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?”