Sleeping with Anemone (4 page)

“I feel just awful,” Mom said. “I’m so sorry, Abigail.”

“You were awesome the way you handled those big apes, Grandma,” Tara said.

“Thanks, sweetie,” Mom said. She sighed miserably as she set the candy bowl aside. “I don’t think I’m cut out to be an artist.”

I was so tempted to agree, but no way could I crush what was left of her spirit. “Are you kidding? Come on, Mom. You love creating art.”

“That’s true, but look what happened with my first batch of candy hearts. Really, whatever possessed me to use red pepper flakes? Do you know your dad thought my mistake was so funny that he put the candy hearts in a glass jar and set it on the coffee table as a display piece? And now”—she waved her arm in the air—“this fiasco. I just wanted to make the red brighter for your display. I guess I used too much beet juice.”

“Okay, so you’re not great with candy,” I said. “Why not go back to your roots?”

She glanced at me as though I’d grown a horn. “Farming?”

“Your artistic roots, Mom. Your pottery wheel. You always enjoyed throwing clay. Am I right, Tara?”

“Totally. I love to watch you work on your wheel, Grandma.”

Mom thought about it for a minute, then sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Clay is a safe medium. I felt I’d exhausted the possibilities, but perhaps all I need is some inspiration to get me back in the groove.”

Suddenly, Tara’s eyes widened in alarm. “Uh-oh. Incoming at two o’clock.”

I looked over to see two new guards approaching the table. “You!” one of them said to my mom. “Twenty minutes to pack up and get out.”

“It’s my booth,” I said, rising, “and I didn’t do anything illegal. Why do I have to leave?”

The guard laid a piece of paper on the table and tapped a thick fingertip on the lower edge. “That’s your signature at the bottom, right?”

I glanced down and saw the rental agreement I’d signed when I paid my fee. “So?”

“So you disrupted the show and caused physical harm to the personnel. In other words, you broke the rules.”

My mom’s face turned white with shock. “Physical harm? But it was only beet juice.”

“You didn’t cause any harm, Mom,” I assured her, “except maybe to a couple of egos.”

The guard snatched up the paper. “We’ll be back in thirty minutes to make sure you’re gone.”

“Fine,” I shouted as they marched away. “Then I want my fee refunded.”

“Fat chance,” one of them called back.

As I stood there glaring at their double-wide backs, trying to decide if it was worth standing my ground, I noticed people watching us with grins and whispers, pointing to their teeth, no doubt spreading word of the jelly bean debacle. Would anyone take my petition seriously now? With a sigh, I pulled a cardboard box from beneath the table and began to stack my brochures inside.

“This is all my fault,” Mom said in despair.

“No, it’s not,” I replied. “The petition was my idea. And I guess I did push the envelope a little by bringing it here.”

“At least let us help you pack up,” Mom said. “Tara, put your phone away, please, until we’re finished.”

“In a minute,” Tara muttered.

“Would you write my name on your petition, Abigail?” Mom asked. “And let me know if you’re going to hold another rally? I want to be there.”

I paused to gaze at her in astonishment. “Really?”

“I did grow up on a farm, you know. Milking cows was one of my daily chores, and I certainly recall how the poor beasts would bellow in pain if I was late getting to them. I can’t imagine the kind of suffering they’d have every single moment of their lives with their udders swollen so full they look like gigantic watermelons. What Uniworld is doing is unconscionable, and I’m proud of you for taking a stand.”

“Thank you.” It wasn’t often she encouraged me to be a dissenter. Make that ever.

Tara showed me her cell phone. “Look! Mom says it’s okay.”

“What’s okay?” my mother asked.

“I’m taking Tara to a concert for her birthday,” I said.

“Correction,” Tara said. “You and Sal are taking me—
if
you hurry up and buy those tickets.”

“Who’s Sal?” Mom asked.

I gave Tara a fierce scowl. “You are
not
going to call Marco
Sal . . .
or Dreamy Eyes, or Hot Pockets, or any other silly name.”

“So . . .” She gave my mom a sly smile. “Uncle Marco, then?”

With my materials boxed, I slipped on my navy peacoat, wrapped a green and blue plaid scarf around my neck, and put on my Kelly green wool beret, which Marco said brought out the Irish in my eyes. “Okay, I’m ready. Who wants to carry the flower arrangement?”

My mom was standing across the aisle with Tara, completely absorbed in a display of garden decorations.

“Hello. We need to get out of here,” I called, glancing at my watch.

“How about a birdbath for the backyard?” Tara asked, pointing to one of the items.

Mom shook her head. “Too common.”

I picked up the vase of flowers. “Let’s get going before the guards come back.”

“I like bright and cheerful and fun,” Mom continued, oblivious to my warning.

“Tara, will you grab my book bag?” I asked.

My niece turned around. “What?”

“The canvas book bag with the petition inside. Isn’t anyone listening?”

“Sorry,” Tara said, springing into action. She came to a sudden stop and pointed at my beret. “What is that—
thing—
on your hat?”

“A brooch,” I said, trying to juggle the vase and the box.

“A
brooch
?” she chortled. “You’re wearing a
brooch
on your hat? Are you, like, the Queen of England or something?”

“May I slip in a reminder here?” I said. “I haven’t bought those concert tickets yet.”

“Seriously, Aunt Abby, promise me you won’t wear that nasty thing to the concert. I’d die of embarrassment.”

“Wear what nasty thing?” Mom asked, turning at last.

“Uh-oh,” Tara said with an intake of breath. “Darth Vader approaching, stage right, and he’s brought the storm troopers.”

I glanced up the aisle and saw Nils Raand, accompanied by a half dozen security guards, bearing down on us.

“Let’s move it, people,” I called. “Time to blow this planet.”

W
e didn’t stop running until we reached my bright yellow car, where we paused to catch our breath, making white plumes in the frosty air.

“That was cool,” Tara said. “We escaped just in the nick of time, like in the movies.”

“They wouldn’t have dared to touch us,” I assured her. “It was all for show.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Mom said as we stowed the supplies in my tiny trunk.

“Trust me, Mom, this isn’t the first time Uniworld has tried to unnerve me.”

“You never told me they tried to unnerve you,” Mom said, a frown creasing her brow.

“Because I knew you’d worry.”

“Thank you. Now I’m worried.”

“Nothing bad’s going to happen. PAR is behind me—Protectors of Animal Rights. Remember when I protested Dermacol Laboratory’s use of animals to test their cosmetics last summer? I did that with PAR’s help. We closed down a puppy mill last winter. And other PAR groups prevented two Uniworld farm factories from opening last year by rallying local citizens. No one got hurt either time.”

“Is PAR organizing the protests here in New Chapel?”

“That’s my responsibility.”

“But they’re here in town working with you?”

“No, but a very competent PAR representative is advising me. Naturally, Uniworld wants to stop the protests, but I refuse to let a few threatening letters scare me off.”

Mom gasped. “They’ve actually threatened you?”

Why didn’t I learn to keep my mouth shut? “In a polite way, like, ‘please cease and desist.’ I’m not dealing with gangsters, you know.”

“Can we go now?” Tara asked. “It’s, like, zero degrees out here.”

“In a minute, Tara,” Mom said. “Abigail, I’ve changed my mind. Let someone else try to stop that farm from opening. You have your whole life ahead of you. I don’t want to read in the newspaper one morning that your car was pushed into a ditch.”

No matter what the threat was, in her imagination, I always ended up in a ditch.

“That’s the problem with our society, Mom. ‘Let someone else do it. I’m too busy. I don’t want to be bothered.’ If everyone said that, we’d have huge, horrible problems, like drugs in our water supply, poisons in our plastic bottles, pesticides in our vegetables—”

“But we do have those problems,” she said.

“Exactly. Look, if it helps you worry less, all I’m planning to do for the moment is collect more signatures so I can take my petition to court and ask for an injunction. And what is Uniworld going to do about that? Shoot me?”

“I’m freezing here,” Tara called, rubbing her arms.

“What does Marco say about your protesting?” Mom asked.

“He’s behind me one hundred percent.” Although that figure might be subject to change when I finally got around to telling him about the threats. I gave Mom a hug. “Don’t worry about me. I know what I’m doing. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Can’t. Move,” Tara said through tightly squeezed lips. “Frozen. Solid.”

“You should have said something earlier,” Mom said, and pushed the button on her remote. Across the lot, her headlights flashed. “Go sit in the van. I’ll be right there.”

Tara still pretended to be frozen into a Popsicle. Mom turned to give me a hug, then held me at arm’s distance. “Be careful.”

I held up my hand. “Promise.”

“You promised to get engaged, but that hasn’t happened yet, has it?”

“It won’t happen any sooner because you keep asking, either.”

We locked gazes, glaring stubbornly. Then her gaze moved upward, landing on my beret. “Is that what Tara was talking about earlier?”

“Mm-hmm,” Tara managed.

“How pretty,” Mom said, our dispute put aside. “Is it an antique?”

“I don’t know,” I said, fingering the brooch. “I found it in a shipment of flowers from Hawaii. I called the supplier, but he had no idea how it got in the box, so he said to keep it unless someone contacts him about it.”

“May I see it?” As I removed my hat, Mom took her reading glasses out of her purse for a closer look at the brooch. “Is it a lily?”

“Anthurium,” I said. “You can tell by the heart-shaped leaf and the long yellow spadix.”

“Spadix?” Tara repeated with a snicker, her lips apparently thawed. “Is that another name for a guy’s—?”

“Tara!” my mom said.

“Well, that’s what it looks like!” she cried.

Mom tapped the back with her fingernail. “It could be made out of wood, or some type of pottery. I’ll bet it wouldn’t be hard to copy.”

As I put my beret back on, I caught a familiar gleam in her eye. I had a feeling she’d found her inspiration.

 

“Hey, Buttercup, you’re back early. How was the show?” Marco asked, getting up from his desk to come around and greet me. He was in his office catching up on paperwork, and as usual, looking so yummy it was all I could do to not devour him then and there. Fortunately, I can suppress my appetite.

Marco had on a black T-shirt with a Down the Hatch logo on the front, close-fitting blue jeans, and scuffed black boots. There wasn’t anything extraordinary about the outfit, but the male inside it was a different story. How lucky was I to have found a guy who was not only brave, educated,
and
street-smart, but also honest, and with a dry wit that never failed to amuse me? Throw in a hard-bellied body, sexy voice, thick, wavy dark hair, and dark eyebrows over soulful, deep brown eyes, and he was one heck of a man.

He also had a firm, expressive mouth that was a genuine pleasure to kiss. Such as now. “You taste like peanut butter,” I told him, nibbling his lips. “Mmm. Makes me hungry.” >