Beads of Doubt

by Barbara Burnett Smith

  I rubbed my forehead. “I have a headache.”

  “I have a very bad feeling,” she said. “If we wake up dead—”

  I tried to shake my head, but I didn’t have the strength. Luckily my mouth was still working just fine. “Only the good die young—I’ll be here until I’m at least 112. So, if you wake up dead, come and tell me.”

  She stared at me for a good minute. I think it was just because she couldn’t think of a comeback. Finally she said, “You’re tired. Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “See? We’ll be fine. You just said so.”

  When I woke up, alive and well, there were voices coming from downstairs and the pounding of little feet. Sinatra, who sleeps on the foot of my bed, rolled over and looked at me, as if for protection.

  “Too late,” I said. “But you could hide under the bed.” He let out a yowl and disappeared there only seconds before my three grandchildren burst into the room.

  “Gran Kitzi!” said Gabrielle, our three-year-old mistress of all that is righteous. “You’re still sleeping.”

  “No, she’s not,” Cliffie said. “She’s wide awake. She’s just in bed.”

  Shelby came to pat my hand. “Are you sick? Oh my gosh! Your hair!” She started giggling. “It’s orange.”

  I reached up to touch it. I’d forgotten that little detail. “Yes, I’m sure it is,” I said.

  “Did it make you sick?” Gabrielle asked.

  “No, honey,” I said, climbing out of the bed and moving to the rocking chair. “I was up very late last night. You all look very nice. Where have you been?”

  Shelby, who doesn’t particularly like dresses, had on a short denim skirt, an orange knit top, and sandals with white flowers on the front. Her long blonde hair was pulled up into a ponytail that was braided. Little Gabrielle, who likes anything her mother likes, was wearing what used to be called a springtime frock in a print of pink and pale blue flowers. She was even wearing a hat and carrying a small pink purse that matched her ruffled socks.

  Cliffie had on khaki pants, a white golf shirt, and semiclean athletic shoes. Quite a feat for a five-year-old boy.

  “We went to church,” Gabrielle said. “While you were sleeping.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but I was out late last night, while you were sleeping.”

  Katie came into the room just as Shelby said, “Did you win the poker tournament last night?”

  “The—what? Your—” Katie wasn’t her usual articulate self.

  Shelby spun around. “Mom! You shouldn’t sneak in like that. It’s not polite.”

  I’ve seen my all-too-perfect daughter nonplussed before, but this time she was actually spluttering. She had one finger pointed at me. “Your—your—”

  I smiled at her. “Are you all right? It’s just hair, Katie. I’ll admit it’s a little bright, but it is a rinse.”

  She swallowed hard. “It will come out? I mean, before the corporate meeting this week?”

  “Well, I think so. If it doesn’t you can just pretend you don’t know me.” I turned to look in the mirror, and I had to admit she had a point. Amazing how intense red hair can be in the daylight. It didn’t help that most of it was now flowing upward in a way that suggested I was the victim of a wind tunnel gone bad. “I see what you mean. It is a bit, well, let’s just make concessions since this is early morning.”

  “No, it’s not,” Shelby said, pointing to my clock. “It’s almost—”

  “Enough!” I put my hand over her mouth. “I have to take a shower and get dressed. Then I have a lot to do today, including some sport shopping in the tent for beads and a lot of research.”

  Cliffie came out of the bathroom holding the empty box that had contained my Spicey Nice rinse. “Is this what you put on your hair?” he asked.

  “That’s it.”

  “Look what it says.” He read slowly but surely, “’If this shade is darker than your nat . . . nat . . .”

  Katie grabbed the box. “Natural hair, it will not come out in twenty-eight shampoos.’ ”

  Cliffie looked at me. “I guess that means you’ll have orange hair for a long time,” he said.

  “Could be,” I said.

  “Kewl!” Shelby grinned. “Unless you wash your hair twenty-nine times.”

  “Yes, well, I don’t think I’ll do that today. Okay, everybody out and let me get dressed.” I got up from the rocker to find I’d been sitting on the outfit I’d worn the night before, which didn’t help its appearance. I shook out the sweater, then the pants.

  Katie’s eyes widened. “You wore those? Those lime green and hot pink . . . pants?”

  “Yes, I did, but you’re not seeing the best part.” I went to the closet and put on the earrings and the lime shoes. I came out modeling them. “Well?”

  The kids started laughing, while Katie turned pink, I assumed with embarrassment at her mother. She said, “Okay, kids, let’s go downstairs and let Gran Kitzi get dressed. I’m sure it’s going to take her a while to get ready.”

  “I could just throw those on,” I said, pointing to the clothes on the rocker.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  I had no idea whether twenty-nine shampoos was the magic number to change me back to a blonde, but it wasn’t two. By the time I was showered, dried off, and had my makeup on, I still had red hair. At least it was not quite as brilliant as it had been earlier, and the style was a lot better. It was my normal one: neck length with soft waves that sometimes broke into curls.

  I chose black cotton slacks and a teal blouse. The teal looked wonderful with my hair. Not only that, I decided I had definitely lost a pound or two, since the slacks fit quite nicely. I finished the outfit with a teal-and-rose crystal necklace Beth had made me and went downstairs.

  The volunteers were arriving and so were the guests. Beth was in the kitchen eating breakfast tacos out of white wrapping paper.

  “See,” I said, “you aren’t dead. Oh, and those smell wonderful. There wouldn’t be an extra one, would there?”

  She moved just enough that I could see a plate that held at least half a dozen more. “There are several different kinds, and they’re all great,” she said.

  I selected two and moved quickly out of the way of a couple of volunteers who were bringing in fresh strawberries. I was going to help, but not until I ate. “Where did these come from?” I asked. “Did Katie bring them? And where is Katie?”

  “She took the kids and went down to your mother’s. I think she considers me a bad influence. It might have been because I accompanied you to last night’s poker tournament.”

  “Who told her that?” I asked, getting a plate for my tacos. “You want one of these?”

  “No, thanks, I’ve had enough. It was Gabrielle. You have to do something about her before she turns into a government informer.”

  “Isn’t that the truth. Oh, excuse me.” I leaned around a young woman to fill a mug from the hot water tap on the sink so I could make some tea. “Where is the tea?” I asked.

  “In the butler’s pantry,” she said, gesturing behind her.

  “No, no. Sorry. I meant my tea.” I opened a cupboard and found the canister. The back door opened, and I looked up in time to see a man walk in. With the sun behind him, for just a moment I wasn’t sure who it was. Tall, dark-haired, slender, and then I knew. I intended to play hard to get, but a smile jumped up and engulfed my face. “Hi,” I said.

  Nate Wright was looking me up and down as his own one-sided smile started. “Are you the new maid?” he asked, coming over to me.

  His eyes were crinkled with humor, and when he slid his arm around my waist I swear the sizzle was so powerful I thought I was going to shoot up like a rocket.

  I smiled and spoke in a British accent. “Why, yes, sir. I am the new maid.” I curtseyed. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Nate used an Irish accent. “Ah, darlin’, there’s many a things a lass o’ the likes of you could do for a man like me. I’m part
ial to red hair, but, ah,”—he looked around at the volunteers and the caterers, some of whom were smiling, and one or two who were simply openmouthed—“now, might not be the time. If you’d be after accompanyin’ me this afternoon—”

  Beth started applauding and the others joined in. When everyone went back to whatever they’d been doing, she said, “I thought I’d better break the mood before things got out of hand.”

  I sat at the table with my tea and tacos. Nate joined me, asking, “Does that happen often around here? Things getting out of hand?”

  “More than I’d like,” I said. Then I jumped up. “I have to get something.” I went to the library and came back with a pen and a tablet. “I have to make a list of the things to do today; if not, I’m going to forget half of them.”

  “Which means you won’t be sailing on Lake Travis with me,” he said.

  “Of course I will. It just won’t be this afternoon.”

  “Well, that seems fair. Here.” He slid the tablet over in front of him. “I’ll write, you eat. Maybe I can even help you accomplish whatever it is you have to do. And I think I have an attorney for you.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful, although I might have found one, too.”

  Beth’s cell phone rang. “Hello,” she said. “Shannan! How’s San Francisco? Honey, of course, I didn’t forget you. How could I forget my own daughter? I’ve just been a little busy.” Beth looked at me and made a face. Then she listened for a minute. “Honey, it’s the time difference; it’s two hours later here. You think it’s dinner time, and I’m already in bed.” I crossed my eyes when she said that. She went on. “Well, I had my phone turned off last night. No, no. We didn’t do anything special. What have you been doing? What kind of clothes did you buy? And where have you been eating?” Beth got up and started upstairs, listening as she went.

  During her conversation, I had watched Nate, under cover of eating my tacos. He has the most expressive face; I’ve teased him that he looks like Clark Gable’s son. As he turned the tablet to get a better angle, I noticed his hands. The fingers were long and square tipped, like an artist’s hands. He claims to have no creative talent, just a few hobbies, and so far he hasn’t even been willing to share those with me. I haven’t yet seen his house, either, mainly because it’s in Dallas and he’d been halfway around the world until recently. Although I was looking forward to it. You can tell a lot about a person from their home.

  “Where would you like to start?” he asked. “On your list?”

  I smiled at him, pretending I hadn’t been staring. Or ogling. “I think we should start with the attorney,” I said. “Gregg Jacques.” I took a bite of taco.

  Nate looked up, surprised. “That was the name I was going to give you. I’ve been told by three different people that if he can’t help you, then you are beyond help.”

  “Really? Then my instincts were right—I met him last night.”

  “I thought Beth said you two were in bed early last night?”

  I shook my head. “Not even close. We were at a poker tournament.”

  “Really? So, how’d you do?”

  “I was intending to win, but about halfway through, which means I beat half the other players, something, well, happened. We had to make a hasty exit.”

  “You and Gregg?”

  “No, Beth and I,” I said. “Although I did hide behind Gregg to get out the door, which wasn’t easy in my lime green slip-ons.”

  “I’m sorry I missed that.” Nate wasn’t quite laughing, but he was on the verge.

  “We didn’t take pictures, either,” I said. “Which might have been a good thing. Katie wasn’t too impressed with my outfit. Or the fact that I played in a poker tournament. You haven’t met her yet, but—”

  “Oh, but I have. I met her and your grandkids.”

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “Earlier—”

  “You’re the one who brought the breakfast tacos! That was so nice of you. Thank you. They’re great.”

  “There’s orange juice in the refrigerator, too, if you’d like some.”

  “You,” I said, “are wonderful.”

  Nate picked up the pen and held it out to me. “Could you say that a little louder? Or, just say it into my microph—or rather, my pen.”

  I pulled the pen toward me and said softly, “You are wonderful.”

  Nate tipped his head and said demurely, “ ‘Mutual, I’m sure.’ ”

  It was a line from something, just the way he said it was the clue to that, but I couldn’t quite place it. It had been said by a woman, not a man, which was throwing me off. She was a blonde, not bright, funny—“I’ve got it! It’s from White Christmas.”

  He seemed impressed, “You’re good.”

  I batted my eyelashes. “ ‘Mutual, I’m sure.’ ”

  I glanced up to find his dark eyes intent on me. The smile was gone, and in its place was a warmth and affection that I hadn’t had directed toward me in a very long time. I could feel it all the way to my stomach and my toes. I wanted to say something, but for the life of me I couldn’t think of what.

  I reached out to touch him. He caught my hand and lifted it gently toward his lips, as if to kiss it.

  “Kitzi!” Beth said loudly as she rolled into the kitchen. “Shannan and Ron have—” She stopped, and I dropped my hand back to my lap. “Bad timing,” she said. “Sorry.”

  Nate gestured to the volunteers who were bustling around behind us. I’d forgotten all about them. “Not a problem,” he said. “We didn’t want an audience, anyway.”

  “Whew. Personal summer,” I said, to explain the blush that I knew was creeping up my neck. “Here, sit,” I said to Beth. “I’m going to warm up my tea while we make our list.” I went to the sink and filled my cup with some additional hot water. “How is Shannan doing?”

  “Oh, she’s great. Having a wonderful time, but apparently she is finding her father a less than wonderful traveling companion. She says he does nothing but complain.”

  Which is just one of the many reasons that I have called the man Mo-Ron for many years. Not to his face, or to Beth’s, but in my mind. Although Beth has heard me say it more than once. To avoid saying it now, I smiled. “Shannan’s smart. She’ll have him trained to enjoy himself in no time.” I went back to the table. “Okay, it’s list time. First, I have to call Gregg Jacques to see if he’ll represent me.”

  “But your fax isn’t working,” Beth said. “He’ll need copies of all the corporation documents.”

  Nate was writing the word Jacques. Then he looked up at me and smiled. I could feel his glance go through me.

  Before I could blush again, I said, “No problem. I’ll drop off the papers on my way to see Rafferty.”

  “Rafferty?” Nate asked.

  “Tess’s dog. She say’s he needs some company, so I thought I’d visit him. I also thought about sneaking him into the hospital. Or maybe sneaking her out. Just for a short visit.”

  “I’m getting pretty good at clandestine activities,” Nate said. “You can count me in.” He wrote Rafferty and then hospital on the yellow tablet. “What else?”

  “We have to check with Katie and see what she’s found out. I asked her to call relatives to see how people were going to vote on the Manse.” Nate wrote Katie.

  It reminded me of why she might be so over the top with my poker playing. It wasn’t the poker, or the outfit, or even the red hair. It was that Katie needed something from me, but I was never sure what. Maybe she needed me to be something. Staid? A more conventional mother, like my mother was? Ironic that the most noticeable personality traits skipped over a generation. My grandparents were wonderful, and sometimes flamboyant, while my parents were traditional. They approached life as if there were a book somewhere that told everyone how to be. Even worse, they acted as if everyone knew how we were measuring up against those rules. It isn’t surprising they were sometimes appalled at the way my grandparents reveled in their life.

  The
y’d found me a bit over the top, too, not that my father had even heard such phrasing when he was alive, and my mother simply wouldn’t say it. She might recommend that I be more ladylike. Like Katie.

  Then we had Shelby, who was becoming more and more becoming. I liked that. There was a rightness to it, so that everyone had someone they could point to as a model, and someone they could criticize as not doing “it”, whatever “it” was, quite correctly.

  “What are you smiling at?” Nate asked.

  “Oh, just life in my lane. I think I like it.”

  “That’s important. And by the way, it shows on you.”

  “Excuse me,” Beth said. “We’re making a list and checking it twice, remember? So keep up. Next, we need to find out whatever we can about the High Jinx.”

  Nate looked up. “I was only gone one day, and I can’t believe how much I’ve missed. I’ll bite; what, or who is High Jinx?”

  While Beth was explaining, and I was finishing a now-cold taco and drinking my tea, Lauren came in the back door with at least ten tiny sacks. I knew what she’d been doing. That’s the problem with buying beads: you can spend hundreds of dollars and come away with a few bags so small they’ll fit in your purse. It’s not like spending hundreds of dollars on fabric or dog food. With those you can get some bulk.

  Lauren did have one larger sack, and it banged as she set it on the table.

  “Now, that doesn’t have beads in it,” I said.

  She nodded. “I got some tools, too. You know, pliers and a crimping tool. But I’m not sure it’s the best crimping tool for what I want to do.”

  Beth looked up. “What do you want to do?”

  “I want to make jewelry, for sure,” she said, taking a place at the table. “And then I want to try the peyote stitch for some amulet bags. They’re wonderful. Beaded flowers would be fun to make, and I’ve got a book. Today I had a chance to talk with a woman who makes wire and bead dangles. I’m not sure what you call them, but they hang outside. You use large wire in the most amazing shapes, and you can put any kind of beads on them. You can use a few or a lot. They don’t have a sound like chimes, but they pick up the light.”