Be Still My Beading Heart

by Janice Peacock

  “Come on, big fella, I’ll get a yummy treat for you.”

  I scooped him up, my arms underneath his fat gray belly as I carried him out to the kitchen, and set him down on the white tile counter. He probably shouldn’t have been on the kitchen counter, but they were old and funky like the rest of the kitchen, so he wasn’t going to damage them. And I washed the counters often. And I didn’t really cook much. And I lived alone, so no one complained. It wasn’t really that bad that he was on the counter. Really.

  I pulled out a green ice cube from the cute pink plastic tray in the freezer and popped it into the cat’s empty food bowl. As soon as Gumdrop saw the frozen cube of catnip, he went wild, jumping down from the counter, landing on the bowl, and skidding across the hardwood floor into the hallway. He started writhing around, licking the frozen lump, pawing at it, and pressing his furry head into it.

  “Gummie, you are a little drug addict,” I said, leaving him to his vice and heading to my bedroom to get changed.

  I walked down the long hall of my skinny house with all of its rooms set in a straight line. The kitchen was the first room past the entry, followed by a cozy living room full of “vintage” furniture—by which I mean “used items from my dead aunt and cast-offs from friends.”

  Next was an office, which doubled as my guest room and had also become the overflow space for my studio. Tessa called this room the “Bead Lair,” but I’d been trying to break her of that habit.

  My bedroom followed, tiny but cozy, and smack in the middle of it was a beautiful cherrywood sleigh bed I’d inherited from Aunt Rita along with the house itself.

  And finally, all the way in the back was my bead studio.

  Val’s side of the duplex was a mirror image of mine except at the back, where I had one more room than she did. My side of the duplex had a room that ran the full back width of the house, giving me a doublewide space for crafting my beads and jewelry. Working with beads full-time wasn’t exactly what I thought I’d be doing with my life, but here I was, and I was happy.

  In the bedroom, I looked in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. What was I going to do with myself? I was a mess. I’d been working in the studio all morning, making a few last-minute beads for this weekend’s exciting events—a bead sale, plus beadmaking and jewelry classes. My usual outfit was jeans and a T-shirt, long sleeves in the winter and short sleeves in the summer. I’d promised myself I’d try and look my best for this important weekend.

  The T-shirt I was wearing was speckled with chocolate, thanks to Val’s culinary catastrophe. I changed into a clean top and decided jeans and clogs were going to have to be good enough for today. I ran my hands through my light brown hair—my version of combing since I’d cut it short.

  No one should ever arrive at a bead event without wearing beads. I found some fun earrings, each with a purple cone-shaped bead dangling from the ear wire. I knew I’d have to try and dress better tomorrow. Val was forever after me to look nice and act pretty. Or was it look pretty and act nice? I could never remember. I wasn’t particularly good at either—at least not at the same time.

  I went back to the studio to get ready to go. Boxes and trays of beads were stacked in every corner, on every shelf, and even marching up the staircase to the attic. When I created jewelry, I used all sorts of pre-made beads to complement the ones I’d hand-crafted. My stash included everything from the tiniest seed beads to large silver pendants from Thailand. The studio was my creative zone, the place I was happiest—a place I could work and play, and most of the time there was no difference between the two.

  This week, the chaos wasn’t too bad. Since I’d had a group of Girl Scouts over last week for a jewelry-making demonstration, I’d cleaned up a little—well, a lot—before they arrived. I’d put the bits and pieces of necklaces in progress into shallow ceramic bowls to try and corral everything from each project into the same place: glass beads, silver beads, other small beads I’d purchased, a clasp, and all the other components needed to complete a necklace. Since making jewelry was less intense than handling a torch that spewed a foot-long flame, I worked on necklaces and earrings each night to relax.

  The necklace project bowls ran in long rows along the table below the back windows spanning the length of the room. Those windows let in gorgeous light, even on the dreariest of days.

  This had been Aunt Rita’s sewing room, where she’d created stunning quilts well into her 80s. She’d left behind four massive tables with bolts of fabric stored on shelves below each work surface. The bolts were gone now, replaced by trays of beads, bundles of wire, and equipment for working with glass. On the widest table I had set up a torch, attaching it firmly to the work surface I’d covered with old kitchen tiles I’d found in the attic. They’d probably been there since the house was built at the turn of the century. Not this century, the one before it.

  On the smallest table by the back door were trays of the beads I’d made, and a sample necklace made with them. Everything was packed and ready to take to Aztec Beads, the new bead store in town. The owner, a woman named Rosie, decided she’d have a gallery show and sale featuring the work of glass beadmakers as part of a grand opening celebration. She’d added some free workshops on how to make jewelry, to entice customers to visit her shop. She hoped they’d stick around afterward to buy everything they needed to complete the projects they’d learned about in the workshops.

  Rosie had teamed up with a woman named Judy, a member of the local bead society, recently—and unfortunately—renamed JOWL. Judy was coordinating the exhibition, sales, and classes at Aztec Beads. I packed my lovely red VW Beetle, the Ladybug, with the trays of beads, and headed for Tessa’s glass studio. It was going to be a great weekend.

  But, it didn’t turn out as I expected.

  THREE

  TESSA, EVER THE SMART businesswoman, decided to host some demonstrations on Friday before the weekend’s events at Aztec Beads. It was a great plan for getting people to come to her studio as well as to Rosie’s bead shop. A few years ago, Tessa rented the perfect place in Seattle’s funkiest neighborhood, the Fremont district. Fremont was known for the enormous troll that lives under a bridge in the area. It’s not a real live troll, just a statue, but between that, the giant bronze sculpture of Lenin, and the wonderful eclectic shops, it was the perfect place for her glass studio.

  Fremont Fire had a retail area in front where Tessa sold her own work as well as the work of other local artists. The back half of her space was the glass studio. All types of people came to the studio to take classes, use the torches Tessa set up, or learn to make a plate by fusing together sheets of glass in a kiln. Tessa was there to help the students, and of course to sell them whatever supplies they needed.

  Her studio was in an edgy neighborhood, but Tessa herself was the most down-to-earth person I’d ever met. Her clean-scrubbed face and brown shoulder-length hair said “soccer mom,” not artist. The funny thing about artists is that they look like normal people. In fact, I find that the people who look the most “artsy” are often people who have the money to spend on interesting clothing—and that’s almost never a working artist.

  I parked the Ladybug, and as I walked toward Tessa’s shop, the smell of bagels wafting from the open door of The Bagelry beckoned. A few spoonfuls of half-cooked cake batter had not been a good start to the day. I stopped in and picked up a dozen bagels, cream cheese, and some coffee. Since I was juggling a sack of bagels and a tray of drinks, I pushed my way backward through the door of Tessa’s studio.

  “Good morning,” I yelled to Tessa and her daughters. “I brought food. Tessa, here’s your espresso; we’ve got bagels.” I put the bag on the counter by the front door.

  “Excellent!” Tessa took her cup and gave me a tight hug. “Are you ready for a fun weekend?”

  “I think so. The big question is, are you ready for the demos tomorrow?” I asked, smearing my bagel with mo
re delicious cream cheese than was necessary.

  Dylan McCartney opened the door and slipped languidly into Tessa’s shop.

  “Hey, Tessa. Hey, Jax.” Dylan never seemed to be in a hurry and was always scruffy around the edges. That comes with being a 22-year-old guy. If he’d been in Southern California, I’d have called him a surfer dude. Here in the Pacific Northwest, his T-shirt, flip-flops, and threadbare jeans looked out of place. He never looked like he was cold, but I couldn’t wear so little without freezing to death when temperatures dipped to the 40s outside. Today it was 52 degrees and damp, which was typical weather for Seattle in April. I didn’t want to think about how warm it might be in Miami right now.

  Two heads popped out from around the corner of the storage room on the side of the glass studio.

  “Hi, Dylan,” Tessa’s teenaged daughters said at the same time.

  “Hi, ladies,” he said, smiling shyly, as he pushed shaggy sand-colored hair out of his green eyes.

  “Izzy, Ashley, do you want bagels?” asked Tessa.

  “Not hungry,” both girls replied.

  “Well then, get back to work,” ordered Tessa. She knew how to keep those two girls focused, which wasn’t always the easiest thing to do. Izzy was 16 and had gotten her driver’s license a few months earlier, much to her delight. To say that 15-year-old Ashley was jealous of her older sister’s new freedom would have been an understatement.

  The girls disappeared back around the corner, and I could hear squeals and laughter. I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like it might have had something to do with Dylan.

  Tessa rolled her eyes and laughed. She had a good sense of humor about her daughters, as did her husband, Craig. Today was going well for the girls—they weren’t fighting. There seemed to be a constant battle between the two, except when their little brother was around.

  Joey was four years old, an unexpected addition to the family when Tessa’s daughters were 12 and 13. While the two girls fought over almost everything, they were united on this: They loved and protected Joey above all else.

  It’s funny, but in my family, we had the same situation. My sister Connie and I were a year apart. Our brother Andy followed Connie by seven years. I’m sure my parents were disappointed that their eldest had turned out to be an artist, and not something important like lawyer Connie or computer genius Andy.

  “Dylan, do you want me to take your beads over to the shop?” Tessa asked.

  “Sure, that’d be great.”

  “I’ll grab them when I go. Thanks for watching the studio while I’m gone,” Tessa said.

  “No prob.” Dylan was a man of few words, and a big appetite. I noticed he was already on his second bagel. Poor guy, he didn’t have much money for food.

  “Do you need any more help getting things set up for tomorrow’s demo?” I asked.

  “I think I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be. Plus, I’ve got some time before the demos start. You’ll come for some last-minute scurrying around in the morning?” This was Tessa in her super-efficient mode; she didn’t wait for a response. “Judy from JOWL wants everyone to take their inventory to her by two o’clock, so we’d better get going.”

  “Ashley, you promised to babysit Joey tonight. And don’t forget, Rosie’s son, Benny, is coming over, too. Izzy, since you don’t have anything better to do, you can help your sister.”

  Both girls glowered at their mother and groaned in unison, crossing their arms and tipping their heads back with attitude only teenage girls can pull off.

  Tessa grabbed her box and Dylan’s and was ready to head over to the bead shop.

  “Ashley, you come with me. Jax and I need to drop our boxes off at Aztec Beads, and then we can pick up Rosie’s son.” Joey and Benny hadn’t spent much time together, but they were already becoming fast friends, as only four-year-olds can: shyly saying “hi” one minute, and then a moment later sharing a Popsicle and pretending to be tigers.

  In her no-nonsense style, Tessa continued delegating. “Izzy, you take my car, and we’ll meet you at home a little later.”

  A bright smile burst across Izzy’s face. Ashley continued to scowl, but now it was directed at her sister. She was jealous.

  “And, Izzy, get some gas, will you? The tank’s almost empty,” Tessa said, pressing a wad of bills into her daughter’s hand as we headed out the door. “Use it all on gas—not snacks.” Tessa watched as her daughter pocketed the cash.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Izzy, trying not to sound too excited, fearing it would make her look uncool in front of Dylan.

  We put Tessa’s and Dylan’s boxes of beads and necklaces into the trunk with mine. Izzy pulled up next to us in the van. “Bye, Mom. Thanks for the car. I promise to drive safely.”

  “If you get in trouble, call me—but not while you’re driving,” Tessa called after her, as Izzy waved and pulled away. Even with her bossy attitude, Tessa was really just a big softie inside.

  We waved as we watched the van move extremely slowly down the road and turn the corner. Ashley, standing next to the Ladybug, wistfully watched Izzy drive away in her mom’s minivan. I’m not certain, but just after we couldn’t see the van anymore, I heard what sounded to me like squealing tires and burning rubber.

  “Good thing I put a GPS monitor on the van,” said Tessa.

  “What?”

  “A GPS monitor. I can use my phone and track her location.”

  “But you can’t press the brakes if she’s going too fast.”

  “No, but I can at least make sure I know where she is.” Tessa worried about her girls, like most parents do.

  FOUR

  “SHOTGUN!” SHOUTED ASHLEY, as we turned to get into the Ladybug.

  “Seriously, Ashley? You thought that would work? Get in the backseat,” commanded Tessa.

  Ashley grumbled as she squeezed herself into the back. The space was cramped back there, and tiny Tessa would have fit better than her tall daughter. But Tessa outranked her, and she slid into the passenger seat next to me.

  “Next stop—Aztec Beads,” I announced, as I turned the ignition on the Ladybug and we headed to the bead shop.

  “What do you have for the JOWL lady?” I asked Tessa.

  “For the exhibit piece, I made a necklace of black beads with polka dots in all different colors, and then I’ve got some disc-shaped Thai silver beads that go between each of the glass pieces. I brought two whole trays of hollow beads to sell.”

  “Sounds fun,” I said. Tessa always had terrific new designs. During workshops at her studio, she taught people to make beads, but often those students also bought some of Tessa’s own work, knowing it would be a long time before they could perfect all of the techniques she had mastered.

  “And you? What do you have to sell?” Tessa asked.

  “I made some white heart beads,” I replied.

  “Plain heart-shaped beads? That sounds a little boring for you.”

  “Oh, sorry. They’re beads that have one color on the inside and another color on the outside,” I explained. “You know, kind of like a Tootsie Pop. I use white at the center and transparent colors on the surface.”

  “Oh, I get it—‘white heart’ because it has white in the middle. I’m sure I’ll love them.” Tessa had been supportive of me since I’d moved to Seattle. My skills as a glass beadmaker had improved with Tessa as my instructor. And she’d brought me into her family, since mine was on the other side of the country.

  “Well, let’s just hope the customers love them.” I needed to top up my bank account to support the next phase of home improvement: painting the kitchen. My ancient kitchen needed more than paint, but at least a new color on the walls would brighten it up. Val’s kitchen had been painted a couple years ago, when I’d made it a priority to get a tenant on that side of the duplex paying rent after many long months of renovations. My side of th
e house was going to have to wait until I had more money under the mattress.

  I parked at the curb outside Aztec Beads. Rosie had been able to rent a prime piece of real estate right in Wallingford, one of the hipper neighborhoods in Seattle. It was the perfect place for Rosie and her kids. Her shop was on the bottom floor of a two-story building. There was an apartment upstairs with a balcony. Stairs led down from the balcony onto a small patio at the back of Rosie’s shop. Another set of stairs connected the apartment to an area next to the front counter inside.

  The building was painted vibrant red, with a brand-new sign at the corner. The image on the sign was an Aztec figure. He was lying on his back holding a tray aloft, as if making an offering to the gods. His offering: strands and strands of beads. Aztec Beads.

  “Mom? Can I go up the street to Babylon, the new music store?” Ashley asked Tessa as we parked. “They have all this cool vintage vinyl I want to check out.”

  “Vintage vinyl?”

  “You know, like, records? Funny stuff, like, The Flock of Seagulls?” Ashley had that annoying habit, as so many teenage girls do, of ending every statement as if it were a question. Oh, and including the word “like” as often as possible.

  “A Flock of Seagulls,” Tessa corrected. “Jax, didn’t you and I love them?”

  “We did,” I agreed, embarrassed. “Of course, we were both about three years old when those guys were popular.” This was a lie; we were in high school.

  “Yes! And remember those wacky haircuts?” added Tessa, as she got swept up in her reverie of the mid-1980s. “The long crazy bangs covering the lead singer’s face,” she said, trying to mimic the style by pulling all of her hair up and over to one side.

  “Whatev,” said Ashley, rolling her eyes and using another extremely annoying speaking style: abrevs. That is, abbreviations for any multi-syllabic words. Because it was apparently too exhausting to say “whatever.”

  Without waiting for a response, Ashley bolted from the car and down the street.