Still, a promise was a promise.
She opened the door and went inside. At her entrance, a bell tinkled overhead and a bird squawked loudly.
“Hello?”
There was no answer. She looked around.
To her left was a table filled with stunning wood sculptures. Most of them were women—nudes—from neck to hips. The wood was unbelievably rich and beautiful, the color of well-aged red wine, polished to silken perfection. She couldn’t help touching one of the statues; her finger glided down a delicately curved shoulder.
On the next table was an exhibit of black-and-white photography. Each print was extravagantly matted in black suede and framed in gold. The photographer had masterfully captured the spirit of the coast in a series of strikingly original shots: a beach at low tide on a windy day … a misty, ethereal image of the lighthouse called Terrible Tilly … a haunting, nighttime picture of Haystack Rock, rising out of the surf like some ancient monolith.
On the back wall were several paintings. Enough, but not too many. There was a watercolor collage of open umbrellas. A multimedia abstract work that suggested a spinnaker puffed out with wind. The largest piece was a spectacular oil painting of Orca Point.
“Amazing,” Elizabeth said softly to herself.
“It is, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth spun around. With the suddenness of the movement, her hip hit a table; beach glass necklaces clinked together.
A woman stepped out from behind a hanging tapestry. She was at least six feet tall, and nearly as wide as she was tall. Her hair was a bird’s nest of brown frizz that hung to her waist. She had on a dress that could have doubled as a sackcloth and fell to her feet, which were bare except for the silver butterfly ring on her left big toe. A plunging neckline revealed breasts that quivered when she walked. A huge white bird was perched on her right shoulder.
She stepped closer, smiling. “I’m Large Marge.” She grinned. “I picked up the nickname at a commune in the Bay Area. I never could figure out how a petite, retiring gal like me got saddled with a nickname like that, but there you have it.” She frowned dramatically. “Saddled was a poor word choice. I forbid you to run with it.”
“I’ll rein myself in.”
Large Marge laughed heartily. The movement almost tossed her breasts into midair.
Elizabeth offered her hand. “I’m Elizabeth Shore. Daniel Boudreaux asked me to stop by and see you.”
Marge grabbed Elizabeth’s hand and pumped it hard. “He told me about you. I’m glad you stopped by. I wanted to talk to you about the Stormy Weather Arts Festival.”
“It’s a big deal around here.”
“That’s what Danny tells me, though it’s hard to imagine an arts walk in this weather. I’ve never seen so much rain.”
“We locals barely notice it, and the tourists find out too late. I’d be happy to help you organize your gallery’s event, if that’s what you’re interested in. I know who’s who around here.”
“Organization skills I got. Local artists are scarce as hen’s teeth. It seems that all the good ones are already taken.” She studied Elizabeth. “Danny boy tells me your work might be worth exhibiting.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Yeah, right.”
Marge said softly, “He told me you’d be scared.”
Elizabeth’s smile faded. She took a step back. She didn’t mean to, and when she realized what she’d done, she stopped. “I just started painting again, after years away from it.”
Marge’s gaze moved pointedly to Elizabeth’s wedding ring. “Raisin’ kids, huh?”
“Yes.” She smiled, though it felt grim, that smile, almost a grimace.
“Are you any good?”
“I was.” It was as confident as she could be.
Marge made a clicking sound, then snorted and slammed her hands on her fleshy hips. “Danny’s take is good enough for me. I’d like to show your work for the festival.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Elizabeth didn’t know what the right answer was. “What if it’s no good?”
“Then it won’t sell. Or maybe it’ll sell anyway. Hell, honey, it’s art. Anything can happen. You want a guarantee, get a bank job. What’s the point of painting if no one ever sees it?”
“I suppose I could think about it.”
Marge glanced at the wall clock. “I’ll give you three minutes.”
“Come on …”
Marge took a step closer. “I know you, Elizabeth. Hell, I’ve been you. I spent ten years trying to fit my full-sized personality into a compact marriage. If you don’t give me an answer right now, I’ll never hear from you again.”
Elizabeth felt exposed by that observation. And empowered. She didn’t need psychic abilities to hear Meghann’s voice in her head: Damn it, Birdie, don’t you dare hesitate. “How many pieces would you need?”
“Five. Is that possible?”
Elizabeth had no idea, but she knew she had to try. For once. “They won’t sell, you know.”
“I’m sure we’ve both survived worse than that. Come on, Elizabeth, say you’ll do it.”