LimeLight (30 page)

Still, I don’t think he minded having a somewhat youthful-looking woman on his arm in those days. Oh, certainly no one would’ve called me a trophy wife at that stage of the game. But I don’t think he was ever ashamed to be seen with me either.

I look at the stack of letters and wonder how much I can take. Already I am filled with a mixture of feelings. A part of me is slightly chagrined that Gavin was so open and honest with my mother. But another part misses Gavin more than ever, regretting how much I took for granted…how much I completely overlooked. Gavin really was a good man.

I read through a few more and am relieved that they don’t delve too deeply into personal or painful things. Oh, there are glimpses of his sorrows and disappointments, things he tells her that he never told me. Or maybe he did tell me; maybe I just wasn’t listening. The next letter fills me with both anger and guilt.

I refold the letter, return it to its envelope, and wonder how my mother reacted to this confession. How did she answer his questions? Still, based on history, I’m sure I can make an educated guess as to her response. Gavin never did confess to me that he loved Gala more than me. Not that I didn’t know this already. And yet he didn’t remove her photos either. Somehow I’m sure this was upon the advice of my mother. Suddenly I feel enraged at her. What right did she have to interfere with my marriage like this? What had ever made her an expert in marriage? or relationships? or even love, for that matter? And why on earth did Gavin turn to her for marital advice?

I am too angry to continue reading. Instead, I go to my room, and upon seeing the mess that’s still there, I start throwing clothes and shoes and magazines and things around until it
looks even worse. Then I just stand there, staring at the chaos of my creation, and I begin to cry. What is the matter with me?

Slowly, I go around, picking up the items I have so carelessly slung about. I throw some things away, hang some things up, fold others, make a pile of clothes that need laundering. I even remember the laundry baskets and put them to use. Eventually, other than my unmade bed, which has not been made since Michael left, the room is back in order. I feel pleased with my efforts, so I take it even one more step. I will change the linens on my bed.

Naturally this takes much longer than expected. And it is thoroughly exhausting. But finally, close to midnight, I am done. My bedroom looks almost as nice as it did the first time Michael showed it to me. The only thing missing is the vase of pink rosebuds he had placed on the bedside table. Proud of my work, I carry the used sheets to the laundry room and set them on the washer. That can wait until tomorrow.

Hungry from this evening’s unexpected exercise, I decide I should make myself a late-night snack. I look in my refrigerator, trying to decide what to have…and then I remember how sometimes, back in the earlier years of marriage, Gavin and I would have a late-night snack. Usually it was much later than this, more like three in the morning. Gavin would whip up what he called a “scrambled omelet,” because he didn’t know how to make an official omelet. He would take out a bowl and stir up a bunch of eggs, adding things like shredded cheese and chives or
mushrooms. Then he would melt butter in an omelet pan and stir them over the heat until they were done. I think it’s time for me to attempt something like this.

I slowly go through the steps of chopping and shredding and breaking eggs, thinking of how Gavin did this and that. And it’s odd, but it almost begins to feel as if he is here with me. Perhaps he’s looking over my shoulder as I stir this yellowy mixture in the pan, unsure as to whether it’s actually going to turn out to be edible or not. And then, presto, it begins to cook and slowly gets thicker until finally I can tell it’s done. I’m so excited at this success that I feel like a child. I giddily spoon some of my scrambled omelet onto a plate. And then I remember seasonings. Gavin always added salt and pepper, and so do I. Then I pour myself a goblet of orange juice and sit down.

I hold up my glass in a toast, saying, “To you, Gavin,” and then I eat. To my delight, it is rather good, and I eat every bit of it. Perhaps not as good as Gavin’s, but it’s a beginning. I’m just finishing up my juice when I smell something burning. I look over to see that the stove is still on and the omelet pan is smoking. I turn off the element and move the pan. Oh well, at least I didn’t go to bed with it like that. I didn’t burn down the house. Not yet anyway. As I get ready for bed, I wonder how long it will take for me to get good at this. Or is it even possible?

I sleep in quite late, but I believe it’s the best I’ve slept since moving to Silverton. Perhaps one of the best night’s rests since Gavin died. It’s almost noon when I get up, and I feel
surprisingly refreshed as I put on my dressing gown and slippers. Then I go check to see that the other heaters are still running. While it’s not as cold in here as yesterday, it’s still a bit nippy, and I can tell that the oil furnace is going to be a necessity if I am to survive this winter.

Thinking of the oil furnace reminds me of my suspicions regarding my sister yesterday—my
What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?
theory. It seemed very real to me at the time, especially considering my dire straits and Violet’s antagonistic attitude toward me. However, I am not so sure today. It’s possible I overreacted. Still, I don’t mind if the police look into it.

Thankfully no one is beating on my door this morning. Then I remember that today is Thanksgiving and people are probably busy getting ready to spend time with family and friends. How many, right now, are cooking up calorie-laden foods? How many are preparing to gorge themselves on turkey and stuffing, raising their cholesterol levels with too many helpings of mashed potatoes and gravy? Well, good for them. I don’t mind missing out on this occasion.

Besides, I tell myself as I make espresso, I did have two invitations. Caroline—not Violet, of course—invited me out to McLachlan Manor, and then Irene invited me to her house, telling me I could change my mind if I liked. However, I don’t believe I will change my mind. For some reason, that seems a bit pathetic. It would be like admitting to her and everyone there that I’m lonely. And although I have done almost everything
possible to humiliate myself these past few days, it’s about time to start drawing the line.

I rather relish the idea of being in my house today. Only twenty-four hours ago this place was a house of horrors. Now it feels peaceful and somewhat orderly… My goal is to keep it that way. After a light breakfast, I wash the dishes from yesterday and today. Then I put a load of laundry into the washing machine, and as Irene advised me, I’m careful not to overload it. After that, I take more of Irene’s advice and go over my lists and even make a new one. Things I will do tomorrow.

But by midafternoon, I feel a bit out of sorts. I try not to think about other people, those who are gathering with friends and family right now. Perhaps there’s the sound of a ball game playing in the background, the tinkling of glasses, the ringing of laughter, pumpkin pie with whipped cream for dessert. I long for some distraction from these thoughts—a television, some kind of chatter or noise to fill up the quiet space of my small house. But there seems to be no escape. I suppose there’s no getting around this.

I am lonely. And I feel a fool for declining Irene’s invitation.

So what if she or her friends make the assumption that I’m lonely? Why am I such an old fool? Lonely. Old. Fool.

O
n Friday I attempt to call my accountant again. This time I listen a bit more carefully to the recording to discover that his office will be “closed during the holiday and won’t be open again until Monday.” I don’t leave a message this time. Instead I slam down the receiver. What right does Jackie have to tie up my funds until Monday? For all he knows I could be starving, freezing… Come to think of it, wasn’t that nearly the case? I had really been hoping to have some funds transferred up here so I could get a few groceries today. Unfortunately that doesn’t appear to be possible.

I go over my lists again. I call the heating oil company and am informed that an order for oil has already been placed by a woman from Senior Services and that a delivery truck should be by later today. Then I decide to pay a visit to the local bank. At least I can open an account and have it all ready for when I speak to Jackie, which I hope will be Monday.

Once again I dress carefully. I suppose I’m hoping to impress the people at the bank. After all, I may have to ask them for a loan or something to temporarily get me by this little financial dry spell. It’s hard to believe that I have less than seven dollars to
my name at the moment. I look at the art on my walls and remember what the Senior Services volunteer said about selling something. And then I remember there is that art gallery by Maurice’s restaurant. Perhaps they would have some interest. I think I’ll pay them a visit as well.

My stop at the bank is disappointing. Not only am I unable to discuss a loan, since their loan officer is gone, but I cannot even open an account. “You have to have
money
to set up an account,” she tells me as if I’m a simpleton. Goodness, I don’t know when I’ve suffered such humiliation—publicly anyway. So I crisply tell the ignorant girl, who is dressed in blue jeans, of all things, that I am waiting for funds to arrive and that I simply want to get an account in order to have a deposit made.

“Perhaps I shall look for another banking establishment to handle my financial affairs.” I hook my purse strap over my arm and make a hasty exit. Unfortunately that bank is the only one in town. Still, I hope I’ve worried her a bit. As I get into my car, I wish I’d mentioned something about speaking to her manager next week when my funds do arrive—perhaps that would’ve put that disrespectful upstart in her place.

Feeling slightly more desperate than when I set out this morning, I drive on up to the Phoenix Gallery, park my car in front, and go inside. Classical music is playing, and there is a good smell in here—a combination of oil paint, pine trees, and something else—coffee perhaps. Although the building seemed small on the exterior, it feels spacious inside with its high ceilings and wooden floors. The lighting for a small gallery seems well
done, and the selection of art, while slightly minimalist, isn’t half bad. Especially for a small town. Of course, I don’t recognize the names of these artists, but the quality of the work, much of it abstract, contemporary, and modern, is something I wouldn’t be ashamed to hang on my own walls. Although a recognizable name on the canvas would make the prospects more tempting. Not that I can afford to purchase anything right now.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” says a man who appears to be fortyish. He has a goatee and short-cropped dark hair. “Anything I can help you with today?”

“I’m new in town,” I begin, thinking that’s not exactly true, but I don’t care to explain my roots to someone I don’t even know. “I heard about your gallery and I thought it was time to come see it for myself.”

He smiles and extends his hand. “Welcome to Silverton. I’m Garth Rawlins, the owner of the Phoenix.”

I nod with appreciation. “I’m Claudette Fioré, and this is a lovely little gallery.”

“Thank you. Where did you relocate from, Ms. Fioré?”

“Southern California…”

“Ah yes, well, then this must seem like a very small gallery to you.”

“But it’s marvelous for Silverton. I was actually quite surprised to find the town has an art gallery at all.”

“So what brought you to Silverton?”

I quickly explain that I grew up here and have returned to my family home. “I think I’ll appreciate the slower pace,” I say,
getting more and more comfortable with my little white lie. “It’s nice to be able to walk to town… And I feel safer here… although the weather seems a bit extreme.”

“It’s not usually this cold.”

“I noticed you have a good selection of contemporary art,” I say. “I don’t recognize the names, but they seem talented enough.” Then realization hits me. “Oh, did you say your name is Garth Rawlins?”