Buttoned Up (3 page)

Slack-jawed is not a good look for me.

I froze—yes, slack-jawed—and stared at Evangeline just long enough to see those gorgeous green eyes of hers go wide with horror. I didn’t know the secret, and she’d let it slip from her lips. The poor woman was mortified!

Not nearly as much as I was.

I couldn’t have been paralyzed for more than a second or two, but it felt like a lifetime. Every muscle tensed except for my stomach, which was twitching like a son of a gun, I finally forced myself to pivot toward Nev, and in that one moment before the emotion took over and swamped me like a tsunami, I was more curious than anything else. What would I see registered in his blue eyes? Embarrassment? Anger? Indifference? What excuse would he offer for keeping this huge piece of his past from me all this time?

I never had a chance to find out.

Before either Nev or Evangeline could open their mouths again—and before I could close mine—a hand grasped my upper arm and a voice I recognized from phone calls (not to mention that argument that had echoed through the church just a little while earlier) drowned out the thrumming of my blood inside my head.

“There you are, sweetheart! Why, you are as cute as a spotted puppy under a red wagon, just like I knew you’d be. I been lookin’ all over the place for you.”

“Forbis.” How I managed to say the name when my mouth was filled with sand, I don’t know. I’m also not sure how I pulled off a smile. Apparently, it wasn’t as anemic as I feared because Forbis beamed back like a lighthouse.

We stood eye to eye, me and Forbis, and he was stick-thin and seventy-five if he was a day. The publicity photo that appeared on his website and on the back of the exhibition brochure had been taken by a pro, that was for sure. It somehow managed to downplay his prominent nose, the large ears that didn’t lay anywhere near flat against his head, and his flapping jowls.

“You got my button, don’t you, darlin’?”

“Button?” Even to me, my voice sounded as if it came from the depths of some deep, dark cave. Not acceptable. Not in public. Not when the Button Box’s reputation—and mine—were on the line. I shook myself out of my daze. “Of course I have the button,” I told Forbis.

“Perfect red button,” Forbis said, with a look toward Nev and Evangeline as well as the rest of the crowd that had gathered around now that the guest of honor had finally made his appearance. “This lady here . . .” He patted my shoulder. “If y’all ever need buttons, she’s your go-to girl!”

I appreciated the publicity and smiled at the crowd. Notice I said
the crowd
. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen when my eyes finally met Nev’s so I made sure I didn’t look his way.

“Root beer barrel?”

When Forbis stuck something in front of my nose, I flinched and hoped I didn’t look as weird cross-eyed as I was sure I did with my mouth hanging open. When my eyes finally focused, I realized it was one of those old-fashioned hard candies that looks like a brown barrel and is flavored like root beer.

I declined. With the knot of emotion in my throat, I was pretty sure the combination of root beer flavoring and sugar would not yield pretty results.

Forbis unwrapped the candy and popped it in his mouth. “Can’t get enough of these things,” he told me. “Morning, noon, and night. I’m pretty sure it’s what keeps me so sweet.” He winked.

Corny, yes, but truth be told, I was glad. If I thought about corny, I didn’t have to think about getting bushwhacked, and if I didn’t have to think about getting bushwhacked, I could pretend—almost—that everything was fine and my world hadn’t just turned upside down. Some of the tension melted from my shoulders. This time when I smiled at Forbis, it didn’t feel as if my face would crack. “Would you like to see the button?” I asked him.

He nodded, and looked at the crowd. “Gonna have to skedaddle!” he told them. “A surprise is a surprise, and I ain’t ruinin’ this one. Go on. Shoo!” Coming from anyone else and aimed at a gallery crowd—which, let’s face it, can sometimes live up to its snooty reputation—this might not have gone over well. But Forbis was so darned cute with that Southern drawl—I’d bet a dime to a donut it wasn’t so much fake as it was exaggerated—and wearing a gray suit that was a little too baggy, he was the picture of the eccentric and lovable artist, and nobody had the heart to argue.

The crowd that surrounded us drifted away, including Evangeline and Nev. Last I saw of them, Nev took a second to glance over his shoulder at me. Was that regret I saw in his eyes? Or was I being as imaginative in my own pathetic way as Forbis was when it came to buttons?

“So . . .”

I snapped back to reality to find him tapping one foot against the stone floor. He was wearing sneakers. The big, ugly expensive kind. Royal blue high-tops with neon orange laces.

Forbis sucked on the root beer barrel in his mouth. “Let’s see that there button!”

I reached into my purse and took out the box I’d brought along with me from the shop and he lifted the little red button from the bed of cotton where it had been swaddled and held it up to the light. “It’s a beauty! Perfect for finishing my work.”

I looked over his shoulder toward the exhibit. “And it’s going . . . ?”

Forbis chuckled. “You’ll see, sweetie. You’ll see!”

“You ready, Forbis?”

A man joined us and Forbis handed the button back to me. “Told you I’d take care of this myself,” he grumbled without a glance at the man.

“You did, and I said that wasn’t acceptable and promised I’d help, remember?” The man stuck out his hand for me to shake. He was middle-aged, with a round pleasant face, doughy features, and thinning hair. “Richard, Richard Norquist,” he said by way of introduction. “I’m Forbis’s agent. We . . .” He glanced toward Forbis who was looking down at his sneakers and grinding his root beer barrel between his teeth. “Forbis and I appreciate your help.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” I told him, but when I glanced at Forbis to see if he appreciated the comment, he was still looking down at his shoes. No doubt, the atmosphere had changed since Richard joined us. I wondered why, and then I wondered about that argument we’d overheard earlier.

Right before I came to my senses and realized it was none of my business.

“Buttons are my business,” I told them and reminded myself. “And Forbis, your use of buttons . . .” Once again, I allowed my gaze to drift over the exhibit. I didn’t pause—well, at least not too long—when I saw Nev and Evangeline with their heads together near the vudon ceremonial drums. “It’s all amazing,” I said, and even I wasn’t sure if I was talking about the news Evangeline had just dumped on me or Forbis’s work.

“He’s a genius.” This cheery commentary was provided by Laverne who scampered over to join us. She put a hand on Richard’s arm. “Need proof? Over there.” She looked over her left shoulder toward a man who’d just walked in and was looking over the brochure.

He was tall and though I am not inclined to exaggeration, I will admit that my first impression was this—gorgeous. I mean, really. Hair the color of the night sky. A face that was all planes and angles. A sense of style that told me that while he might attend art shows, he wasn’t one to go along with the crowd; he was the only one who’d come to the black-tie-and-suit affair in faded jeans that hugged every muscle of his body and a black T-shirt with the name of a rock group called Silverlights emblazoned across the front.

“Gabriel Marsh.” Laverne whispered the name. Or maybe it was a sigh because like me, she had an appreciation for true perfection when she saw it.

“The journalist?” Richard’s shoulders shot back and he turned to look at the man. “We have attracted attention,” he purred. “Marsh only writes about the crème de la crème, and he usually doesn’t bother with regional shows.” He tugged his suit jacket into place. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go introduce myself. That is, Forbis . . .” When he turned toward the artist, Richard’s smile was tight. “If you don’t mind.”

“Knock yourself out,” Forbis told him, and once Richard walked away, he added, “Please.”

No doubt Laverne felt the tension, too. That would explain the smile that froze on her face in the moment before she shook away her bewilderment. “Are you ready to get started?”

Forbis looked at me.

“Say the word.” I slung my purse over my shoulder, the better to hold on to the box with the button in it. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Forbis was ready, too. Or at least he was once he grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing server. He took a gulp and Laverne climbed the one step that separated the body of the church from the main altar area.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she made a graceful motion in our direction. Not at me, of course, but to focus attention on Forbis. “This is Forbis Parmenter.” The crowd applauded and Forbis grinned like a schoolkid who’d been kissed for the first time. “And he’s going to do something that I understand is a little unusual in the art world. You see, the exhibit in front of you . . .” Again she motioned, this time toward the strange collection of vudon artifacts. “You may not have realized it as you looked around, but the exhibit in front of you isn’t quite finished. It’s going to be in just a moment. And the artist himself is going to finish it while you watch.”

I guess that was our signal because Forbis poked me and started toward the exhibit. I followed one step behind, not exactly sure where we were headed. When he finally stopped in front of the big box with Congo Savanne inside, I whispered a silent prayer. I hoped the one button he wanted to place wasn’t on the statue. No way I wanted to get that close to the terrifying thing.

Lucky for me, the one blank spot in that whole sea of buttons was on the front of the box and now that I had an idea where to look, I found it pretty easily. A bit of bare wood showed through the sea of buttons, and it was exactly the right size and just the right shape to fit the button I carried. The red plastic button would be at the center of a flower, and the surrounding petals were shades of orange and gold. I couldn’t help myself. From back behind the velvet rope that kept the gallery-goers from getting too up close and personal with the artwork, the buttons had been fascinating. But this close . . .

I pulled in a breath of pure wonderment.

This close, and surrounded by so many thousands of buttons, I will admit it, I was in button-lover’s heaven!

Forbis took another sip of his champagne and said a few words to the crowd about what he called his “artistic process” and the lightning flashes of inspiration that led him down the button path to begin with. While he was at it, I took the opportunity to revel in the riot of buttons. There was a yellow glass button just below where my red one would be placed, and I recognized it as a moonglow, one of those charming buttons manufactured in Europe in the middle of the twentieth century that’s made of light-gathering satin glass and topped with clear colorless glass. When moonglows are done right, the results are ethereal, and this one was no exception.

But it was the button just to the right of where my little red plastic gem would spend the rest of its life that really caught my attention. Was it ceramic? As casually as I could so as not to draw attention to myself, I leaned nearer. Certainly ceramic, and handmade, too, from the looks of it. This ochre-colored button was marked with what looked like shaky alphabet letters and I itched to get closer to see what they said. I promised myself when the ceremony was over, I would ask Forbis for permission to study the button more closely.

“Button?” Forbis held out one hand, and I had no choice but to pay attention. I removed the red button from the box and dropped it into his hand, and with another sip of champagne to mark the occasion, he held out the button, back side up.

And waited.

I wasn’t sure for what until I saw Richard scramble away from Gabriel Marsh’s side, a tube of contact cement in one hand. He dabbed cement on the underside of the button and backed away.

Then we were ready.

Forbis leaned closer to the box to put the button in place, and after that . . .

Well, I’ve thought about it a lot since that night, and I still can’t say for certain what happened first. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Not as much as the fact that all the color drained out of Forbis’s face and he jerked back as if he’d been zapped by an electric line. That’s when the champagne glass slipped out of his hand and shattered on the marble floor.

“Forbis?” Automatically, I stepped forward, my hand out to steady him, but by that time, it was already too late.