed through the group, smiling broadly. In a bright yellow dress, she looked like a ray of sunshine against the drab gray walls. “You tried to keep it a secret, Elizabeth. Quite naughty.”

Elizabeth had no idea what Sarah was talking about.

Joey pushed forward. “I saw it in the newspaper. I couldn't believe it. You never told us.”

Mina was next. “Joey called me right away. I drove down to buy myself a paper and there it was. I called Sarah immediately.”

Fran smiled. “When I saw it …” Her face twitched, as if she were about to cry. “… I went right out and joined that choir. My first concert is next Sunday.”

The only one who had nothing to say was Kim. She hung in the back of the room, by the coffeemaker, wearing her usual mortician's garb, fiddling with a pack of cigarettes. Every once in a while she looked up, then quickly glanced back to the table.

“What in the world are you all talking about?” Elizabeth asked when there was a break in the conversation.

“The art show,” Joey said, her voice reverent.

A hush fell over the room.

Elizabeth's cheeks heated up. “Oh. That.”

Anita squeezed her hand, steadied her.

“We're so proud of you,” Mina said. “It took real guts to sign up for that.”

“Balls of steel,” Fran agreed.

Joey smiled up at her. “You gave me hope, Elizabeth. I signed up for a dental hygienist class. I thought, if you can do it, so can I.”

“But I'm scared to death,” Elizabeth said.

“Don't you see?” Fran said. “That's what makes us so proud of you.”

Elizabeth's emotions suddenly felt too big for her body. “Well … thank you.”

“Who's your friend?” Sarah asked.

Elizabeth turned to Anita. “This is my stepmother, Anita.”

“Welcome to the group, Anita,” Sarah said.

“I lost my husband recently,” Anita blurted out, as if she'd been scared of her “turn” and wanted it out of the way. She laughed nervously. “ 'Course I didn't actually
lose
him. He's … dead.”

Mina stepped forward and slipped her arm through Anita's. “Come sit by me. I'll tell you about my Bill and how I'm learning to find a life of my own.”

Elizabeth talked to the women for a moment longer, then went back to the food table. Kim stood by the coffeemaker.

“Hi,” Elizabeth said.

Kim stared at her through narrowed, heavily made-up eyes. “How will it feel to fail?”

It was the question Elizabeth had chewed on at every meal. For weeks, she'd worried about it. Every time she dabbed on a bit of paint, she second-guessed her choice and her talent. “I expect to fail,” she said at last.

“And you're doing it anyway?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “For years, I failed by omission. I don't think anything can be worse than that.”

Kim hitched her purse strap over her shoulder. “I don't know, Elizabeth. Every time I think life can't get worse, my husband sends me a new set of papers. But good luck. I suppose good things have to happen to someone.”

Elizabeth was still trying to fish out a response to that when Kim walked past her and left the meeting.

SPRING

The lure of the distant and difficult is deceptive.
The great opportunity is where you are.

—John Burroughs

TWENTY-SIX

Elizabeth was a wreck.

She hadn't slept more than two hours last night. She'd tossed and turned and sweated. She'd even cried, although whether out of fear or frustration, she didn't know. What she did know was that the Stormy Weather Arts Festival officially started in less than an hour, and she—fool that she was—had agreed to show her paintings to the world.

“Was I drunk?” she muttered, changing her clothes for the third time.

The decision of what to wear was simply too big.

She slumped onto the cold wooden floor in front of the sofa. She couldn't remember when she'd been this scared. She would fall face-first today. And then what? She'd fought so hard for this new life of hers. She'd walked out of her marriage and forged her own path. She'd picked up her old paintbrushes and done the unthinkable: she'd dreamed.

“Get a grip, Birdie.”

She went up to her bedroom and changed into an ankle-length black knit dress with a boldly patterned leather belt. She left her hair down (in case she needed to hide behind it) and peered into the mirror.

Her face was the size of a volleyball.
Hello, Wilson.

She stifled the urge to groan aloud and focused on one thing at a time. Foundation first. She put on more than usual, then added blush and mascara. By the time she was finished, she looked nearly human again.

The phone rang—as expected, at eight-forty-five. Elizabeth briefly considered not answering it, but knew such an evasion would be pointless. Meghann would probably send the National Guard down to check on her.

“Hello?” she answered, hoping she didn't sound as brittle as she felt.

“I was afraid you wouldn't answer,” Meg said. “Are you okay?”

“I'd rather pull out my own toenails than go to the gallery today. I can't believe I agreed to do this.”

“God, I wish I could be there. I'm so sorry.”

“Actually, I'm glad you're busy. I'll call you when it's over.”

“Birdie?”

“Yes?”

“You're my hero. You remember that. I'm so proud of you. Today is going to change your life.”

Unfortunately, that wasn't easy to believe right now. “Thanks, Meg.”

They talked for a few more moments; then Elizabeth said good-bye and hung up the phone. She scouted through the bureau drawers for the right necklace. Finally, she found what she wanted: an ornate turquoise squash blossom that Jack had bought her when he got the job in Albuquerque.
This means good luck, baby,
he'd said.

After she put it on, she took one last look in the mirror. Then she went downstairs.

Anita was already there, standing by the front door. She was dressed in a pretty lavender rayon pantsuit. Her snow-white hair was coiled into a huge bun at the base of her neck. “How are you doing?” she asked.

“Shitty. Maybe I won't go. Art should sell itself, right? There's nothing more pathetic than a middle-aged woman crying in public. Oh, God, what if I throw up?”

Anita came forward, grabbed her by the shoulders. “Breathe.”

Elizabeth did as she was told.

“In and out, in and out.”

Elizabeth relaxed a little. “Thanks,” she said, still shaky.

Anita reached down into her pocket, then held out her hand. In her palm lay a small gray stone, polished to a mirror sheen, striated with rust and black and green. “This was your daddy's worry stone. It was always in his pocket. He used to joke that when you were born, it was the size of a bowling ball and he wore it down to the nub.”

Elizabeth couldn't imagine her father afraid of anything, let alone carrying a worry stone around in his pocket.

“We're all afraid,” Anita said. “It's the going on that matters.”

Elizabeth took the stone. It settled in her palm like a kiss. She could almost hear her daddy's booming voice:
Fly, Birdie. You can do it.
It calmed her down, reminded her of what mattered. “Thanks,” she said, pulling her stepmother into a hug.

When she drew back, Anita said, “We'd better get going. We don't want to be late.”

All the way to town, Elizabeth concentrated on her breathing. The roads were closed off in a lot of places, but she found a parking place in front of the Hair We Are Beauty Salon.

Echo Beach was dressed for a party. Banners and balloons were everywhere. The weather was surprisingly good; steel-gray clouds and cold breezes, but no rain. Every storefront was decorated in bright colors. A few hardy tourists, dressed in down parkas and knee-high boots, walked along the narrow main street. The beach was littered with people flying kites, dogs chasing Frisbees, and kids building sand castles.

Elizabeth stood on the sidewalk across from Eclectica. A white sign filled the window. It read: meet local artist elizabeth shore.

“I think I'm going to be sick.”

“You most certainly are not,” Anita said. “You're Edward Rhodes's daughter. There will be no vomiting in public. Now, get movin'.”

“Elizabeth!” Marge was standing by the gallery, waving her arms. She wore a drop-waisted raisin-colored corduroy dress with open-toed sandals. Her hair had been tamed into a pair of thick braids. A stunningly beautiful cloisonné necklace hung between her breasts. “Hurry up,” she yelled, then disappeared inside.

Elizabeth walked across the street. At the gallery, she stopped. Her feet refused to move forward.

Anita said, “Good luck, honey,” and shoved her into the gallery.

Inside, the Women's Passion Support Group was waiting. At her entrance, they burst into applause.

Elizabeth stumbled to a halt. “Hey, you guys,” she said, hating the tremor in her voice. “It was nice of you to come.”

Mina giggled. “You're our new hero. We're putting you on the passionless stamp.”

Joey grinned. “I was gonna buy one of your pictures, but
sheesh
, my tips aren't that good. I think I'll have you sign a napkin instead.”

Then everyone began talking at once.

“Your work is incredible!”

“Amazing! When did you start painting?”

“So cool! Where did you learn to do this?”

Elizabeth couldn't answer any single question, but it didn't matter. Their enthusiasm was exactly the balm she needed to calm her ragged nerves. For the first time in hours, she relaxed enough to be hopeful.

She even allowed herself to dream of success:
A wonderful review in the
Echo Location … 
a sellout of her work … a call from a bigger gallery in Portland or San Francisco …

“Elizabeth,” Marge said impatiently, as if she'd said it more than once.

“What? Huh?”

Marge came forward, holding a bouquet of roses. “These are for you.”

“Oh, you didn't have to do that.”

Marge gave her a crooked grin. “I didn't.” She handed her the flowers.

The card read:
We're mad, but we still love you. Good luck. Jamie and Stephanie. P.S. We're proud of you.

Proud of you.
The words blurred before her eyes.

Anita moved closer. “I told them. I hope you don't mind.”

Elizabeth wanted to pull Anita into her arms, but she couldn't seem to move. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to cry. “I don't mind,” she whispered harshly. “Thank you, Anita.”

Her stepmother touched her arm, squeezed gently. “Everything is going to be fine.”

Amazingly, with the flowers in her arms and her stepmother beside her, Elizabeth could almost believe it.

Marge began setting out the hors d'oeuvres. Tiny hot dogs wrapped in Kraft cheese strips. Then she plugged in the Crock-Pot. Within minutes, the small gallery smelled like teriyaki.

By ten o'clock, the streets were packed with tourists and locals. A band played oldies in the parking lot of the Windermere Realty office, and every store was crowded with shoppers. A barely-there rain had started to fall.

Out-of-towners bought ice cream cones and kites, sweatshirts and place mats and Christmas ornaments made of driftwood and dried seaweed. They bought wind chimes made of old spoons and photographs of Haystack Rock, and watercolor paintings of the shore.

What they didn't buy was Elizabeth's work.

It became more and more obvious as the day dragged on, as painful as a toothache. Marge stood at the cash register,
kaching
ing up sales. The walls around Elizabeth's work cleared out.

Joey was the first to leave. She said she needed to get to work—
a big night at the Pig-in-a-Blanket
—but Elizabeth had seen the pity in her new friend's eyes. Joey couldn't stand to watch the slow bloodletting.

Around two o'clock, Fran mentioned something about picking up her kids, and then she was gone. An hour later, Mina went to the market in search of more baby hot dogs, although there were plenty left. The only one who made no excuses was Anita; she sat on a stool in the corner, ostensibly knitting, but Elizabeth knew that her stepmother was really watching her, waiting for signs of meltdown.

Elizabeth stood against the wall, hugging herself so tightly she could barely breathe, standing so stiffly her joints ached. But her smile never faltered.

She'd been stupid to expect anything different. She admitted that tiny disappointment, then tucked it away. This wasn't a mistake she'd make again, and there was no point gnawing over it. What was done was done.

And if she felt as fragile as a damp tissue, that too would pass. As long as she didn't make any sudden moves, she'd get through the rest of this day. Then she'd make it through the night, and the next day, and so on. That was the way of things. Tonight she'd go home, box up her paintings, and try to forget she'd ever bothered.

The bell above the door tinkled. That had been a constant noise all day. She steeled herself to smile at someone else who wouldn't want her work.

Daniel stood there, filling the doorway. Sunlight gilded his blond hair.

“How's it going?” he asked, coming toward her.

“Not good. Actually, that's an overstatement.”

He walked past her, stood in front of her work. It was difficult to miss; every other wall was bare. Finally, he turned to look at her. “These are beautiful. You really have a remarkable talent.”

“Oh, yeah. I know.” She was an eyelash away from losing it. Before he could see how weakened she was, she rushed out of the store.

Outside, she could breathe.

He followed her out. “How about a latte?”

“Great.”

They strolled down the busy street together. At the ice cream shop, he bought two cones and two lattes. Then they went onto the Promenade and sat down on a cement bench. Out on the beach, a man was teaching a little boy to fly a kite.

Elizabeth stared at her cone as if the answer to world peace could be found in a scoop of chocolate chip mint.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he said finally.

“I know.” Her agreement sounded hollow, even to her own ears. She couldn't help it. All her energies were bound up in
maintaining
. There was nothing left over for pretense. “It's more of a free-form depression.”

“Did you think it would be easy?”

“I thought
something
would sell.”

He touched her cheek, gently forced her to look at him. “Does that matter so much?”

“No, but, aw,
shit.
” The tears she'd been swallowing all day burst out.

Daniel took her in his arms. He stroked her hair and let her cry. Finally, she drew back, hiccuping, feeling like a fool. “I'm sorry. It's just been an awful day.”

“Don't give up, Birdie. You have talent. I knew that the first time I saw you paint. I think maybe you've given up too easily before.”

She realized suddenly that she was in his arms, that he was holding her tightly. She felt his breathing against her forehead. Slowly, she looked up.

He took her face in his hands, wiped the tears with his thumbs. “It took guts to show your work today. I know. There's nothing worse than standing naked in public and saying,
Here I am.
”

She stared at his mouth. All she heard was, “Naked?”

“You should be proud of yourself, Elizabeth. Anything else would be a crime.” He leaned toward her.

She saw the kiss coming and braced for it. Her heart raced.
Oh, God …

His lips pressed against hers, his tongue pushed gently inside her mouth. He tasted of coffee and mint. She slid her arms up around his neck and pulled him closer.

And … nothing. No Fourth of July, no fireworks.

When the kiss was over and he drew back, he was frowning. “No good, huh?” He tried to smile.

Elizabeth was surprised. “I guess I'm more married than I thought.”

“Too bad.” He stood up and pulled her to her feet beside him. Then he held on to her hand and led her across the street.

They cut through the crowd, threaded their way toward the shop.

Elizabeth realized a second too late where he was taking her. She gripped his hand tightly and tried to stop.

He pulled her forward, not stopping until they reached the open door.

“Come on, Daniel. It's a death-by-hanging in there.”

“Then put your neck in the noose; it's what artists do.” He smiled down at her. “I expect big things of you, Elizabeth Shore. Now, get in there where you belong.”

She squared her shoulders and went back inside.

Marge smiled at her entrance, obviously relieved to see her. “I'm glad you came back.”

“I didn't want to.” She forced the admission out. When she glanced at the door, she saw that Daniel was gone. “Chicken,” she muttered.

“It's always difficult on the artist. I should have warned you.”