Haunting Refrain (16 page)

Kate didn't know what to say. She vaguely remembered
Venice
and knew her father had liked the woman, but she couldn't imagine why. She ended up mumbling something unintelligible and tried to get away. “Goodbye, Mrs. Ashburton.”

“You're an adult now. You may call me
Venice
. Your father was a fine man. I never liked your mother.”
Venice
could be blunt when it suited her.

Somehow, the two women kept bumping into each other. Venice asked about Kate's photography, and Kate told her that J. B. had gotten rid of her old Nikon and replaced it with a little instant camera because the manual F-2 took too much of her attention.

Inwardly, she cringed. She could still hear herself whining to
Venice
, “He was right. In the back of my mind, I still had this stupid idea of being a photographer. I could never have done it. I just don't have a head for business.”

Months later, when Kate told her she had moved out of J.
B.'s
house,
Venice
had confessed her part in what she considered Kate's resurrection. “After hearing about the camera, Ramses and I fumed over it,” she had said, “searching for some spark of life, appalled at your apathy.”

Kate popped a piece of hard bread in the toaster and poured another cup of coffee, smiling. Dear
Venice
.

She had never admitted to apathy, but looking back from where she was now, she thought maybe
Venice
hadn’t been far off. If a hint of her temper surfaced, J. B. had twisted her words until he convinced her she was being childish and unreasonable.

“Now, Kate,” he would say. “You might want to do a little more reading on the subject before you sound off. You wouldn’t want to look foolish in the papers.” She could feel his hand on her hair now. Her mother’s voice chimed in like an echo. ”Kate, you’re overreacting as usual.”

The phone rang. When the answering machine picked up, Kate heard her mother’s voice again. God, it was still the same tone. “Kate! What have you gotten yourself into now? Call me the minute you get home.”

Exactly what she had expected.
Her mother had adored—still did, for that matter—her son-in-law and continually reminded Kate of how lucky she was to have him.

Venice
thought Kate had been patted quietly into oblivion.
But not quite.
She had surprised both herself and
Venice
one night at a political get-together. J. B. had been speechless—for a short time.

Had she really been that much of a wimp, Kate wondered, retrieving the toast. She tapped it on the counter. It cracked in two. Shrugging, she spread it with jam. She was out of butter.

Kate knew
Venice
would gladly have turned J. B. and his mother-in-law into toads if she'd been able, but they both knew that any real change would have to be effected through Kate.
Venice
had taken every opportunity to waken Kate's benumbed mind. The scene played in Kate’s mind like the rerun of a soap opera.

The Awakening, as
Venice
called it, had taken place one night when Kate and
J. B. were at a big fundraiser.

J. B. was running for reelection to the state legislature, and Kate stood dutifully beside him as he chatted with an old, powerful state senator. The senator, well beyond his alcoholic limit, reached for another cocktail, staggered slightly, and knocked a tray of drinks from the hands of an elderly waiter. The
drinks,
complete with maraschino cherries, spilled over the senator's tuxedo.

“You clumsy fool!” he roared, calling the man names and cursing.

“I'm sorry, Senator.” The
embarrassed
waiter tried to apologize.

“Get out. You're fired, you—”

“It wasn't his fault. You bumped into him, Senator,” Kate interrupted. She plucked his drink from his hand and gave it to the waiter with a smile. “Here. You'd better get another round. Maybe ginger ale.”

Then she turned to the senator. “Sir, I think you should calm down. Why don't you—”

He cut her off. “J. B., keep your wife out of this. And I want you to personally take care of that waiter. See that he's fired.”

 
“Yes, Sir,” J. B. said. He turned and said softly to Kate, “Don't worry. I'll find him another job.”

“J. B., you can't have that old man fired. He's worked here forever. Besides, he didn't do anything. Your drunken friend of a senator did it.”

J. B. hauled Kate outside and turned on her. “What's the matter with you? This isn't one of your little tea parties. You have no idea what's at stake here.”

“My little tea parties?
My
little tea parties?”
She had exploded. “Those are your damned tea parties. I'm just the resident plastic wife. And I do know what's at stake. The man's life—”

“Be quiet! And don't be so dramatic. It's not his life but my career we're talking about.” J. B. had been so angry and trying so hard not to attract attention that he hissed.

Kate had snapped back, “You know damn well what I mean. That old man takes pride in his work. He's been here as long as I can remember. You can't allow this to happen, J. B.”

“I said I'll get the man another job. You're being unreasonable, Kate.” His voice took on the paternal tone
Venice
had commented on so often, the father patiently explaining to the child.

“No, J. B. Use your almighty reasoning on the senator. Make him see reason.”

“Welcome back, Kate,”
Venice
had murmured.

Until then, Kate hadn’t been aware that
Venice
had followed them outside, blatantly eavesdropping.

In the end, J. B. had persuaded the senator to change his mind, but that small battle in the country club parking lot was the turning point of the war, and
Venice
was quick to take advantage.

Choking down the hard toast, Kate smiled.
Venice
should have been a general. With all the subtlety of
Wellington
at
Waterloo
, she had begun her campaign to restore Kate's confidence. Six months later, J. B. withdrew in defeat and Kate moved out.

J. B. and her mother had let her know how much she had hurt them with her selfish decision to leave him just as his career was taking off.
 
J. B. wanted to keep it quiet, sure that she would come back as soon as she found out how difficult life would be on her own. But as soon as the press got wind of it, he had intimated her infidelity, never saying anything out right, of course. The press had driven her into hiding for a time, but J. B. wasn’t important enough to sustain their interest for long.

Outside the window, a blue jay flapped excitedly around the bird feeder, sending the smaller birds into alarmed flight. The jays reminded her of rowdy teenagers. A yellow figure slunk into view.
Tom, the neighbors’ old cat.
He was too old and stiff, had too many war wounds to hunt, but he kept trying.
Like that old waiter.
If he had only known what he started with that one drink.
She should have written him a thank-you note. Shaking her head, she flexed her sore ankles, sympathizing with both the cat and the waiter.

She hadn’t wanted to hurt J. B., had asked for nothing. She had a savings account in her name and a small inheritance from her grandmother that would see her through the first year if she was careful, while she was getting started as a photographer.

 
And the first year was difficult; clients were few and far between, especially paying clients. Buying the four-year-old RX-7 was her only real indulgence.
Venice
was probably right in saying it was a symbol of freedom—the last car J. B. would have chosen for her.

After the divorce, when her mother had moved to
Atlanta
to be near her people, Kate had suffered all the guilt her mother had wished. But she had to admit, especially today, that it took some of the pressure off to have her a hundred and thirty miles away.

And now, Kate thought, now that she had finally gotten things together and her photography was getting some attention, she wasn't going to be manipulated for anyone's benefit.
Certainly not John
Gerrard's
.

While she soaked in a hot bath, the phone rang. It rang as she wound Ace bandages around her ankles and again as she started downstairs toward the kitchen. She continued to ignore it and fixed the inevitable peanut butter sandwich to take to the studio, examining the bread carefully for nascent penicillin. The Principal Players needed some more prints, and she wanted to have a few more of her own photographs ready for an upcoming exhibit at Caesar’s Head, the state park in the mountains.

The warehouse was deserted when Kate got there. She unlocked the door, let herself in, then walked carefully up the steps to the main floor and, taking a deep breath, made herself step into the paneled passenger elevator the players used. This was bad enough. She would never go near the freight elevator again.

If John hadn't made her get on this one Friday—
Crushing
the kindly thought, she focused instead on his betrayal. She got off on the third floor where the Players stored props and scenery. Taking the last flight of stairs slowly on her tender ankles, she was truly grateful when she reached the fourth floor.

Knowing the players would show up for a rehearsal later, she left her studio door unlocked. Sometimes Gwen and a few of her fellow actors wandered up to say hello. More importantly, they shared food if anyone brought something special.

After resting a few minutes on the sofa with her feet propped up, Kate pushed herself up and limped across the floor to her desk, tossing the leather purse to one end. She admired the glittering dust particles that rose through the morning light. A little housekeeping wouldn't hurt, she thought, surveying the large room. It looked more like a home than a business, not surprising since she had used the den furniture J. B. had given her when she moved out. That bit of generosity wasn't surprising either, since she had picked it out herself, and his first step toward bachelorhood had been to have a decorator eradicate any trace of her.

She spent ten dutiful minutes with a dust rag before she allowed herself to go into the darkroom. Once there, she forgot everything as she developed a roll of pictures she had taken of Gwen, who was starring in the next play, and printed a couple of contact sheets. The camera adored the gorgeous blonde. If Gwen came by today, she could chose the shots she liked, and Kate could have the prints ready this week. After hanging the contact sheets up to dry, she left the darkroom to mark her calendar and put on a pot of coffee.

“Hi. Um-mm.
Smells
good.” Gwen stuck her head around the corner of the studio door. She had an unfailing sense of timing. “Did you make enough for three?
Venice
is on her way up.” Not quite touching her lips to Kate's cheek, she asked, “How are you feeling today?”

“Much better.
Thanks for all the pampering yesterday.”

“Anytime.
You've had a bad run lately.” Gwen glanced downward.

Kate, catching the look, pulled up the leg of her jeans and waggled a bandaged ankle at her.
“Cute, huh?
But much better.”

“See you got your name in the paper.
Again.”
Gwen poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Kate before fixing her own and arranging herself gracefully on the couch.

“And J.
B.'s
.,” Kate said. “He called during an apoplectic fit this morning.”

“Do I detect a sour note? What did he do?” Gwen asked. “Wake you up?”

Venice
popped in and sat down beside Gwen, puffing from the flight of stairs.