“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.