In a way which she hoped was friendly and confident despite the knots in her stomach, Annabeth smiled at the woman "I wanted to show you these," stammered Annabeth, then gaining more courage, she continued, "To sell." She set the bags down at her feet, reached down and pulled out a couple of the small items and set them on the counter.
"Hmm," said the woman noncommittally, which inspired Annabeth to remove a few more pieces and offer them to her. "Interesting," was the comment, and Annabeth continued piling her work on the counter. "Do you have a price list?"
Annabeth swallowed hard. A price list! "They're all one of a kind. I planned to price them individually."
"That's fine." The woman offered Annabeth her hand, saying, "I'm Maud Bullock."
Annabeth relaxed a bit then, shaking her hand and replying, "Annabeth Welner. So nice to meet you."
"And you're the artist?"
"Yes, I painted them all."
"Let's see, what do we have here? Two dozen pieces."
"Actually it's twenty-eight items. But I'll be painting more."
"We won't be getting busy for Christmas gifts until after November, of course."
Thinking this was a rejection, Annabeth nodded, smiled, and picked up a couple of items to return them to the bag. "Oh, I understand."
Placing her hand on Annabeth's arm so the pieces remained on the counter, Maud continued, "But I could buy a few now. If the price is right, of course."
"Oh. Well, that's great."
"This wooden compote, for example. How much is this?"
Annabeth did some fast calculations. She had paid six dollars for it at the flea market. Becky said anywhere from double the original cost up, plus time and materials, but surely that was too much for these, so hesitatingly Annabeth said, "Twelve dollars."
Maud reached under the counter for a pad of paper, then began rapidly jotting down the prices as Annabeth quoted them. "And this?"
"Oh...fourteen."
"And this?"
"Nine."
They continued like that for a while until each item had been priced by Annabeth.
"Well, let's see. That's three-hundred and thirty-six dollars. For everything."
"You're certainly good at math," commented Annabeth, completely unsure of the accuracy of Maud's addition, but not wanting to appear rude by asking her to check the figures with a calculator.
"Suppose we make it an even three-hundred?"
"You mean you want them all?"
"It's a big risk for me, of course, but I want to help you out. Encourage you to keep at it."
It wasn't hard at all! Annabeth left the store with the cash in her purse, feeling a bit sad that her adventure was being cut short by the fact that she had nothing left to sell and no need to call on any other stores. She drove toward home then, running the figures back and forth in her mind. Three hundred dollars...that was one-hundred-thirty-two profit. Amazing.
Later that week, she sat at her dining table with Becky to deliver her sketches.
"Oh, Annabeth," Becky exclaimed, "They're all just beautiful. This is real art, not silly craft designs. You ought to have a coloring book of your own. Or greeting cards. Or a calendar. I bet lots of craftspeople would want to copy these sketches. Even if they could think up ideas of their own."
Annabeth smiled at Becky's effusion. "Thanks. I'm so happy you like them. I was afraid they were too ordinary."
"Ordinary! They're charming as can be. Have you given any more thought to coming to the next show with me?"
"I went on a selling trip. Sold everything to the first store I went to. Made a-hundred-thirty-two bucks profit."
"That's great. How many pieces?"
"Twenty-eight."
"All the same?"
"All different. Flea market stuff. This and that, you know. I did what you said--doubled the price. There were supposed to be three-thirty-six, but the woman bargained me to an even three-hundred."
"And you added in the cost of the materials and ten dollars an hour for the labor?"
"What? No. I didn't think the woman would go that high."
"How do you know? Did you give her a chance to say no? Anyway, your things should be more. They're one of a kind, not all the same. They're treasures. Of course you have to sell cheaper to a store than you would at a show. But you could play it by ear. Shop around, make comparisons. That's what I thought you were going to do, not go off and sell everything right away like that."
"So you think I was wrong to do it?"
"No, of course not. I just want you to get what they're worth. Well, in crafts we never get what our things are really worth, but at least you should get as much as possible. After all, a-hundred-thirty-two isn't a lot for two weeks work."
"The woman seemed pretty fair to me."
"Well, if you're satisfied, then that's all right. But I hope you'll come with me to the show."
Annabeth nodded. "Okay, sure I will."
"Here I am telling you to get what your things are worth and I'm paying you five bucks a drawing." Becky shook her head. "I feel guilty. I'm cheating you. At least I'm only going to Xerox them, not take the originals."
"Oh, go on. Take them. I can always do more."
10
Annabeth set aside a dress she was finishing for Julie then walked to the bedside table and opened the tin where she kept her knick knack profits. It held less than three-hundred dollars because she was now busy painting more pieces and paying for them without selling any. And that included the money from Etta. Five weeks work and three-hundred profit. It hardly equaled income enough to save her house. But Becky said she undercharged. How was she to determine what her pieces were worth? Surely those little local shops couldn't afford to pay the sort of prices Becky described. Annabeth pondered the situation, then thought of the gallery she had visited with Laurel. They charged respectable prices, in fact, they seemed to overcharge. Reaching for the phone, she dialed New Orleans information.
Trying to sound self-assured, Annabeth spoke into the phone, "Hello. May I speak to the manager, please."
The voice that replied was a sophisticated, effete drawl, cultured and certain of its own superiority, "This is Mr. Paris Landry. I'm the manager. How can I help you?"
"I'm interested in selling some pieces to your gallery." Annabeth was amazed at herself. She actually sounded confident.
"What sort of pieces?"
"I do hand-painted designs on various knick knacks. Bowls. Recipe boxes. Letter holders. Small pieces of furniture."
The voice became more nasal and supercilious as the conversation progressed. "What other galleries feature your work?" he asked.
"I've only just begun to sell. Although I have sold my pieces to a couple of local shops."
"I see. What is your price range?"
"Well, I'm still trying to determine that. So far it's been about twenty-dollars for the smaller items. More for things like rocking chairs."
"Have you ever been to our gallery?" Landry's voice made it clear that he was barely tolerating Annabeth and her overtures.
"Yes, it's lovely."
"Yes it is. Then you must surely realize that we don't offer much in the low-price range, or knick knacks at all for that matter. We sell objects d'art of the finest caliber."
Annabeth heard the scorn in his voice, and realizing how foolish she was to be calling such a place, replied, "Yes, of course."
"We do see artists and their work, of course. Generally on Thursday and Friday. And we review portfolios. You could always drop yours off." The tone in his voice made it clear that he doubted Annabeth had any such thing at the ready. "You are local?"
"No, I'm in Gull's Perch. My daughter lives in New Orleans."
"How nice for her. Now I really must go. Feel free to drop off a portfolio anytime."
"Yes, thank you." Annabeth sighed as she lowered the phone into its cradle. A portfolio. Not that Mr. Paris Landry would have any real interest in seeing such an item even if Annabeth possessed one. It wasn
't a bad idea--from now on she would take pictures of her pieces before selling them.
There was no sign yet of fall, there in early October, and the ice cream counter was as busy as ever. When Grady Hawkins walked in the door, Annabeth knew that it was quite possible that he was searching for a snack to relieve the heat, yet still she tensed up. There had been several customers each hour, and two sat at the counter now. Grady nodded to them in a way that made Annabeth wonder if he knew them, then walked all the way to the other end of the counter, forcing Annabeth to follow him.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"Annabeth!" he said in a voice that sounded deeply wounded, "Is that any way to greet an old friend?" He bestowed on her his most dazzling grin.
Feeling more and more tense, she managed a shy smile and asked politely, "How are you? How's Doug?"
Ignoring the mention of his brother, Grady replied, "I'm just fine. In fact I've been thinking a lot about you. But of course you knew that."
"What?"
"You can't give a guy a sizzling kiss like the one you gave me and not haunt his memories."
Annabeth blushed, remembering that scene in the auto dealership. Not knowing how to reply to Grady, she remained silent. When he reached his hand out to capture her own, she automatically stepped back a pace, eluding his grasp and causing him to frown.
"You're an interesting woman, Annabeth. Feminine yet sexy."
Annabeth looked around to see if anyone had heard his comments. "Excuse me," she said, and began to walk toward the other end of the counter where a young mother waited with her toddler for some ice cream.
Unwilling to let her go, Grady asked, "What about my order?"
"Yes?"
"Chocolate shake. And dinner tonight."
Annabeth shook her head as she escaped his demands. What was he after from her? A guy like that--a football hero--it didn't make sense--what could she ever be to him? She waited on the mother and her child, prepared Grady's shake, then placed it uneasily in front of him. "That's a dollar-sixty-five."
Instead of sipping through the straw, Grady dunked his tongue into the shake, while staring lasciviously into Annabeth's eyes. Licking his lips, he said, "Mmm, cool and sweet."
Once again Annabeth escaped, this time to wait on a couple of teenagers, who ordered cones and took them out of the store. She prayed that Grady would leave. He made her so nervous, although she didn't understand why. If only Charles would come out, but he remained behind the prescription counter, busily counting out pills.
"Annabeth." His voice was deep and filled with self confidence.
Once again she walked to where he sat. "A dollar-sixty-five," she repeated.
"How about a hot fudge sundae?"
"You're kidding." Suddenly filled with nostalgia, flooded with a memory of her husband on the night they met, Annabeth drew in a deep breath. R.J.. She sighed for the past that was so long gone, for her youth, and for the chances that would never come again.
Grady continued, "I'm not going to give up. It's only a dinner you know. You'll enjoy it."
Annabeth looked down at her feet, up at the ceiling, out the window and down the street. Anywhere but at Grady. She searched in her heart for the answer to this whole situation. Grady's motives were unfathomable to her, and she didn't wrestle long to uncover them. Her own hesitation was obvious. She was a married woman. Annabeth winced at the irony. "I'm sure you're a wonderful person," she mumbled, although she was not sure of any such thing. "I'm just not ready to date anyone. Though I appreciate your offer."
There was a bewildering look of determination on his face as he replied, "I'm not giving up on you, Annabeth." Taking a five-dollar bill from his pocket, he left it on the counter, then reached over to touch Annabeth's hand. "I'll be back."
She watched him turn to walk away, then said, "Wait."
He turned to face her as she said, "Let me give you your change."
Once again he smiled at her. "I want a lot more from you than change for a fiver."
She watched him stride out of the store, graceful and sure of himself, still the athlete, still the predator. Annabeth pressed her hand to her stomach, and feeling a bit queasy, she sat down on the little stool that stayed behind the counter. Imagine that. Dating. Dates. Kisses. Sex. How could she possibly cope with that? She sat and pondered the future until the next customer came in to rouse her.
"How do you have the time to do all that?" asked Charles Gleason during his usual afternoon ice cream break. He was by now in the habit of sitting at the counter chatting with Annabeth when Debbie took her lunch break, particularly if he were running the store without his son.
"Oh, I don't know. I get up early, shop for unusual things to paint or work on what I've already collected, come here, and then when I go home, I paint for a few hours at night. I keep hoping that being so busy will help me lose weight," Annabeth laughed.
"I think you look perfect the way you are. You know, Annabeth, I really admire you. You've been so brave to start over, and you never complain. And now you're working so hard here and with your painting."
She smiled back at him. "I didn't have a choice. And besides, it's a lot less lonely to keep busy. Helps me forget the whole thing while I'm painting."
"Starting over can be a good thing, I think." Charles always looked toward Annabeth with a certain degree of yearning, something she couldn't quite understand.
"That's what everyone tells me."
He glanced carefully around the drugstore, and in seeing it empty of customers, he continued in a lowered voice. "There was a time about ten years ago when I was going to leave Sara."
Annabeth squinted slightly, thinking of another middle-aged woman with her life turned all topsy-turvy, but she remained silent, allowing Charles to continue.
"It was the worst time in our marriage. We had nothing left to say to each other. The kids were gone. The zip was gone." Here his voice grew even softer, "I strayed. Found a woman who was interesting. And interested."
Annabeth looked at Charles as he spoke, but it was impossible not to focus on her own feelings as well. That's probably what R.J. thought. But she never stopped being interested in him, no matter what he thought. Feeling that it was rude not to comment, she asked, "What happened?"
"I struggled with the whole thing for a long time. Finally I realized that I couldn't sneak around any more. I decided to leave Sara. Only the other woman was fed up by then and she dumped me. Maybe it was for the best. Sara and I had a lot of time invested in each other."
"That's true, you did. Continuity is very comforting."
Charles nodded. "I guess." He smiled, "You're a good listener, Annabeth."
"Thanks."
He rose then from his stool as a young woman entered the store. Annabeth cringed as she noticed who it was. Linna!
"Excuse me," she said in her little girl whine, "Where are the pregnancy tests?"
"Right over here," said Charles, leading her to the back of the store.
Once more Annabeth sank back onto the stool behind the counter as she watched her husband's girlfriend search for something that she herself would never need. Her heart began to pound, her head throbbed, and her stomach clenched into a knot that seemed permanent. She had to face facts. Never again would she be with R.J.. That part of her life was over. It really was time to move on. How many times did she need to have this realization? In how many different ways had she seen that what used to be would never be again? Sorrow settled over her like a fog, and although Annabeth wanted to be cheerful, she couldn't.
She plodded through the rest of the afternoon, waiting on customers, smiling, wishing for all the world that she could sink through the floor into oblivion, that the pain that wrenched at her would finally subside. The later it got, the wearier she felt until it became almost impossible to lift her feet and walk from one end of the ice cream counter to the other. The thoughts ricocheted through her mind randomly and nowhere did she find peace. She worked constantly and had so li
ttle to show for her labors. Thousands to pay R.J. and thousands more in debt to a bank--if she could pull it off and that seemed unlikely. She'd never be able to save her home. And why did she need it anyway? She was all alone, and therefore not in need of a three-bedroom house at the secluded end of a bayou. Surely a one-bedroom apartment would serve her needs. R.J. would have to pay her alimony--what did they call it now--maintenance. What a joke. And she could quit this job, concentrate on painting knick knacks, so superior-acting people like Mr. Paris Landry could mock her efforts. Another joke. And then she could be free to date exciting men like Grady Hawkins. A bigger joke. What was it about him? Was she the only suitable kidney donor for him in the state? Surely he had an ulterior motive. R.J. Welner, a man on whom she had lavished nothing but devotion for twenty-five years didn't want her, and he was overweight, out of shape, and nobody's idea of a great success. Why would a football hero be so crazy to date her? On and on the thoughts pounded at her, the ridicule generated by her own mind leading her deeper and deeper into depression.
Pressing her hands to her throbbing temples, she sank down onto the stool behind the counter. Resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands, Annabeth was immobilized. Could this be the flu? What difference did it make? She felt like weeping, but that, of course, was out of the question. Knowing that were she to allow herself the luxury of even one tear, the rent in her heart would split further and she would have no way to control the flood of emotions that would engulf her. So she sat, frozen on the stool, wondering if she were ill, unable to rise and ask if she could leave early until it was no longer early and Charles came out from behind his window and locked the front door.
He turned to speak a few words to Annabeth, then spotted her, locked in deep distress behind the ice cream counter. "Are you all right?" he asked kindly.
A Change of Heart Page 14
