Love Finds You in Humble Texas

by Anita Higman

  She picked up one of Henry Bog’s strawberries from the bowl and took a bite as she replayed the moment she’d finally shown Lane the art studio and told her about her upcoming exhibition. Her sister had celebrated all the good news, but then Lane promised Trudie that she’d never put her through anything like that again. The moment had become quite tender and poignant, and it seemed as though there had been a lot of those moments lately. She shook her head and took another bite of the strawberry. What a day. And it had only just begun.

  Trudie looked at the wall clock. She needed to get to work, so she picked up her keys and purse and headed out to Bloomers Boutique. Driving to work did little to calm her, since there was just too much to reflect on and too much to hope for. It would be hard to stay focused at work.

  Her boss chirped out a good morning when Trudie popped in the door.

  “Yes, it is a good morning.”

  Rosalie was busy adjusting some lingerie in one of the display windows. She turned back to Trudie. “You look different. And I don’t just mean all that new dazzling makeup you’ve been wearing and all those new clothes.”

  “Different?” Oh, dear. Rosalie was definitely fitted with emotional sensors that were set on a hypersensitive mode.

  “Yes.” She dropped her work and came over to Trudie, looking her up and down and narrowing her eyes. “There’s something unusual in your voice. It was just the slightest bit singsongy.” Rosalie’s expression was full of mirth.

  “Really?” Trudie decided to play innocent.

  “I notice eeeverything,” Rosalie said in an ominous voice.

  Trudie gave her a hug. “You really do.”

  “It’s my business.” Rosalie went back to her work. “I always try to gauge what kind of mood my customers are in when they walk through that door. It helps me to help them.”

  “So you can help them buy more.” Trudie grinned.

  “Now, now. I allow them to have the desires of their hearts. I allow them to transform a mere bedroom into a boudoir.” Rosalie made a theatrical gesture with her arms.

  “Yes, you do.” It always warmed Trudie’s heart to see someone enjoy their work as much as Rosalie.

  “And so what is it?”

  “What was what?” Trudie put her purse under the counter.

  Rosalie shook her head. “Why are you so singsongy this morning? I want some juicy juice, and I want it now.”

  Trudie groaned. She thought Rosalie had moved on from her sweet-hearted inquisition. “Well, I have a show scheduled at an art gallery in Houston.”

  Rosalie’s mouth came open. “Did you say an art show? I didn’t even know you could draw.”

  “Sorry. I just didn’t think it was super important.”

  “Apparently it is if you have a gallery showing.” Rosalie slapped the back of her hand against her palm. “I can’t belieeeve you didn’t tell me any of this. I could have been cheering you on. Bolstering you up. Mm, mm. And I could have taken credit for some of your fame.”

  Trudie laughed.

  “Well, at the very least I’d better get an invitation.” Rosalie cocked her head.

  “Oh, you will.” Trudie clutched the top of her blouse. She had now officially told someone outside her family, and having people know felt exhilarating, but scary. It meant she was committed to the life of an artist now. There was no turning back. Was she ready for an art show? She had no idea.

  “So, does this mean you’re going to be leaving me?” Rosalie sniffled a bit. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you here.”

  Trudie started organizing a table full of packaged underwear. “Well, I do need to mention that I won’t be able to work as many hours in the spring. I’m going to take two art classes.”

  “No problem. I just don’t want to lose you totally.”

  “Oh, you won’t. I’ll still need to eat.”

  “Ahh, yes.” Rosalie snapped the waistband around her tummy and grinned. “Those infernal and enchanting vittles.” She walked over to Trudie. “So, was there any other reason for that lilt in your voice, sweets?”

  “Maybe.” Trudie rolled her eyes. “But that’s all you’re going to weasel out of me...for now.”

  Rosalie went back to her work in the display window. “You are the mysterious one. Yes, you are.”

  After Trudie had finished her organizing, she brought out the feather duster and her muse. When ten o’clock hit, she knew she would be watching the front door, wondering if Mason would drop in to see her. In fact, she seemed to be checking the door every half-hour. Well, maybe every five minutes. But she had so many things to talk to him about. Had he started work at the funeral home? Was the heartache feeling any lighter? She wanted to thank him again for the studio and tell him about the art show.

  Then if Mason asked her out, Trudie was looking forward to seeing the surprise in his eyes when she said yes. Lane had made her promise that if Mason asked her out she would accept. And now honoring her sister’s wishes would be more than easy—it would be the desire of her heart.

  Trudie took her duster and cleaned off a row of feather boas, thinking how silly it felt—kind of like washing a bar of soap. Then she remembered something else Lane had said; Mason was in great turmoil about his career transition. Trudie wished she could be there to comfort him, but perhaps she just needed to exercise some patience as he had done with her. In the meantime she could get ready for her show.

  The workday went by as usual, but there had been no sign of Mason. Perhaps he would call when she got home. But later at the apartment there were no messages, and the phone never rang.

  After dinner Trudie shuffled off to the studio, determined to start a new watercolor. She took a large piece of paper and gingerly secured it to the table with two strips of tape. Then she flipped on the radio, since her evening program had already come on. The love song, “When a Man Loves a Woman,” finished up, and the female DJ, whose voice was as smooth as chocolate syrup, came on again.

  “This song is dedicated to Julianne. Stephen wants you to know that you should never forget how cherished you are. Now, ladies, isn’t that lovely?” The song “You Are So Beautiful” began to play.

  Hmm. Perfect for lovesick females who always spend their evenings alone. Now, now, Trudie. She scolded herself for sounding cynical. It was, after all, a pleasant evening of music. It just wasn’t a pleasant evening for her. On that thought, she accidentally dropped a blob of watercolor paint on the paper. A big blob of cadmium yellow. Oy! Great.

  Trudie tied her locks back with a scrunchy. Could Mason have changed his mind? Perhaps the Abernathy sisters and their perplexities had been too much for him. But that didn’t sound like Mason.

  Trudie shook her head, not knowing what to think. Then she grinned and smeared the yellow color around with the brush as if she were five years old and creating her very first painting. Her little work of art came out primitive, but funny, and it made her laugh. She thought for sure it would make Cyrus laugh too.

  When the song “You Are So Beautiful” came to a sweet conclusion, the DJ came back on and said, “Okay, this song is just for you, Trudie. And Mason would like you to know that if you can wait for him just a little longer, rainbows are still possible.”

  Tears welled up in Trudie’s eyes as her breath caught in her throat. Her elbows landed on the table and her paint-smudged hands cupped her face. Her cheeks were now a sunny cadmium yellow, but it couldn’t compare to the glow on her face as the radio began to play “Unforgettable.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Mason walked along the woodsy trail until he came to a pond surrounded by a meadow. He sat on the ground near the bank and looked out across the still and silvery surface of the water. An egret made a graceful landing on the other side of the pond, and for some reason the bird’s delicate neck made him think of Trudie. Lately, everything reminded him of Trudie. But unfortunately, at the moment, asking her out would be difficult. The timing would be off. Even though Lane’s news had brought
him great hope, he also knew that hope would have to be put on hold for a bit until he could put his life in some kind of reasonable order.

  He lay back on the warm ground and gazed up at the September sky. The clouds had puffed themselves up, looking angry, but he doubted there would be a storm. It was just for show. He laced his fingers behind his head. “And that’s just like the promise I made to my father. Just show,” he murmured.

  What was he to do? Mason wanted so much to respect his father’s wishes, and yet he felt that he was supposed to honor the abilities God had given him. Wimberley and Sons Funeral Home was not where he was meant to be. He could see that now. It had only taken a few days of training in the business for him to see that he wasn’t meant to run a funeral home. It wasn’t what he was born to do. He knew how to work with the general public concerning their finances, and yet working with people who were in the midst of grieving was very different.

  He closed his eyes, hoping the weight of his thoughts would float away with the clouds. Just as he was drifting off, he breathed a prayer for direction and peace.

  Later, he woke with a start. How long had he been asleep? The clouds had become blue-black, and the air seemed charged with the scent of rain, but he still heard no thunder. He rose, dusted off his jeans, and then tried rubbing out the crick in his neck. Why didn’t he feel refreshed? And he still had no answer to his dilemma. No direction.

  Mason noticed a rusty bucket full of small stones. Skipping stones. Darren and his wife had thought of everything when they’d created their retreat. He picked up a smooth, flat stone and skipped it on the water, but the rock skimmed the glassy surface only once. He tried it again, and the stone hit enough times on the second try that he couldn’t count the bounces. Just like when he was a kid. Mason reached down to pick up another rock when he heard a faint sound.

  When he heard the noise again, he could tell it was a voice—a familiar voice. He looked in both directions. To his right he saw a man walking toward him.

  “Hellooo.”

  Mason waved to the man, who looked just like his uncle Franklin. When he came a bit closer, he realized it was indeed his uncle. Mason strode toward him, making up the distance between them.

  “Greetings, dear boy,” Franklin said. “Whoo. You are mighty hard to track down.” He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

  Mason reached out to shake his hand. “Good to see you.”

  His uncle pulled him into a hug and then slapped him on the back. “I’m really glad to see you too. So, what are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of a workday?”

  Mason stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Thinking.”

  “I know.” Franklin looked out toward the water. “This has been doubly hard on you. In one heartbeat you lost your father as well as your career.”

  “You’re right.” Mason paused to manage his emotions. “It’s hasn’t been easy.”

  Franklin motioned to their left. “Well, over there I see two fine chairs. And if we sit for a while I think I might have a solution to your problem.”

  Mason wasn’t sure how his uncle could help him, but he was willing to listen. They walked over to the Adirondack chairs and sat down.

  “Ahh, none of that sitting on the ground for me.” Franklin rested back on the smooth wooden slats and patted the arms of the chair. “Give me a good chair like this one, and I’m a happy man.”

  Mason remained silent, waiting for his uncle to continue.

  “Pretty little place somebody has here.” His looked back and forth. “Who owns this?”

  “Some friends of mine, Darren and Liza Tiller. They loan out their little cabin to friends and family and pastors when they need to get away.”

  Franklin sighed. “And that’s what you needed...to get away.” He shook his head. “I wish now I’d come to you sooner with my news. Hindsight, I guess. I wish I’d told your father before he died.”

  “Tell him what?” Now Mason was more than curious about what his uncle had to say.

  Franklin cleared his throat. “I want to buy the funeral home, and I’m willing to give you a good price.”

  “Buy it?” Mason leaned forward and looked at his uncle. “But you’ve never mentioned that before.”

  “Yes, sad to say, that’s true.” His uncle sighed. “But it only seemed right that your father should pass it on to one of his sons, especially since the sign has always read Wimberley and Sons.”

  “Well, that would have been true had Nate lived. As you may remember, he was well suited for the business.”

  Franklin dipped his head. “Yes, he was.”

  Mason paused, taking in his uncle’s news. “This plan of yours would certainly solve all the problems of keeping the business in the family.”

  “But I’m not really family...by blood, I mean.” Franklin laced his fingers over his chest. “Would your father mind too much about that part, do you think?”

  Mason smiled. “Yes, you are family. When you married Aunt Grace, my father always thought of you as his brother. He would be pleased with this arrangement. I know he would.”

  Franklin took out a handkerchief again and dabbed at his eyes. “Your father was always so big-hearted to feel that way. To take in an old orphan like myself. He was a good man, and I shall never stop missing him.”

  “Nor I.” Mason leaned forward on his knees. “I know my mother would be relieved to have you run the company.” He looked over at his uncle and grinned. “I think she was always afraid I’d run the business into the ground.”

  Franklin exploded with laughter. “Oh, your father would like that one. He always loved a good pun.” He made a soft wheezing sound as he chuckled. “You don’t have to worry about the money. I will make you a more than fair offer.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Mason let out a breath of air. “Of course, all the money needs to go to my mother.”

  “That sounds fine, too. It’s a deal.”

  Mason looked upward at the rays of sun streaming through the clouds. “Well, you brought some joy with you today.”

  His uncle slapped the arms of the chair. “My dear boy, it’s great to see you smiling again.”

  “It does feel good.” Mason rested back, feeling his shoulders relax.

  Then the cloud just above them, which hung as heavily as a woman about to give birth, let go with large pelting drops. “Hmm. I think we’d better make a run for it.” Mason helped his uncle out of the chair, and with brisk strides they headed toward the log cabin.

  Within seconds the drops turned into a drenching rain, so they broke into a trot. Soon their clothes were soaked through, so they slowed to a walk again.

  The squashing and squeaking of their shoes became so loud, it seemed to tickle Franklin into a fit of chortles. Mason soon burst out laughing too, since he’d never felt so ridiculously soggy or so wonderfully free.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Trudie poured herself another cup of coffee and glared at the wall clock for the thousandth time. The gallery show of her work would begin in two hours. To arrive a little early as well as compensate for any possible wrecks on the freeway, she would need to leave in fifteen minutes—give or take five minutes. She would have time to check her makeup one more time and pace the room a hundred more times before she had to leave. I need to get a grip.

  She added cream and sugar to her coffee and stirred until the clinking of the spoon made her even more jittery. Since she was already wearing out the living room carpet, she began pacing in the kitchen. Trudie glanced in the laundry room mirror and stopped to stare at the little black dress she’d purchased just for the occasion. It seemed perfect on her. She’d tried her best to remember everything Lane had taught her about hair and makeup and dress and posture. Her sister would surely be proud of her. She’d know soon enough, since she promised to be at the gallery.

  Trudie set her coffee mug down and straightened her shoulders again until her back ached. Glide, don’t stomp. Tight buttocks.
Or was it tucked? Well, at least that one would be easy. Every part of her was tense. But she was equally excited. Right? Yes, she was delighted about the show. Ecstatic.

  On the other hand, why had she invited such panic into her life? What was the point? She suppressed the urge to rake her fingers through her hair, since her locks were all glued nicely in an up-do. She pinched her arm instead. Everything had been so pleasantly ordinary in her life before she’d stumbled back into art. She’d put the need to express herself out of her mind and out of her life. What had been so wrong with that? “Art is too illuminating,” she whispered to the mirror. Too intimate— like undressing in front of the customers at Bloomers.

  Trudie raised her gaze from her dress to her eyes. She could now stand to look at herself in the mirror, which was different, but she barely recognized herself. I’ve changed. Who am I now? She stepped into the laundry room, flipped on the light, and took a deeper look in the mirror. Was she just Trudie à la mode? No. That would have been too easy.

  She picked up her mug, went over to the sink, and poured the coffee down the drain. Life had been so good. Why had she allowed change into her small world? Why couldn’t the silent poet have remained silent? Now she’d gone and done it—she’d let the child outside to play and people were going to point. Guests at the gallery would either love what they saw or hate it. Or perhaps worse—they’d walk away, thinking nothing of it at all. And the media. They’d been invited too, and so her potential for humiliation would be multiplied—shame squared!

  God, have You ever heard such silly rantings? Well, You’re God. You’ve heard everything. In the end, she knew her healing and the restoration of her gifts had all been good, but at the moment, she felt as buoyant and blessed as the Titanic.

  Trudie snapped off the coffeemaker and mashed her fist over her heart. She’d had way too much caffeine, and her heart was pounding out of control. Breathe. Maybe she could make an appearance and then disappear into the night like a stealthy and silent bat. But all her friends were going to be there. Even Mason. The idea of him coming made her even more anxious. What if he took one look at her watercolors and regretted buying her the studio?