Tumbling Blocks (29 page)

“Oh, fine,” she said, throwing up her own hands. “Just talk about the museum. Try to make it interesting. This
is
our special holiday luncheon.”

She turned and stomped out of the kitchen, leaving me to gape at her departing back. The clatter of pans and chatter of the catering staff continued on as if nothing significant had happened. They’d probably seen meltdowns like this a thousand times.

“This is it,” I said to no one in particular. “I am quitting this job and going to work at Target.”

“I could use a server,” Prudence said.

“She’s impossible, but she is also the museum’s biggest donator.”

“Want a cream puff?” Prudence asked.

I declined her offer and went out to my truck to think. What could I say about the museum that these women hadn’t already heard? I felt my stomach twist into a knot. This time, I seriously was considering turning in my resignation. What would life be like if I didn’t have the museum and, even more important, Constance Sinclair, to worry about? I could spend more time at the ranch working the cattle with Daddy—he wasn’t getting any younger—or do some more decorating on our house or even sit on my porch and relax for ten minutes.

I was thinking about what a wonderful lady of leisure I could be when someone tapped on my truck’s window. It was Nola Finch.

“Oh, hi,” I said, opening the truck door. I glanced at my watch. How long had I been woolgathering? “Is it time for me to go on?”

“No, no,” she said, laughing lightly. “I just talked to Constance and wanted to touch base with you.” She was dressed in a simple hunter green wool suit with a silk ivory T-shirt. Her apricot hair was pulled up in a neat chignon, and she was wearing an obviously handmade necklace of amber and some kind of dark green stones. She had an elegant, creative flair to the way she put her clothes together. I wondered if she ever regretted giving up her own artistic career to oversee her uncle’s.

She smiled at me. “Constance told me that she told you that you couldn’t talk about my uncle and his painting.”

“Yes, but it’s okay. I’ll just ramble on about the museum, what we do there, the other artists who work at the co-op. Nothing that these women haven’t heard before, but it’ll be so boring that they’ll love it when you take the stage.” Then, realizing how that might sound, I backtracked. “I mean, not that they’re not thrilled to hear what you . . . about your uncle, I mean . . .”

She touched my arm. “Benni, it’s okay. I told Constance that I actually preferred you be the one to talk about my uncle’s painting. I came out here so we could coordinate what we were going to say. I assured Constance, there’s plenty to say about my uncle, enough for both of us.” She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial tone. “Between you and me, I’ve done more than my share of these ladies’ luncheons, as I’m sure you have. I’m positive half of them will be nodding off and the other half will be fidgeting and wanting us to hurry so they can have dessert.”

I laughed, liking this woman more and more. “You are so right. How about I talk about outsider art in general, what it is and why it is so popular now, and end my talk with how important it is to the folk art museum to acquire your uncle’s painting. Then you can move right into his life story and what he is doing now.”

“That sounds perfect. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.”

We walked into the decorated ballroom together and looked for our respective place settings. She was seated with Constance and two of the board members of the 49 Club. Their four-person table was front and center of the podium. I found my name at the table that hosted the three nominees. It was set off to the right side, closest to the swinging kitchen doors. Its placement was very telling.

“Welcome to the cheap seats, Benni,” Bobbie said. Francie and Dot both shot her aggravated looks. They obviously didn’t have Bobbie’s sense of humor about our not-so-prestigious table.

“At least we’ll get served first,” I said.

“Or last,” Francie said in a grumpy voice.

“Oh, cool your spurs, Francie,” Bobbie said, patting her on the back. “Before you know it, you’ll be president of this snobby group of overbred racehorses.”

Dot gave Bobbie a horrified look.

“Oh, Dot, you’ll get in too,” Bobbie said. “I can’t imagine why you would want to, but you will.”

“Bobbie,” Francie said, her voice tight and angry. “Why are you even here if you don’t want to be a member?” She leaned over her gold-rimmed china plate, painfully obvious in her desire to be a part of this group. What was sad was, knowing the way women like Constance worked, Bobbie would be the one asked, simply because she didn’t want it, and that impressed snobby people more than anything.

“Promised my mama I’d try, so here I am.” She leaned back in her chair, her brown and white western-style suit looking as out of place at this affair as a clown costume. The women of the 49 Club definitely preferred to dress in a more Brooks Brothers or Chanel style.

Echoing my own thoughts, Dot said, “No doubt, just because you don’t really want it, you’ll be the one they vote in.” Her tone was bitter.

Bobbie just shrugged and sipped the three-olive martini in front of her.

Please,
I thought,
let this be over soon
.

After our lunch of a chicken breast covered with a surprisingly tasty cheese sauce, real mashed potatoes, fresh green beans and hot sourdough rolls, I suffered through the business portion of the meeting. There would be a short break when we were encouraged to look over the silent auction items lining the back of the hall, reminded by Constance that the money would go for books and personal items for needy children. They would be part of the Christmas baskets being passed out by San Celina Social Services in conjunction with local churches, scouting and FFA groups.

“Dig deep, ladies,” Constance said into the microphone. She looked pointedly at our table, her message clear.

“For cryin’ in a bucket,” Bobbie said, standing up. “We’re supposed to buy votes now?”

I headed over to the long tables of donations hoping I’d find something appropriate for Kathryn for Christmas. Elvia had solved my gift dilemma for Ray yesterday. She’d found an antique orange crate label: San Celina Express Navel Oranges. It depicted an old steam train barreling through a grove of orange trees. I’d immediately dropped it off at the framer’s and would pick it up in a few days. I meandered down the long line of donated items, passing up the impractical gifts like days at a local spa or a weekend at a luxury hotel in San Francisco.

At the end of the table, there was a necklace made by a local jewelry artist who wasn’t a member of our co-op. It was an interesting mixture of stones: amber and turquoise separated by carved sterling silver beads. It was the sort of necklace that any woman could wear with either a fancy blouse or a man’s T-shirt. There were four bids with the last one being seventy-five dollars. Knowing Christmas was getting close, I rashly put down one hundred fifty dollars. If I won it, I’d tell Kathryn that the money went to books for kids. She’d like that, I was sure. During this time the three nominees mingled with the rest of the club members, obviously trying for that one last impression to secure votes. From what I understood, the voting would take place as they left, with them dropping their ballots in a locked box at the door for Constance and the other two board members to count later.

Both my speech and Nola’s went off without a hitch and actually sounded like we’d coordinated them. She didn’t reveal anything new about her uncle but gave the same publicity spiel I’d read in countless art magazines: his desire for solitude, his little house in northern Nevada (she pointedly didn’t name the town, something I’d noticed before), his love for his art. There was a short question-and-answer period after her talk, and someone asked, “Do you think your uncle will ever come out to San Celina and immortalize our county? We have some beautiful places to paint here.”

Nola smiled and shook her head, a practiced sadness to her expression. “I doubt it. Though I don’t speak of it much, Uncle Abe’s health is not as good as it once was. Travel is not only hard for him psychologically but physically.”

“Has he ever been to the West Coast?” the same woman asked.

“He loves his little place in Nevada,” she said, not exactly answering the question.

After a few more questions, dessert was served, a layered chocolate-strawberry mousse. By that time the tension at our table was so high that it was starting to give me an upset stomach. Once Constance said her last few words and brought the gavel down to close the December meeting, I quickly said good-bye and hightailed it out of there. On my way out, I went by the auction table to see if I’d “won” the necklace. Luck was with me. I wrote out a check, thrilled I’d solved the mother-in-law Christmas present problem, and picked up the necklace, which was already wrapped in lovely silver paper with bright red ribbon. One less thing for me to worry about.

It was four p.m. when I dropped by the folk art museum for a last check on things. D-Daddy had everything under control.

“I’ll be back up here by five thirty at the latest,” I told him. “I have to pick up the dogs, feed them and then change clothes. The caterers should be here by then.”

“I’ll stay until you get back,
ange
,” he said.

I didn’t ask if he was coming to the opening, because I knew that though he loved readying the museum for exhibit openings, he didn’t like attending them. It had become a sort of tradition that I give him a gift certificate for two to a local restaurant so he could enjoy a peaceful dinner with one of his many female companions while I pandered to the rich and influential of San Celina.

“Here,” I said, handing him an envelope. I ruined the surprise by saying, “It’s to that new restaurant by the creek, Creole Catin.” I knew that
catin
meant “doll” in Cajun.

D-Daddy grinned and nodded his head in approval. “Been wanting to try their crawfish.”

“I’ve heard it’s great. You’ll be eating better than me tonight, for sure.”

“I’ll bring you the doggie bag.”

After picking up a very tired Boo and Scout, I headed home. The house was empty, telling me the twins and Kathyrn and Ray had not returned from their San Celina tour. I briefly worried again that the day would be too much for Kathryn. I hoped I made it clear this morning that it really wouldn’t hurt my feelings if she was too tired to attend tonight.

After the dogs were settled, I called Gabe at work. His assistant, Maggie, answered.

“You just caught him,” she said. In a few seconds, he came on the line.

“Hey, Chief,” I said. “How’s your day going?”

“Don’t ask. What’s up?” I could hear him trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.

“Sounds like you’re busy. Are you going to be able to come to the opening tonight?”

A loud sigh came over the phone. “
Querida,
I’m sorry, I won’t be able to make it. Things are just piled up here. I’ve got reports that are already late and a meeting with FEMA first thing tomorrow morning. There’s things on the city’s new disaster preparedness plan that I—”

“It’s okay,” I interrupted. “It’s really not that big of a deal. I just think your mother will be disappointed.”

“She’ll get over it,” he said, his voice clipped. “Anything else you need?”

Though I probably should have been irritated at him for deliberately avoiding his mother and this important moment in my career, I was only sad. I knew this man better than anyone, and I knew that he was in so much pain that the only emotion he’d allow himself to feel was anger.

“Nothing else. Just don’t forget to eat dinner, okay?”

“I’m having dinner with Father Mark,” he said. “He’s got some ideas about mentors for kids aging out of the foster system. He thought some of my officers might be interested.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” I answered, sending the Lord a quick prayer of thanks. Father Mark was just the person Gabe needed to see. “Tell him hey for me.”

“See you tonight. Hope your opening goes well.”

“It will. D-Daddy has everything under control.”

I decided to shock everyone and wear a skirt. I paired my swishy black calf-length skirt with a bright red silk shirt and black boots. With the platinum and diamond horseshoe necklace Gabe bought me a few years ago and diamond studs from Emory, it was as classy as I was going to get. I petted the dogs one last time, made sure they had fresh water and, hoping for the best, cracked the back door since Boo wasn’t big enough to get through the doggie door yet. The worst that could happen was an accident on our wooden floors, something entirely fixable. I rolled my black skirt one more time with the lint lifter and was off.

The catering truck had already arrived and was unloading their silver trays filled with hors d’oeuvres. I passed D-Daddy leaving and wished him a good dinner. I would have given anything to be going with him. Evenings like this had never been the part of my job I was particularly fond of, but with everything that was going on with Gabe and his mother, I was even less enthralled with chatting up San Celina’s elite in hopes they would support the museum.

Still, I was proud to be the recipient of Abe Adam Finch’s generosity, and the least we could do was make this night as special as possible for his niece. Did she go back and tell him what these evenings were like? Did it even matter to him? Again, I couldn’t help wondering if he was perhaps one of those artistic savants, incapable of relating to people yet able to create art that moved people’s hearts.

After a final inspection of the refreshments set up in the artist’s co-op studios, I went back into the museum to check the painting one more time.

“It’s spectacular,” a low, familiar voice said behind me.

I turned around to see my stepgrandpa, Isaac Lyons. “Oh, Isaac, thanks so much for coming. That’ll really impress the journalist from L.A.” I gave him an enthusiastic hug. “Where’s Dove?”