Anita looked stricken. “Birdie, I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. Please. It was bad enough to live through. I can’t talk about it, too.”
Anita nodded. If there was one thing bred into southern women, it was the ability to politely ignore unpleasantness. “I’ll go cook us a nice dinner.”
“I’m not very hungry. I think I’ll go soak in a hot bath.” She almost sat there a second too long, looking at her stepmother. She felt the first hairline crack in her composure. If she wasn’t careful, she’d break like old porcelain, and that wouldn’t help anyone. She reached for the car door and shoved it open, then hurried toward her beloved house.
It welcomed her with soft lights and sweet scents and safety.
She drew in a deep breath and slowly released it. When she heard Anita come up behind her, she bolted upstairs and shut the bedroom door behind her. She went to the window, trying to draw comfort from her view, but night came early this time of year, and there was nothing but darkness beyond the glass.
She ran a bath and poured a capful of almond-scented oil into the water. She let the tub fill past the point of caution, knowing water would spill over when she climbed in. So, she would clean up the mess. That, at least, was something she did well.
She undressed and lowered herself into the nearly scalding water. Sure enough, it splashed onto the tile floor. Heat enveloped her; steamed up toward her face. The sweet, cloying scent of almonds filled the tiny bathroom.
She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.
Images of the endless day tumbled through her mind. Customers buying sculptures and lithographs and photographs and other artists’ paintings … walking past her work.
She wished she could cry, but it wasn’t that kind of hurt. She felt numb. A prisoner who’d dared to believe in parole and then been sent back to her cell, unforgiven.
The worst of it was she’d believed in herself. She’d known better, and yet still she’d stumbled into that quicksand and been caught. She’d believed, she’d dared, she’d dreamed.
And she’d failed.
Her work wasn’t good enough. That much was clear.
What now? She’d walked away from every good thing she’d ever built so that she could find herself.
Well, she’d found a woman whose greatest gift lay in helping others, in loving people and supporting their dreams. As she sat in the hot water, she asked herself why that hadn’t been enough.
She was no artist. She must have known that twenty-five years ago. That was why she hadn’t pushed harder to attend grad school. She’d known the truth, or suspected it. Turning away from that road had saved her from this terrible moment.
She stayed in the bath until the water turned cold and her skin pruned. Then, reluctantly, she climbed out. Wrapped in a towel, she flopped on her bed.
She saw the phone, and she thought, Call Jack.
She wasn’t sure why exactly, except that he had always been her safe place. She scooted toward the nightstand, picked up the phone, and punched in his number. Bits of conversation flitted through her mind as it rang. She searched for the perfect first sentence.
I love you. Nice and direct.
I miss you. Certainly true.
I need you. The God’s honest truth.
The answering machine clicked on, told her that Jack and Birdie weren’t home right now.
Jack and Birdie.
He hadn’t changed the message. That gave her courage. “Hey, Jack,” she said, rolling onto her back, staring up at the peaked ceiling. “I thought maybe it was time we talked about the future.” She paused, trying to think of what to say next, but nothing came to her. She was afraid that if she spoke, she’d start to cry.
She hung up, then dialed her daughters’ number.
Another answering machine. She left a forcibly upbeat message, sneaked in a short apology and a thank-you for the flowers, then hung up.
She lay there a long time, staring up at her ceiling, watching a spider spin a web in the rafters. He was always there, that same little black spider, returning to his spot no matter how many times she dusted his web away. There was a life lesson in that.
There was a knock at her door. “Birdie, honey?”
Elizabeth closed her eyes. She really wanted to be left alone in her misery a while longer. “I’m okay, Anita.”
“Dinner’s ready.”
“I can’t eat. Sorry. But thanks for cooking. I’ll see you in the morning.” She heard footsteps walking away … then coming back.
The door opened. Anita stood there, clutching a flat black metal strongbox. “Come on, Birdie. It’s time for you to see this.” She patted the box in her arms. “This belonged to your mama. If you want to see what’s inside, you’d better come downstairs.” Then she turned and walked away.
Elizabeth didn’t want to follow, but Anita had dangled the biggest carrot of all: Mama.
With a sigh, she rolled out of bed and got dressed.