A thought occurred to her, and she twisted her neck to get a good look at him.
"You play this game all the time, don't you? With your landfills and incinerators. Only for you it's the government and the environmentalists and property owners."
"It's almost exactly the same game. But in my case I've got a clock to beat. And when my time runs out, everyone will be powerless. No one will be able to stop what will happen."
The light of the sun dissolved the dark film of night. Shadows faded to gray and hid from the daylight hours as they lay in each other's arms pondering life, the world, and the roles they played in it.
NINE
She was crazy. She knew it. But that didn't stop her from racing across the street on her lunch break to fetch the mail.
"He's only been gone a day, and he called you last night to tell you he'd gotten there safely," Gary said, his ignorance sticking out all over. Clearly he'd never been a mother.
"She knows that," Lu said. She was leaning on her side of the lunch counter, watching with the others as Rose frantically sorted the junk mail from the bills, looking for a postcard from Harley.
When she came across a particular envelope, frowned at it a moment, then finished her useless search and went back to it, she had everyone's interest piqued.
"You didn't find one, did you?" Lu asked, thinking she'd grossly underestimated Harley's attachment to his mother.
"No. Not from Harley. But this one's from the San Francisco Patrons of Fine Arts Ball Committee."
"Well, open it. Open it," was the general accord.
"Oh no," she said, peeking into the envelope before she pulled out four tastefully printed cream-colored tickets.
"What are they?" Lucy Flannary asked, her chin resting on her fists over a glass of cherry cola.
"Tickets to the ball," Rose said, sounding ill. "The Patrons' Ball. Do you have any idea how much these tickets cost?"
"Send 'em back," Emma Motley, postmistress, said. "It's against the law to—"
"Oh, I'm going to send them back, all right." Rose broke in. She was miffed. "I've been telling Justin for months that I couldn't afford to go to this, so he takes it upon himself to send me tickets. Well, I can't accept these. It's too much."
"Wait a second," Gary said, setting his coffee mug on the counter. "Think this through. If he wants you to go so bad, he must think it's pretty important."
"It's not. The whole thing is boring," she said, reconsidering the tickets. "I pawned an arm and a leg two years ago to go. The food was terrible. Justin thought the tea and this ball were the best places to start getting my name out before the Amateur Art Show at Fennway's Gallery in August."
""You're showing your sculptures." It was a half question, half statement.
"Maybe. If they're finished. If they're good enough."
"Then the artsy fella is right," Lucy said, passing down her judgment. "Even vague name recognition is better than no recognition at all."
"And if you make an impression on one or two people and they like you, so much the better when they see your work," Emma said. "They'll say nice things about you, even if they hate what you've done."
Rose's gaze rose to Gary's.
"It's part of the game, isn't it?" He nodded. She filled her cheeks with a deep sigh until the air broke through her lips. She chewed the lower one as she thought it over. Finally she held up one ticket. "Okay. I'll send three of them back and pay him for this one."
"How come he sent four?" Danny O'Brian asked, not all that interested in the conversation to begin with —he was having a Rubbermaid sale and a Craftmaster tool sale and a lawn and garden sale all at once and couldn't get involved right now. But he did see the disparity of sending four expensive ball tickets when only one was needed.
"Maybe he wants you to bring the whole family," Lu suggested with a humorous smirk, as if she were picturing Earl in a tuxedo.
Rose was frowning at the elegant invitations, seeing Justin's error for the first time. Why had he sent four tickets? Maybe there had been some sort of mix-up. Still . . . Harley all dressed up and Earl ...
"Like they'd come," she muttered.
"I'd go," Gary said, his eyes bright with enthusiasm, hinting heavily for an invitation.
Naturally, no one but Rose was surprised to hear that he considered himself a part of the family. Not even now when their dates sometimes ended at eight in the morning.
"Oh no, you'd hate it. I'd never put you through that," she said, beginning to feel uneasy.
"I've been to things like this before," he said. "I even own my own tux."
The two ladies having coffee to his left were more impressed than Rose.
"You'd hate it," she insisted.
"No, I wouldn't. And I can help Earl and Harley rent their duds. Oh! What about a limo? I could rent one for the night. That would be fun. The four of us could make a night of it."
"Oh, right. Earl? As if we wouldn't have to gag and hog-tie him first?"
"How do you know that? Maybe he's always wanted to go to something like this. Have you ever asked him?"
"Well, no, but ..."
"You really ought to ask him," Emma said, nodding judiciously. "Opportunities like this don't come in the mail every day, you know."
"That's true," Lucy added. "And as I recall, ol' Earl was a dasher as a young man. My oh my, I remember him being such a handsome young fella. With those wide shoulders. He'd come in from the lumber camp all slicked back and smellin' fine. . . ."
"Earl?" Rose and Lu asked together.
"Sure. Course, I had my Martin, but your grampa set many a young girl's hearts to fluttering in his time."
Rose simply stared at her for a few seconds before Gary distracted her.
"There, you see?" he said. "You should at least ask him."
She considered it a moment longer.
"What about Harley?"
"A limo ride? A fancy night out in San Francisco? Food everywhere?"
It did seem to be right up Harley's alley. That left Gary. How comfortable would a garbageman be at a snooty ball for art buffs? Of course, in a tuxedo he'd look like everyone else. Better than most, actually. He could pretend to be anything he wanted.
"You don't really want to go to this," she said. "You're just being nice, and you don't need to be. Really. If it's the extra ticket you're worried about, Lu can use it. You'd love to go, wouldn't you, Lu?"
"Actually," she said, noting a tourist at the register wanting to pay his bill, "that's the weekend I asked you to work for me. Jimmy and I are going down to the city. We're doing Fisherman's Wharf."
"Well, that cuts it," Rose said, relieved. "None of us can go. Unless you'd like to go without me?" She was looking at Gary, who was shaking his head and ready to protest.
"You can go. We'll all go to San Francisco that weekend," Lu said, walking over to the register, smiling.
"You're closing the diner? In the summertime? On a weekend?"
What would the tourists do?
"Course not." Everyone waited to hear her idea while she made change for the man. "I'll get Clair Lucus to come in and cook the way she used to, and Harley's little friend, Heather, can earn a little extra pocket money waiting tables. It'll reinforce the importance of a college education on her."
"Oh no, that's crazy. I don't really want to go anyway. And paying extra to have Clair and—"
"It's a done deal," Lu said, breaking in on Rose's excuses. "You go out and buy yourself a pair of red shoes, and let Mr. Talldarkandhandsome here show you how to kick up your heels. This old hole can survive two days without us." She smirked. "You two be sure to get two rooms, now." A pregnant pause. "And make Earl and Harley sleep in the other one."
Somewhere in the middle of the snickers and sidelong glances and bobbing heads, it was settled. One one-hundredth of the population of Redgrove was going to San Francisco for the weekend.
~*~
By the time Harley arrived home the next week—in one piece, a validated mir
acle to be sure—Rose still hadn't found a dress to wear to the ball. All three men in her life disappeared for an afternoon and returned after supper with two rented tuxedos. A traditional black one for Harley and a nattier job with black pants and a maroon jacket for Earl, who, it was told later, had tried on twelve different styles and colors before he found one to suit his personality.
However, the most arresting episodes during this period were the sudden and staggering increases in her tip money; Lucy Flannary's offer to make her a dress despite the short time frame; the special visit from Gladys Ford's daughter, Betty, to loan her a genuine diamond chip cocktail ring that her mother thought Rose might be able to use; and several offers to loan her an antique wedding dress or a worn-once prom gown or a beaded handbag.
It was a strange feeling to look into the eyes of these people that she'd faced in shame and guilt so often in the past, and find nothing but goodwill and encouragement. Odder still was the sensation that it wasn't something new, and yet this was the first time she'd noticed it.
"I don't know what to say," she said, her voice soft with wonder. Lu had insisted she follow her home that night after work There in the uncomfortably neat, clean living room of the little house she owned along the highway, Lu presented her with a cream-colored dream of a dress that glowed with the rich dull shine of pearls and yards and yards of gossamer chiffon that seemed to float more like a cloud than a skirt. It looked like an angel's gown, the thought struck her as tears pooled in her eyes. "It's too beautiful."
"Don't be silly. And don't you cry," Lu said sternly. "It's almost as old as Harley. I let it take up space in my closet because I knew it would come back into style someday; everything does eventually."
"But Lu . . ." she said, not knowing what to say.
“No, don’t but Lu, me. This dress with your pale skin and that red hair of yours . . . mm-mm . . . you'll be something to savor and enjoy. And trust me, because I know men, Gary knows how to savor and enjoy." She paused. "Am I right or am I right?"
Rose lowered her eyes and smiled self-consciously. If the way he made love was an indicator, he did know.
"When did you wear it, Lu? What was the occasion?" she asked impulsively, having never come this close to Lu's past before.
"I never did," she said. She sounded wistful and looked a bit surprised, as if she'd always meant to wear it but never got around to it. "It was a gift. Sort of a going-away gift, I guess."
That was all she said, and Rose couldn't bring herself to pry, though she desperately wanted to.
"Everyone's been so nice," she said, changing the subject to lighten a dark tension creeping into the air around them. "Lucy, Emma, Gladys, Janice, everyone. And now you. I feel like Cinderella with all these fairy godmothers."
Closing the door firmly on her past, Lu smiled. "We love you," she said. Lu had a way of making things seem so simple. Still, there was a moment of caution before she went on. "Emma once told me that she used to watch you growing up. Wild, unkept, uncared for. She said she wanted to steal you away to a safe place and raise you as her own. 'Love you to death' was what she said. That was when I first came here and I didn't know much about you, but ..."
"But what?"
"But she wasn't the only one. Everyone watched what happened to you after your mother died. Knew about your daddy, saw the bruises, prayed for you when you ran away. They knew how you felt when Harley was born and stood back in awe and admiration and pride as you held your head high and did your best to raise him." She hesitated once more. "This town is very proud of you, Rose. Of the person you've become. They want to see you happy."
She left Lu's house a short time later, confused and more than a little worried. It was a lot to take in. All those years of carefully avoiding the expressions on her neighbors' faces, of being too prickly to touch, too proud to approach, too angry and hurt to let herself feel anything else. Had it been an appalling waste of time and energy . . . and life?
All those years of believing that they were looking down on her. Had it been Rose looking down on Rose? On who she was and where she came from, and nothing more than that?
All those years of resenting the meddling and the gossip, designing her life to avoid them, never seeing them as attempts to help or to show concern . . . Had she really believed herself to be so unworthy, so unlovable?
It was easier to see in retrospect. The words, the gestures, the people. She'd known them all her life.
They all enjoyed a good goof-up; they loved to tease one another. But when the chips were down, when one of them was hurt or bleeding silently within, they all felt it. They knew. They rallied and gave support. But she hadn't seen it because she'd been too ashamed, too caught up in her own guilt and humiliation to recognize it.
She lay awake for hours that night wishing Gary weren't away on business. She wanted to share her discovery with him. He'd be back the following afternoon. Would he be able to perceive the new, fragile self-confidence she could feel sprouting in her soul? Would he be able to feel the lightness in her heart she was experiencing? Years earlier she'd laid the foundation of her life on the assumption that love wasn't meant to be a part of it. Would he sense the slow reconstruction taking place inside her? Would he be willing to help?
~*~
The big day was upon them. Lu waved and honked as she drove out of town, Jimmy looking equally eager on the passenger side of the small compact car. The three of them—Rose, Harley, and Grampa Earl—stood behind the plate glass window of the garage with their garment bags and their brown-paper-shopping bag overnight luggage, waiting for Gary to arrive in the limousine. It was raining, of course.
Both Harley and Earl had been to San Francisco before, and insisted that blue jeans, work boots, and filthy high-top sneakers were the things to wear that day if she wasn't going to let them wear their tuxedos until that evening. Rose, on the other hand, was wearing a smart going-to-town business suit.
"Harley, honey, if you belch out loud between now and the time we get back, I promise, I will break your neck. I want you to stand up straight and tall. Watch your language. If you see something you don't like on the buffet table, keep your mouth shut. No one will want to hear you compare it to anything dead, mutilated, or rejected by the body. Did you bring those cigarettes I bought you?" she asked, addressing Earl now. "You probably won't be able to smoke inside the building anyway, but I'd much rather have you doing that than wandering around looking for a good place to spit. You go anywhere near a potted plant, and I'll know what you're doing," she warned him. To them both she added, "And for goodness sake, if they have artwork displayed, don't talk to anyone about it. You never know who you're talking to at these things. Just . . . try to stay out of trouble. Smile a lot. Have a good time."
"Right," Harley said, as if he'd been writing it all down and had very little room for the have-fun part.
Why on earth had Justin sent them tickets? she wondered, not for the first time.
"Oh, there it is," she said, pointing, clutching the garment bag close to her stomach to ease her nerves. "Don't play with all the gadgets, now. It's a limousine, not a space shuttle. You've been in a car before; this isn't any different."
Well, it was a lot different, and Rose was just as tempted to check out the little refrigerator and see if she could get The Beverly Hillbillies on the TV as Harley was. She didn't, however. She sat with her hands in her lap, pretending to be above it all.
It was important that she not appear to be backward or unsophisticated. She wanted to make a good impression. Justin's Art World had certain standards, and Gary was right, she didn't have to approve of them, but she did have to live up to them, or at least seem to, for now.
Thank God for Gary, she thought, sliding her fingers across the plush upholstery to touch his, to feel them instantly taken in strength, warmth, and security. They smiled at each other.
Gary knew the importance of playing the game. He understood it. She thought the limo was a bit much, especially with Earl and H
arley acting like a couple of sightseers. But it certainly was awe-inspiring—and that couldn't hurt.
But when she was ushered into the suite of rooms he'd reserved at the Essex Hotel, where the ball was being held, she knew that not only did Gary know how to play the game, he knew how to play it well.
Still and all, there were the nervous snakes in her stomach to contend with. What if the chic elite of San Francisco didn't like her? What if they found her too dull and small-town to believe she had any talent? What if she accidently insulted one of them? What if she spilled something down the front of her dress? Or worse, down the front of one of the society's preferred? What if she tripped, fell off her high-heeled shoes, and landed flat on her face in the middle of the room?
"You won't," Gary told her, listening patiently to her fears. She had long since driven Earl and Harley from the suite with her constant bedeviling on ball behavior. They'd gone off to explore the rest of the elegant old hotel and left Gary to coax her into a hot, relaxing tub of bubbles. "We'll travel the perimeter of the room instead of cutting through the middle, and if you feel faint or start to teeter on your shoes, you can reach out and hang on to me," he said, teasing her gently.
He was sitting beside the big marble bathtub, sponging warm water over her shoulders. It was scented with some strange but pleasant exotic fragrance, but it didn't seem to be soothing her the way a bouquet of roses always could.
"I'm being an idiot, aren't I?" she asked, sliding lower into the bubbles, letting the water from the sponge flow over her troubled breast. "I shouldn't let anything, but Harley mean this much to me, should I?"
"Well . . . maybe me," he suggested, taking no offense.
She sighed, turned her head to look at him, and smiled in a fashion that both asked forgiveness and agreed with his wisdom.
"What would I be like if you weren't here with me?" she wondered aloud, her voice indicating the extent of the imagined disaster.
Talk of the Town Page 13
