Hungry for Love (81 page)

She moved away then, stepping sideways and backward, so she was no longer pressed against the doorjamb.  “Gracious,” she said, blushing.

Grady said again, “Let me buy you supper.”

Annabeth, still flushed, looked into his eyes.  What should she do now?  “I can’t, really,” she replied.

“Tomorrow, then.”

“I can’t.  Anyway, I work tomorrow.”

“After work.  Where do you work?”

Not having the slightest sense of guile, she replied, “Gleason’s Drugstore, but still I can’t.  Please.”

“Annabeth.”  His voice was faint, but grew louder as he approached.  “You finally remembered about those seat belts.”

Doug.  Thank goodness.  She turned toward him.  “Yes I did.  Will it take very long?”

Doug scrutinized Annabeth and his brother, and seeing his eyes on them, Annabeth blushed.  What had she been thinking?  Annabeth turned to follow Doug toward the lot, but she realized he was holding his hand out for the keys, which she extracted from the pocket in her skirt and handed over.  She hoped he wouldn’t leave her there with his brother.

“Grady, would you mind taking the car to Jock?”  Doug handed the keys toward his brother, who scowled briefly then smiled.

“It was so nice to see you, Annabeth,” he said, looking triumphantly at Doug for a reason Annabeth couldn’t fathom.

“Come and sit with me for a bit,” said Doug.  “Jock won’t be a minute with your car, I’m sure.”

Annabeth followed Doug to his office and took the seat opposite his desk.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

Not knowing what to make of what had just happened and not wanting to mention it, she said, “Oh, I’m fine.  How are you?”

“Good,” he said nodding his head.  “You seem a little tense.”

Flustered and worried that somehow he knew what had happened, Annabeth changed the subject.  “Could I ask you a personal question?”

He nodded.

“Did you sell your house after you divorced?”

Doug shook his head.  “Robin kept it.  Although it’s up for sale now since she’s remarried and living in a new house.”

“So you just let her keep it?”

“No, she bought me out.”

Wanting to ask how his wife had acquired the money, but realizing such a question was impertinent, Annabeth remained silent.

Observant as ever, Doug answered the question that she hadn’t phrased.  “Robin had family money.  The social whirl of
Atlanta
is the only career that ever interested her.”  He paused for a long moment, then continued, “Is that what you want to do—buy your husband out—keep your house?”

Annabeth nodded.  “Oh, yes.  I can’t bear the thought of losing my home.  Just depends on if I can make enough money.  I spoke with a woman at the bank and it seems quite positive.”

“You could work here, in the office I mean.  Entering data into the computer.  We ran an ad in the paper.  It’ll be out Friday.”

Thinking of Grady, Annabeth replied immediately, “No, I don’t think I’m a computer person.  You’d be better off with someone who knows how to use one.”

“How’s your furniture painting business?”

Annabeth nodded, “Not bad.  I was thinking that maybe I’d check into stores in the area.  See if I could sell to more of them.  I talked to a woman at the art show and she suggested that I could sell at shows like she does.  I keep meaning to call her.”

“Ever paint on canvasses?  They’d be a lot easier to transport than chairs and tables.”

“Oh no.  I’m not a real artist.”

“Sure you are.”

“Annabeth,” said Grady, leaning into the room, “Car’s fine.”  He held the keys toward her, then touched her shoulder as she took them from his hand.  “I had the boys wash the car for you, since you had to go to the trouble of coming all the way in for nothing.”

“Why, thanks,” said Annabeth.

It was just a little white lie, not the truth,
and she didn’t really have to visit Julie, but she drove in that direction anyway.  Her mind was a jumble.  She touched her lips, then blushed again, alone in her car.  Thrilling, something thrilling about that, there with Grady.

“Mommy!” trilled little Bobby, opening the door, “See!  Aunt Annabeth can come with us.  I thought so.”  He nodded sagely, impressed with his own wisdom.

“Where can I go with you?”

“To the mall for the pictures.”

Julie walked into the room, accepting a hug.  “You’re not working?”

“I do have an occasional day off.  I’m sorry I’ve had so little time for you lately.”

“It’s all right.  We’re going to the mall now.  Actually I had wanted to ask you to come along to help with little Bobby, but I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“Oh, honey, you’re not a burden.  What help do you need?”

Julie smiled shyly, “I’m getting my picture taken, you know,
Glamour Poses
.” She laughed, embarrassed to admit it.  “For Bobby, for his birthday.”

Annabeth smiled.  “Well!  How exciting!”

“So you want to come, watch little Bobby while I pose?”

“Sure I do.”

“This is exciting, isn’t it,” whispered Julie as they walked through the door of
Glamour Poses
, a little storefront in the mall which offered makeup professionally applied, dress up clothes of all sorts, and photographers trained to help the client imagine she was as beautiful as Cindy Crawford, at least for an hour.  It was as far from a real modeling session as imaginable, but still it was fun.  Even if the makeup artists were just girls barely out of high school who’d taken a short class to turn their natural interest into a marketable ability, it was more help than most of the local housewives got with their appearance.

“What do you think?” asked Julie, turning toward Annabeth, who was reading a book to little Bobby.

“You’re gorgeous!” enthused Annabeth.  “You look just like a movie star!”

Julie smiled, pleased with herself.  “I like this makeup.  They’re good colors for me.”

“Yes, you look great.”

“We sell the makeup, if you want to buy any.”

“You know, I think I will,” enthused Julie.  “We should do you too,” she commented to Annabeth, suddenly inspired. 

“Me?  Nah!”

“Yes!  We can take some pictures together, for Dad, and some alone.  Come on, let’s!  My treat.”

“Oh I don’t know.”

“I’ve already decided.”

The makeup girl walked over to Annabeth, then led her toward the wardrobe room, where she chose a low-cut gold lame top that was little more than a piece of fabric that was designed to drape over the chest of a woman of any size.  “This will look wonderful on you.  You have a lot of gold in your skin and hair.”

“Gracious!”  Annabeth reached for something far less dramatic, a simple white blouse, but the girl took it right out of her hand.

“This is it, really.  Trust me.”

“You certainly have a lot of confidence,” laughed Annabeth.

“I have a good eye.  Now let’s get you made up.”

Annabeth followed her once again to the makeup bar, where she was seated beside her sister.

“You have excellent skin,” proclaimed the girl.  “Nice, small pores.”

“Soap and water,” laughed Annabeth.

“Put some of the violet on her,” commanded Julie.  “We have the same blue eyes.”

Annabeth watched silently as the girl made her up, and indeed she did have a good eye.  Instead of the harsh contrasts most of the girls chose for a pseudo-theatrical look, Annabeth was painted with subtle colors, pinks and violets, and some shading in the hollow of her cheeks which accented her cheekbones and had a slimming effect.  In a matter of a few minutes, the girl stood back and admired her work, nodding to herself.

“You ought to wear makeup,” insisted Julie.  “You look fantastic.  Ten years younger and twenty pounds thinner.”

“I do wear makeup.”

“Okay, then, you ought to wear more makeup!” laughed Julie, “Now let’s get those pictures taken before we turn into pumpkins.”

“I saw that in a movie,” mused little Bobby.

The pictures taken and their adventure over, Annabeth drove back to her house, where she sat at the kitchen table for a quick bite as
Rogers
the cat wolfed down his dinner.  Thinking she’d finally call that woman from the art show, Annabeth rummaged in her purse for the card she’d been given, but instead found the three Polaroids the photographer had taken as preliminary test shots.  She sat for a moment, looking at each shot, then spreading them out on the table in front of her.

How amazing.  It looked like someone else entirely.  She reached in her purse again, this time pulling out the satchel of cosmetics her sister had bought for her as a treat.  Annabeth gathered up the photos and the makeup and she walked toward the hallway, where a mirror hung.  She scrutinized her own face.  The bones weren’t bad.  She was pretty, well, not bad. 

In search of better illumination, Annabeth climbed the stairs then walked into her bathroom.  She noticed how the slight shading in the hollow of her cheeks gave more definition to her face, how the violet at the corners of her eyes created a deeper twinkle.  “Just like painting a bird on a chair,” she mused.  Setting the bag of cosmetics down on the vanity top, she walked into the bedroom and opened the drawer by her side of the bed, and there she deposited the pictures.

Back in the bathroom, Annabeth let the warm water run in the sink.  She repeatedly lathered her hands, then lifted them to her face, the makeup dissolving from her skin and flowing down into the basin, a silken spume of color that lasted for but a moment then disappeared down the drain.

“The great thing about all these pieces is that they’re one of a kind,” said Becky Varnum.  “Of course you wouldn’t want to sell these.  They’re your treasures.  Nothing like the little boxes and key racks I sell at all these local shows.”  Small and lively, with short hair dyed a vivid red and an animated style of communicating,  Becky was obviously pleased with Annabeth’s invitation to see her house and have lunch rather than just a telephone conversation in which she could share her information anonymously.

They sat on the sofa in Annabeth’s living room, plates of fancy sandwiches with fruit salads and a platter of cookies on the coffee table in front of them.  After having given Becky a tour of her house, Annabeth served lunch, thinking it would be pleasant to sit and talk casually.  Handing Becky a plate, and then taking her own, Annabeth asked, “How long have you actually been selling at craft shows?”

“Only five years or so.  And of course I usually go to shows only right in this area.  Mmm, this is wonderful chicken salad.”

“Thanks.  It’s the pecans.  Where do you get the things you paint?”

“I just get them at the hobby shop.  I paint them, charge anywhere from double the cost up to ten times or more, plus labor and materials, then sell them.”

“But can there be that many shows around here?”