LimeLight (32 page)

Just as I’m about to tell them it’s a deal, I hear someone walking on the porch. Goodness, I hope it’s not Busybody Bea. She should be getting home soon. “Excuse me.” I go to answer the door. To my surprise, it’s Irene.

“Hello,” she says warmly. “I’m sorry to intrude like this, but I don’t know if you’d gotten your phone hooked up yet. And
besides, I don’t have a number, but I wanted to stop by and ask you—”

“Come in, come in,” I say, knowing that I will appear rude if I keep her standing on the porch. “I have guests, but you are—”

“Hey, Irene,” Garth says as she enters the room. “Good to see you again. We sure had a great time at your house the other day. Thanks again for including us.”

“Garth and Celia?” Irene looks at them and then curiously at me. “I didn’t know you all were acquainted.”

“We just met yesterday,” I explain.

“Come join us.” Garth pats the sofa beside him. “We’re discussing art.”

“Would you like some coffee?” I offer.

“No, thank you.” She sits next to Garth. “But I might take a piece of that shortcake. I have a weakness for it.”

“Of course.” I pass the plate to her. “So, you are all friends?”

“Yes,” says Irene. “Garth and Celia were part of my Thanksgiving gathering. Celia made the most incredible yam dish. I didn’t think I liked yams…but she’s changed my mind about that.”

I feel a twinge of regret for not going to Irene’s for Thanksgiving. Why was I being so stubborn? Or perhaps I was just being too proud. “I’m thinking of consigning some of my art to the Phoenix.”

“Yes,” says Garth. “Isn’t it exciting? If we had artists of this
caliber in the gallery, we could probably get some good media coverage.”

“What a wonderful idea.” Irene looks at me. “But I’m surprised you want to part with your paintings. They look so wonderful in here.”

“Well, she might be willing to work a trade,” Garth says happily. “Not straight across, of course. But she likes my art.”

“In fact,” I tell them, “I was just about to sign these contracts.”

“Don’t you want to go over them carefully?” asks Celia.

“They seem to be in order.” I don’t mention my fear about my own lack of insurance. “I don’t see any reason to delay this. Besides, with Christmas around the corner, you might want to get something going right away.”

“You know, the Christmas parade is two weeks away,” says Irene. “That Saturday could be the perfect time for an exhibition.”

“Yes, and that would also give us enough time to get out a press release,” says Celia.

“And, if you like, I could let you borrow all my paintings for that evening’s exhibit,” I offer. “Perhaps for the following week as well.”

“We could promote it as a one-time-only event.” Celia writes down notes.

“Perhaps you could talk Page’s friend Audra into playing violin.”

“That’s a great idea, Irene,” says Garth. “And we’ll serve wine and cheese.”

Soon they are all spouting ideas, and I take the contracts into the kitchen and skim them once again. Then I sign each one and return the folder to Celia.

“This is so exciting.” Celia signs her portion of the contracts and hands me back my copies. “It will be our biggest event ever.”

“And Claudette will be our guest of honor,” proclaims Garth. “Our personal patron of the arts.”

“Well, you should at least ask her,” says Celia. “She might be busy or not want to be involved—”

“Of course, I want to be involved. I’ll do whatever I can to make this a huge success. In fact, I could contact some of my art friends in the Los Angeles area. Come to think of it, there were a number of people who had coveted some of Gavin’s finds over the years. Maybe they’ll want to come up here.”

“Well, we have a lot to do,” says Celia. “I want to work on the press releases.”

“And I’ll get the van to come back and pick up the contracted paintings,” says Garth. Within minutes Garth and Celia are gone.

“How exciting,” says Irene. “Garth and Celia are such dears, but it’s been an uphill battle operating an art gallery in Silverton.”

“Maybe that’s about to change.”

“I came by to invite you to the Festival of Trees,” says Irene.

I try to think why that sounds familiar and remember that
horrid morning, only days ago, when my sister and friends came to invite me to this very same event. Just the thought of it brings a sour taste to my mouth. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Are you sure? I’ve heard it’s rather nice this year.”

“Yes, but thank you for thinking of me.”

Irene smiles. “You seem to be getting along well, Claudette.”

“Thank you. I am doing my best. But I’m afraid that I’m still not caught up. I have some laundry to do as well as some other household chores.”

“Well, perhaps we can do something together next week,” she suggests. “Even if it’s just coffee.”

“Yes, that would be nice. Perhaps later in the week.” Hopefully I will have some money by then. I give Irene my phone number, hoping she might take this as a hint and call first instead of just popping in unannounced. I am growing very weary of unexpected visitors. Perhaps I should put a sign on my door: Occupant Will Be Seen by Appointment Only.

“Oh, another thing,” she says as she’s about to leave. “I wanted to invite you to church tomorrow.”

I take in a breath. “I don’t think so, Irene. I’ve never been much of a churchgoing person.”

She laughs. “Yes, I figured as much. But perhaps you’d like to come to our women’s book group. It’s a very casual gathering of some interesting women. Page Turner leads it. We’re doing a Christmas novella for December.”

I consider this. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course.”

As Irene drives away in her funny minivan, I wonder why I am so hesitant to participate in new things. Am I truly such a snob? Do I really feel I am superior to these people? Or is it something else? I remember when I lived in this town before, so many, many years ago. How I tried to keep myself apart from people during my youth as well. I think, in all honesty, I did this as a self-preservation tactic. I didn’t want anyone to get close enough to see what my home life was really like. I didn’t want to be teased for the fact that my father was a lush…or that my mother washed other peoples’ laundry to feed her children.

Certainly I was aware that people knew these things. After all, Silverton was a small town. Even smaller than it is now. But I think I convinced myself that if I could hold people at bay—keep them a good arm’s distance away—I could avoid the sort of intimacy that would lead to humiliation. Because, even as a child, I detested humiliation.

Thinking of these old things reminds me of my old best friend Caroline. She was the only person I ever allowed myself to get close to as a youth. And even then I held back some. But we did have some good times together, and I would actually enjoy seeing her again. That is, if I could erase the gruesome image she must still have of me from that frightful morning. I’m just not quite sure how one eradicates something like that. Perhaps it’s better to let this friendship go. Or maybe in time, say six months or so, I might make an effort to spend time with her again.

I wish I could say the same for my sister. I am still greatly peeved at Violet, and I’m not sure that I’ll feel differently in six months or even six years. Oh, I doubt she was really involved in a conspiracy against me. I probably blew that out of proportion. And I cringe to think of the accusations I made against her. The police most likely came to their own conclusions. Thankfully I didn’t attempt to press charges.

What irks me most about her is the way she has treated me over the years…as if I am to blame for everything. I always feel as if she holds things against me. And yet they seem to be invisible things, for I am never quite sure what it is I’ve done. I chalk it up to jealousy. But you’d think that one could set such pettiness aside at our age. Still, I’m afraid we’ll take it to our graves. I suppose that makes me sad.

By Saturday evening I have something else to feel sad about. Garth arrives with his van and packing blankets and removes the paintings I contracted for consignment. He promises to bring his paintings to my home after Celia writes contracts to cover them as well, but in the meantime my walls look rather stark and bare. Particularly in the living room. I did not know I would miss the paintings so much.

I go to bed early, taking the bundle of Gavin’s letters with me. I’m not sure if I expect these letters to bring comfort and relief or if I am just setting myself up for more torture. Nonetheless, I sit in my bed and read, picking up where I left off, shortly after Gavin told my mother about my jealousy of Gala.

Well, I’m not quite sure how to take that last letter. I suppose I could see it as a veiled compliment, although that’s a bit of a stretch. And I’m afraid that I must admit that Gavin was only speaking the truth—as he saw it anyway. Naturally I would have thrown a fit if I’d read his letter back then. I would accuse
him of being disloyal and mean. Yet, somehow, I feel I can handle it better now. In a way it’s like taking your medicine—it’s bitter, but you hope that it’s good for you.

There are similar letters of contemplations and musings, and some that seem written simply to cheer up my mother. Once again, I am reminded that Gavin really was a good man, a kind man…a man I took for granted.

By eleven o’clock, I’ve worked my way up to 1998. Just a few years before Gavin’s death. To my surprise, it seems my mother has experienced some sort of personal revival and, perhaps because they are both in their nineties and facing their own mortality, they both seem to be openly speaking of God. This doesn’t surprise me in regard to Gavin, since I do recall a change in him in the year before his death. But for some reason it surprises me about my mother.

My eyelids refuse to stay open, and I set the bundle of letters aside, turn out the light, and consider Gavin’s family history. I never knew any of that. I suppose I never even asked. All I
knew was that his family was a bit old-fashioned and lived in Connecticut. The one time we went out to visit, while on our way to New York, Gavin’s father had long since retired. I had assumed from business. I didn’t feel very welcome in their home, and we only stayed for a few hours. But now it makes a bit of sense.

I can hear Gavin’s hurt in that letter. I can imagine the young man who wanted to please his family but couldn’t. I suppose in some ways I can relate to him. I never felt as if my family gave me the recognition I deserved for escaping the humdrum existence in Silverton. They never seemed to fully appreciate that I had made it in the bigger world.

In fact, I often felt judged and condemned, especially by my sister. As if her choice to go to college, become a teacher, and raise a family was morally superior to my lifestyle. My mother never said as much, but I suspected that she didn’t completely approve of my choices either. It wasn’t until shortly before she passed away that I began to feel a sense of acceptance from her. Now I wonder if Gavin didn’t have something to do with that as well.

It is all too overwhelming to think about tonight. My brain is tired and weary. Perhaps I will think about it some other time.