She’d already browned the chicken and chopped the onions when she realized she was cooking for her old life. It was a chicken casserole that would easily feed eight people.
Once the meal was in the oven, she went into the pantry and pulled out the seascape. She would finish by tomorrow morning, and then start something else.
Maybe she’d try a watercolor next. In the old days, she’d loved oils, but she was older now. The smeary softness of watercolor appealed to her. And more important, she had a limited amount of time. She’d be more likely to make her five-works-by-the-festival deadline if she didn’t work in oil.
She thought she heard a car drive up. Then a door slam.
Maybe Meghann had cleared her schedule and headed south for a girls’ weekend.
Elizabeth hurried to the door and flung it open.
Anita stood there, wearing a flowing white dress and pink ballet slippers. A floppy purple hat covered much of her face. Beside her was a huge suitcase and a long, narrow cardboard box. A lime green taxi drove away. “Hey, Birdie,” she said, smiling uncertainly, “this is the beach I picked.”
Elizabeth didn’t quite know how to react. First, there was Anita’s appearance: she looked like something out of a Grimm’s fairy tale, nothing like the Texas golddigger that was her usual style. Gone were the bright, garish colors and peroxided, high-rise hair. Now a simple white braid hung over one shoulder. There was something almost otherworldly about her, a fragility that bespoke great sadness.
And—even more disconcerting—was the fact that she was here, invading the solitude that had cost Elizabeth so dearly.
She remembered their last phone conversation. Elizabeth had been triumphant after painting class—and yes, tipsy. Had she invited Anita here?
No.
No invitation had been issued, drunken or otherwise. But she’d written that despairing we’re family letter right after the break up. All of this flashed through her mind in an instant.
“I hope you don’t mind me just showin’ up. My mama would be spinnin’ in her grave at such a breach of etiquette, but I was lookin’ through travel magazines for a place to go, and I saw an ad for Oregon beaches. And I thought, hell’s bells it must be a sign.”
“You look … different,” Elizabeth said clumsily. An understatement on par with It rains in Oregon.
Anita laughed. “Oh, that. All those clothes were for Edward. This is my natural hair color.”
For Daddy?
Her regal, aristocratic father had wanted his wife to dress like Dolly Parton?
Elizabeth couldn’t process that. She didn’t want to step aside, not for Anita-the-Hun, but what choice did she have?
You take care of her, you hear?
“Come on in.” Elizabeth grabbed the huge suitcase (What did Anita need with that much stuff? How long did she intend to stay???) and dragged it over the threshold.
Anita stepped inside, looked around. She was wringing her hands together. “So, this is the famous beach house. Your daddy always wanted to see it.”
That sentence brought them together for a moment. “I begged him to come up for the Fourth of July.”
“Yes,” Anita answered softly.
“Come on, I’ll show you to the guest bedroom. It’s upstairs.” Elizabeth turned and walked through the house, dragging the rolling suitcase behind her. When she reached the foot of the stairs, she looked back.
Anita stood in front of the fireplace. A pretty red-gold sheen made her dress appear translucent. She reached out for one of the framed photographs on the mantel.
It was the one taken at Christmas, where the whole family stood clustered around the brightly decorated tree. They were laughing so hard their faces were scrunched up. All except Daddy; he looked grim and irritated.
And no wonder. He’d bought Elizabeth a 35 mm camera for Christmas. It had taken him twenty minutes—and at least that many tries—to get the automatic timer to work.
I don’t care if your damned lips are ready to fall off, he’d boomed, frustrated by their laughter, just smile, damn it. This is fun.
It was the last picture she had of him.
Anita turned. There were tears in her eyes. “Could I get a copy of this?”
“Of course.”
Anita looked at the picture for a second longer, then headed for the stairs. Gone was the Bette Midler mince-step; in its place, a flowing gracefulness that suggested at least a few years of dance training. She stopped in front of Elizabeth.
“I didn’t know where else to go, Birdie,” she said quietly. “I couldn’t stay there another night.”
Elizabeth could understand that. Her father had generated a lot of heat. Without him, it would be a cold world. She looked down at her stepmother. Amazingly, she couldn’t see the woman she’d fought with for most of her life. This new Anita was frail and fragile, a lost soul. “Of course it’s okay, Anita. We’re family.”
For better or for worse, it was true.