A Change of Heart (23 page)

"Oh.
 
Well, that's great."

"This wooden compote, for example.
 
How much is this?"

Annabeth did some fast calculations.
 
She had paid six dollars for it at the flea market.
 
Becky said anywhere from double the original cost up, plus time and materials, but surely that was too much for these, so hesitatingly Annabeth said, "Twelve dollars."

Maud reached under the counter for a pad of paper, then began rapidly jotting down the prices as Annabeth quoted them.
 
"And this?"

"Oh...fourteen."

"And this?"

"Nine."

They continued like that for a while until each item had been priced by Annabeth.

"Well, let's see. That's three-hundred and thirty-six dollars.
 
For everything."

"You're certainly good at math," commented Annabeth, completely unsure of the accuracy of Maud's addition, but not wanting to appear rude by asking her to check the figures with a calculator.

"Suppose we make it an even three-hundred?"

"You mean you want them all?"

"It's a big risk for me, of course, but I want to help you out.
 
Encourage you to keep at it."

It wasn't hard at all!
 
Annabeth left the store with the cash in her purse, feeling a bit sad that her adventure was being cut short by the fact that she had nothing left to sell and no need to call on any other stores.
 
She drove toward home then, running the figures back and forth in her mind.
 
Three hundred dollars...that was one-hundred-thirty-two profit.
 
Amazing.

Later that week, she sat at her dining table with Becky to deliver her sketches.

"Oh, Annabeth," Becky exclaimed, "They're all just beautiful.
 
This is real art, not silly craft designs.
 
You ought to have a coloring book of your own.
 
Or greeting cards.
 
Or a calendar.
 
I bet lots of craftspeople would want to copy these sketches.
 
Even if they could think up ideas of their own."

Annabeth smiled at Becky's effusion.
 
"Thanks.
 
I'm so happy you like them.
 
I was afraid they were too ordinary."

"Ordinary!
 
They're charming as can be.
 
Have you given any more thought to coming to the next show with me?"

"I went on a selling trip.
 
Sold everything to the first store I went to.
 
Made a-hundred-thirty-two bucks profit."

"That's great.
 
How many pieces?"

"Twenty-eight."

"All the same?"

"All different.
 
Flea market stuff.
 
This and that, you know.
 
I did what you said--doubled the price. There were supposed to be three-thirty-six, but the woman bargained me to an even three-hundred."

"And you added in the cost of the materials and ten dollars an hour for the labor?"

"What?
 
No.
 
I didn't think the woman would go that high."

"How do you know?
 
Did you give her a chance to say no?
 
Anyway, your things should be more.
 
They're one of a kind, not all the same.
 
They're treasures.
 
Of course you have to sell cheaper to a store than you would at a show.
 
But you could play it by ear.
 
Shop around, make comparisons.
 
That's what I thought you were going to do, not go off and sell everything right away like that."

"So you think I was wrong to do it?"

"No, of course not.
 
I just want you to get what they're worth.
 
Well, in crafts we never get what our things are really worth, but at least you should get as much as possible.
 
After all, a-hundred-thirty-two isn't a lot for two weeks work."

"The woman seemed pretty fair to me."

"Well, if you're satisfied, then that's all right.
 
But I hope you'll come with me to the show."

Annabeth nodded.
 
"Okay, sure I will."

"Here I am telling you to get what your things are worth and I'm paying you five bucks a drawing."
 
Becky shook her head.
 
"I feel guilty.
 
I'm cheating you.
 
At least I'm only going to Xerox them, not take the originals."

"Oh, go on.
 
Take them.
 
I can always do more."

10

 
Annabeth set aside a dress she was finishing for Julie then walked to the bedside table and opened the tin where she kept her knick knack profits.
 
It held less than three-hundred dollars because she was now busy painting more pieces and paying for them without selling any.
 
And that included the money from Etta.
 
Five weeks work and three-hundred profit.
 
It hardly equaled income enough to save her house.
 
But Becky said she undercharged.
 
How was she to determine what her pieces were worth?
 
Surely those little local shops couldn't afford to pay the sort of prices Becky described.
 
Annabeth pondered the situation, then thought of the gallery she had visited with Laurel.
 
They charged respectable prices, in fact, they seemed to overcharge.
 
Reaching for the phone, she dialed New Orleans information.

Trying to sound self-assured, Annabeth spoke into the phone, "Hello.
 
May I speak to the manager, please."

The voice that replied was a sophisticated, effete drawl, cultured and certain of its own superiority, "This is Mr. Paris Landry.
 
I'm the manager.
 
How can I help you?"

"I'm interested in selling some pieces to your gallery."
 
Annabeth was amazed at herself.
 
She actually sounded confident.

"What sort of pieces?"

"I do hand-painted designs on various knick knacks.
 
Bowls.
 
Recipe boxes.
 
Letter holders.
 
Small pieces of furniture."

The voice became more nasal and supercilious as the conversation progressed. "What other galleries feature your work?" he asked.

"I've only just begun to sell.
 
Although I have sold my pieces to a couple of local shops."

"I see.
 
What is your price range?"

"Well, I'm still trying to determine that.
 
So far it's been about twenty-dollars for the smaller items.
 
More for things like rocking chairs."

"Have you ever been to our gallery?"
 
Landry's voice made it clear that he was barely tolerating Annabeth and her overtures.

"Yes, it's lovely."

"Yes it is.
 
Then you must surely realize that we don't offer much in the low-price range, or knick knacks at all for that matter.
 
We sell objects d'art of the finest caliber."

Annabeth heard the scorn in his voice, and realizing how foolish she was to be calling such a place, replied, "Yes, of course."

"We do see artists and their work, of course.
 
Generally on Thursday and Friday.
 
And we review portfolios.
 
You could always drop yours off."
 
The tone in his voice made it clear that he doubted Annabeth had any such thing at the ready.
 
"You are local?"

"No, I'm in Gull's Perch.
 
My daughter lives in New Orleans."

"How nice for her.
 
Now I really must go.
 
Feel free to drop off a portfolio anytime."

"Yes, thank you."
 
Annabeth sighed as she lowered the phone into its cradle.
 
A portfolio.
 
Not that Mr. Paris Landry would have any real interest in seeing such an item even if Annabeth possessed one.
 
It wasn't a bad idea--from now on she would take pictures of her pieces before selling them.

There was no sign yet of fall, there in early October, and the ice cream counter was as busy as ever.
 
When Grady Hawkins walked in the door, Annabeth knew that it was quite possible that he was searching for a snack to relieve the heat, yet still she tensed up.
 
There had been several customers each hour, and two sat at the counter now.
 
Grady nodded to them in a way that made Annabeth wonder if he knew them, then walked all the way to the other end of the counter, forcing Annabeth to follow him.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Annabeth!" he said in a voice that sounded deeply wounded, "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"
 
He bestowed on her his most dazzling grin.

Feeling more and more tense, she managed a shy smile and asked politely, "How are you?
 
How's Doug?"

Ignoring the mention of his brother, Grady replied, "I'm just fine.
 
In fact I've been thinking a lot about you.
 
But of course you knew that."

"What?"

"You can't give a guy a sizzling kiss like the one you gave me and not haunt his memories."

Annabeth blushed, remembering that scene in the auto dealership.
 
Not knowing how to reply to Grady, she remained silent.
 
When he reached his hand out to capture her own, she automatically stepped back a pace, eluding his grasp and causing him to frown.

"You're an interesting woman, Annabeth. Feminine yet sexy."

Annabeth looked around to see if anyone had heard his comments.
 
"Excuse me," she said, and began to walk toward the other end of the counter where a young mother waited with her toddler for some ice cream.

Unwilling to let her go, Grady asked, "What about my order?"

"Yes?"

"Chocolate shake.
 
And dinner tonight."

Annabeth shook her head as she escaped his demands.
 
What was he after from her?
 
A guy like that--a football hero--it didn't make sense--what could she ever be to him?
 
She waited on the mother and her child, prepared Grady's shake, then placed it uneasily in front of him.
 
"That's a dollar-sixty-five."

Instead of sipping through the straw, Grady dunked his tongue into the shake, while staring lasciviously into Annabeth's eyes.
 
Licking his lips, he said, "Mmm, cool and sweet."

Once again Annabeth escaped, this time to wait on a couple of teenagers, who ordered cones and took them out of the store.
 
She prayed that Grady would leave.
 
He made her so nervous, although she didn't understand why.
 
If only Charles would come out, but he remained behind the prescription counter, busily counting out pills.

"Annabeth."
 
His voice was deep and filled with self confidence.

Once again she walked to where he sat.
 
"A dollar-sixty-five," she repeated.

"How about a hot fudge sundae?"

"You're kidding."
 
Suddenly filled with nostalgia, flooded with a memory of her husband on the night they met, Annabeth drew in a deep breath.
 
R.J..
  
She sighed for the past that was so long gone, for her youth, and for the chances that would never come again.

Grady continued, "I'm not going to give up.
 
It's only a dinner you know.
 
You'll enjoy it."

Annabeth looked down at her feet, up at the ceiling, out the window and down the street.
 
Anywhere but at Grady.
 
She searched in her heart for the answer to this whole situation.
 
Grady's motives were unfathomable to her, and she didn't wrestle long to uncover them.
 
Her own hesitation was obvious.
 
She was a married woman.
 
Annabeth winced at the irony.
 
"I'm sure you're a wonderful person," she mumbled, although she was not sure of any such thing.
 
"I'm just not ready to date anyone.
 
Though I appreciate your offer."

There was a bewildering look of determination on his face as he replied, "I'm not giving up on you, Annabeth."
 
Taking a five-dollar bill from his pocket, he left it on the counter, then reached over to touch Annabeth's hand.
 
"I'll be back."

She watched him turn to walk away, then said, "Wait."