by Nancy Thayer
“All my life I’ve dreamed of creating buildings. Since I was a child playing with blocks, actually. The completed vision interests me, but more than that, I like the challenge of creating something that looks impossible and yet is structurally sound.”
“I know.” She nestled closer. “Safe. Reliable. Like you.”
Encouraged, Aaron continued, “The thing about San Francisco, Bella, is that they love history as much as you do. They’re not interested in a spaceship landscape. If you saw the art museum, you’d be surprised; you’d fall in love with it, I know.”
She stroked his hand. “I’ve heard that San Francisco is awesome.”
“It is. And the company that wants me—I hope—well, Bella, I know you’d like them. Most of the architects are young, in their thirties or forties, married, with children. I interviewed with several different people, including the president of the firm, who is older, in his fifties, but very cool, not arrogant. You’d like him, too, Bella. The atmosphere out there is so—I don’t know how to describe it—open. Fresh. Exciting. Expansive. I think they liked me, Bella.”
“Of course they liked you.”
“No, I mean, they liked my ideas. My designs. My sketches.” He stirred his legs against hers, restless in his thoughts. “And the city has everything. We could sail, we could hike, just like we do here. The restaurants are amazing, the schools are excellent—”
Bella turned over to face him. “Aaron. Honey. You’ve got to wait until you hear from them to get so excited.”
“I’m sure I’ll get the job, Bella. I feel it. They said things, they implied things, like they said ‘when you join us’ instead of ‘if you join us’ a couple of times. Jorge Meridian—he’s in charge of a new parking garage, which doesn’t sound like anything, but he’s tasked with making it modern, useful, and eye-catching. Jorge took me out to lunch and we were absolutely on the same wavelength.”
His excitement was electric, radiating from him. He was being so open, so honest, that Bella didn’t want to hide her own aspirations from him any longer.
“Aaron.” She pulled away from his arm, sat up, and tugged the sheet up to cover her breasts. “I need to tell you something.”
He sat up next to her, both of them leaning against the headboard. “That sounds ominous.”
“It’s not,” she assured him. “It’s good. Just … complicated. Aaron, some people, like you, are lucky. You’ve always known what you’ve wanted to be. Natalie’s known, too, even if she’s had to struggle to be an artist. Morgan’s mad for her weird biohazard safety stuff. Ben’s always been a scientist, and my sister, Beat, has always wanted to be a mommy with a big family. I suppose, in a way, I’ve been searching for what I want.”
“You’re a third-grade teacher.”
“True. And I’m pretty good at it. I enjoy the children, and I know how to keep them on task. But it’s not my passion. I thought, since Dad is so crazy about teaching, I would be, too. I do like it. But it’s not the thing for me, like architecture is for you.”
Aaron studied Bella as she talked. “Okay. Go on.”
“Well … just because I haven’t gotten there yet doesn’t mean I’m not on my way.” She touched his shoulder. “Listen to me. I feel like I’m waking up somehow since I’ve been home. Not because of my family, although I love being around them, and when the time comes for me to have children, I really want to be near them. But it’s more than that. For one thing, it’s this area. I feel good here, like a cat with her fur stroked the right way.”
“San Francisco is pretty nice,” Aaron reminded her in a mild tone.
“I know,” she agreed. “But also, Aaron, it’s the shop. Not Barnaby’s Barn, but my shop. The shop I could create.” The words spilled out of her in a rush. “I’d sell antique furniture, and art, and … I’m still working on what else. I suppose I’m not being clear, but one thing I’m sure of is that I feel excited by the possibilities. But I need some more time.”
“Okay.” Aaron stroked her arms. “Okay,” he repeated thoughtfully. “I know what it’s like to pursue a dream. I guess I’m chasing my own dream with the San Francisco job offer.” He pulled her next to him. “You know, Bella, I want us both to have our dreams come true.”
“So you can give me time?”
“Am I rushing you?” He nodded to himself. “Perhaps. We haven’t been together very long. What, six months? But I love you, Bella. I’m planning my future—my real life. You’re the woman I want in my life. I haven’t proposed to you because I realize it would freak you out, but you’ve got to know I’m going to.”
He was so steady. So sure of himself. She curled against him, nuzzling his neck. “I love you, too, Aaron.”
“I know. We’ll work it all out.”
They turned off the lights and snuggled down into bed together. Aaron began the deep rhythmic snore of sleep almost immediately. Bella lay staring into the dark.
The next morning they didn’t continue the discussion. Aaron’s mind was on his work. He had a couple of classes to teach for summer school, and research he was doing for a paper he was writing for an architectural journal. He’d received his master’s degree, but any publication increased his credibility and status as an architect, and while he waited to hear from California, he was glad to have this to keep his mind occupied. He drove Bella back to her house, gave her a quick smooch on the lips, and told her he’d see her that night.
Her parents were already up when she went in, even though it was early. She said a quick hello, then raced up the stairs to shower and dress for work. It was another lush summer day, hot verging on muggy, so she wore a sundress and sandals. She had time to grab a bagel and a to-go cup of iced coffee as she went out the door.
She opened Barnaby’s Barn, turned on the air-conditioning, and leaned on the counter, thinking. Plotting was the more appropriate word, she decided. She was waiting for someone special to arrive.
In her cyclone of ideas about the shop, she recalled how her mother had started it, as a venue for her own creations, and then as a showroom for the handiwork of others as well. That was sixteen years ago. Bella’s friends had grown up, and while some of them had moved away and some of them were teaching, working on degrees, whatever, some of them were artisans. She realized this when she ran into Penny Aristides, who’d been in her grade all through school, in an Amherst coffee shop. Penny had been Penny Watson; she’d married Stellios Aristides, a physician practicing in Amherst, and she was pregnant with their first child. Bella and Penny chatted about old times and caught up on the past few years, and then Bella asked Penny where she’d found her fabulous earrings.
Penny made them. It was only a hobby, she confessed.
“Do you ever sell them?” Bella asked.
“Oh, Bella, I’ll make you a pair if you’d like.”
“No, what I mean is, do you ever consider selling them?” When Penny continued to look confused, Bella explained, “I’m going to change Barnaby’s Barn. I want to make it completely different, aimed at adults, with a range of unusual, cool merchandise, and your earrings are something I’d love to carry.”
Penny had chewed her lip, thinking. “I do have several pieces.… Let me bring a few things in Monday,” she said. “We’ll talk.”
It was after ten on Monday when Bella heard the crunch of tires on gravel. After a few moments, Penny lumbered in, one hand carrying a velvet box, the other supporting her swollen belly.
“Hi, Penny!” Bella came around the counter to greet her friend.
Penny stopped just inside the door. “Oh, wow. I haven’t been in here for years.”
Bella waited for Penny to say more, to say, Oh, I love the murals with the daisies, or I should get a Lake World for my baby. Instead, she stood there, silent, looking uncomfortable. “I’m not sure …,” she began, and grimaced.
Embarrassment flashed down Bella’s spine. “You’re not sure this is the right place for your jewelry,” she finished for Penny. “I agree completely.” G
uilt zinged her as she spoke; she was betraying her mother’s taste and commercial judgment. The guilt seemed to rip at her heart. Still, Bella kept talking, the words spilling out of her from some unknown source. “I’m getting rid of most of this stuff. I’m going to sell antique furniture—upscale, valuable furniture. And art. I’m not sure what else; I’m only beginning to put details into a general picture. Let me see your jewelry.”
Reassured, Penny set her case on the counter and opened it. Carefully she lifted out a large velvet cloth and laid several pieces on it for Bella to scrutinize.
The jewelry was heavy, ornate, even baroque, but also somehow modern. Two pale peach cameos were held in a twisted silver web, hanging from more twisted silver with topaz stones caught in them—spectacular, unusual earrings. A necklace thick with brilliant stones, silver birds, and old-fashioned charms had a medieval appeal. Another necklace hung from a stainless steel chain, its showpiece a dazzling starburst of stones shaped like petals, with smaller stones set deep in the core.
“I’ve always made my own jewelry,” Penny told Bella. “But I don’t know about doing it professionally.”
“These pieces are exquisite,” Bella said. “How did you do it?”
Penny laughed. “For one thing, I take apart my grandmothers’ costume jewelry. They used to wear so many huge brooches with matching earrings. I used to buy drugstore magnifying glasses and use tweezers and my dad’s pliers. After I married Stellios, I started stealing things out of his medical kit. Medical tools are fabulous for jewelry making—long-handled tweezers and so on. For my birthday a few years ago, Stellios surprised me with a complete set of real tools, and some sheets of silver, and a professional-quality magnifying glass.”
As Penny talked, Bella held the jewelry up to the light, watching it dangle and sparkle. Here was someone else with a natural passion for work, and a true talent.
“I never thought of selling it,” Penny was saying, “until you mentioned it. The truth is, I’ve made more than I can ever wear. It’s like I can’t stop myself. I wake up in the morning with an image in my mind of a new necklace, or a cuff, and my fingers itch to make it.”
“After you have your baby,” Bella pointed out, “you won’t have much time for jewelry making.”
“True. But I know I’ll get back to it eventually. This may sound odd, but it keeps me sane.”
“I can understand that.”
“And, Bella”—Penny smiled smugly—“when I say I have a lot of it, I mean a lot.”
“I want to sell your jewelry,” Bella said decisively. “I’ve got an image in my mind of the way I’m changing the shop.” Not until she spoke did she realize this was absolutely true. “I want to spotlight your jewelry. It’s spectacular, and frankly, it should sell for a substantial price.”
“It will all be one of a kind. That’s valuable in itself. But, Bella, how will people know it’s here? I mean, Barnaby’s Barn looks so sweet from the outside, and my creations are far from sweet.”
“I know. As I said, I’m making changes. I’m going to repaint the outside, get rid of the flower boxes. I’m going for a kind of Italianate look. I’m going to put topiary in huge pots outside the door, and lavender, and vines up the front of the building, and of course the inside will be completely redone.”
“That will take you a long time, won’t it?”
“No,” Bella told her. “I can move fast when I need to.”
11
Yesterday at the cookout, Natalie had asked Louise if she could draw her.
Louise had laughed. “As long as you’re not expecting me to pose nude.”
Natalie tilted her head, squinting, imaging the setup. “No. You can keep your clothes on. I have to warn you, though, Louise, if this turns out like I think it will, I’ll want to show it. Sell it.”
“Sweetheart, you need a younger woman if you want to make money.”
“I don’t think so. This will be classic. I’ll do an oil copy for your family,” Natalie offered as an enticement.
“But aren’t oils better than drawings?”
“Not necessarily. Charcoal drawings have depth, timelessness, resonance.”
“What kind of pose did you have in mind?” Louise asked. “I want you reading,” Natalie told her.
“I want to do Woman, Reading.”
“I do plenty of that,” Louise said. “Fine. When should we start?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
At nine, Natalie showed up at the Barnabys’ house with her easel, paper, and charcoal. Louise was in jeans and a tee shirt, barefoot, no makeup, no jewelry.
“Perfect,” Natalie told her. “I want this to be contemporary, realistic, but also with a kind of mystery about it. I want you curled up in a chair. Do you have a book that will hold your interest?”
“Absolutely. A new Jonathan Kellerman mystery.” Louise obediently arranged herself in an armchair.
Natalie said, “Get comfortable. I want to draw you looking down.”
“Hmm.” Louise adjusted herself. “Just don’t make me look like a melted candle.”
“Damn,” Natalie joked. “That was my exact plan.”
Her heart bubbled with hope, excitement, and a bit of apprehension as she set up her small movable easel and gathered her paper, charcoal, erasers.
“Okay,” Natalie said. “Go ahead and read.” Grabbing up her charcoal, she started sketching.
Time vanished as Natalie worked. She stepped back to eye her subject, stepped forward to draw a line.
“Natalie, I need to scratch my nose.”
“Of course,” Natalie said. “Sorry! Go ahead and stretch, too. I don’t want you getting stiff.”
Louise stood up, shook her shoulders out, then resumed her position.
“We can talk,” Natalie told her. “But try not to move your head.”
“Oh, good.” Looking down at the book, Louise said, “You know, Natalie, I’ve spent some time over the years with your aunt Eleanor. She’s quite a remarkable woman.”
“She is,” Natalie answered, her mind allotting about five percent to conversation.
“But I don’t believe I’ve ever met your mother,” Louise continued. “Your mother is Eleanor’s sister, right?”
“Right.”
“I know her name—it’s Marlene, right?”
“Right.”
“I know she used to drive you and Slade down here in the summers to drop you off for a vacation, but she never stayed.” Louise looked at Natalie, a question in her eyes.
“Face the book,” Natalie told her. Still drawing, she said, “Mom raises purebred bulldogs. That’s how she makes her living. Dad left us when we were young.”
“Oh dear, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. But that’s why she couldn’t ever stay. She had to get back to her bulldogs.”
“She sounds very enterprising,” Louise commented, eyes on her book.
Natalie was working with the eraser now. In charcoal drawings, erasing was as much a part of the art as the charcoal. “Mother is insane about bulldogs,” she told Louise. “I don’t think she was as enterprising as she was infatuated.”
“Well, she was clever to make a living with what she loves,” Louise remarked. “Isn’t that what we all hope for?”
Natalie paused. She’d never thought of her mother as clever. Continuing to draw, she muttered, “My mother didn’t plan to make her living that way. It just happened.”
“That’s the way it was for me,” Louise said with a chuckle. “My plan when I was young was—no making fun of me, now!—to become an airline stewardess!” She lifted her head as if gazing right through the ceiling up to the sky.
“Eyes on the book,” Natalie ordered gently.
Louise obeyed. “Back then it seemed the most glamorous occupation a girl could have! I would get to wear one of those darling chic uniforms, maybe with a scarf around my neck and a perky cap. I’d fly all over the world to exotic places. I’d meet fascinating pilots and marry one
and all our life together we’d fly everywhere, until we’d seen every corner of the globe!”
Natalie grinned at the vision. “Why didn’t you become a stewardess?”
Louise chuckled. “I met Dennis. I was a sophomore at U. Mass. He had just graduated. We fell in love, and the minute I saw him, I knew all of the world I ever wanted to see was right inside that man.”
“Oh, that’s so romantic.”
“It was.”
“Louise, I’m sorry, but could you stop smiling? I need you to look meditative.”
“Meditative. Hmm. All right.”
For a few minutes, Louise gazed at her book and Natalie worked.
Natalie had to ask. “Did you ever regret it? Not becoming a stewardess?”
“Honestly? I had my days. When the babies kept me up all night crying and teething and we lived in a dreary little apartment, I allowed myself to remember my old daydream. But even then, regret my decision? No. My goodness, I’m so in love with Dennis. And my babies! My children! That’s adventure enough for me. I’m extremely fortunate and I know it.” Louise allowed some silence to pass, then remarked, “I believe most mothers wouldn’t trade anything for their children. They might long for better circumstances, because it can be such hard work.”
“I suppose,” Natalie replied noncommittally.
“Tell me about your mother,” Louise invited. “She must be a knockout if she looks anything like you and Slade.”
“That’s from Dad,” Natalie said. “Mom’s hair is just brown. She’s pretty, I guess, but she doesn’t keep herself up. She says the dogs don’t notice.”
Louise laughed. “I can understand that. Children can be so critical! Dogs never say you need to have your hair styled or to get out of those old jeans.”
“Don’t laugh.” Natalie concentrated fiercely on her drawing. It had never occurred to her that she and Slade had been critical, but of course they had been—there was so much about their mother to criticize!
“I was lucky in my in-laws, too,” Louise mused, looking down at the book. “Dennis’s parents were reserved, their parents had come over from England. Dennis’s father taught literature at Smith. They were stuffy, but basically kindhearted. They helped us out quite a bit financially. We couldn’t have bought this house without their assistance. We didn’t have to ask. They offered. Lorraine, Dennis’s mother, helped with the children when they were small. They had only the one child, and she was especially enchanted by the little girls.” Louise went quiet, remembering.
