All About B.A.D. (9 page)

Dear Bernadette,

I can’t imagine you as plump! Send a picture so I can see for myself. It is difficult that I’m not there to share one of the most important events in your life. I bought a book about the stages of pregnancy so I’d at least have an idea of what you are going through. Nothing like the real thing but I’m following along month by month.

I’m enclosing a copy of an article from
The Community Voice
– check out the byline! My first real piece in newsprint! And more exciting news: the syndicate that owns the paper offers a handful of its interns a two-year scholarship to community college. Paul, remember he’s my boss, submitted my name for one and I was accepted. I can still work and if I keep my grades up can possibly parlay it into a degree from a four-year university later on. I’ve had to pinch myself to make sure it’s not a dream. Back to community college in the fall!

Guess that’s about all from Lone Grove except for one tidbit of news. Guess who is now a male model in New York City? Bubba Henderson has signed with Ralph Lauren. He is now Carlos Enrique. You called that one exactly right!

Be well.

Lilly

The woman plopped her hunk of tuna on three leaves of lettuce. She counted the low-salt crackers and squeezed lemon in her glass of water. She picked up one of the many community newspapers owned by the corporation. A circled date on the calendar and the distraction of reading kept her sane and on track. Ten pounds before April 22. “Clamor for Glamour”—catchy title. The reader enjoyed the writer’s humor and candidness at being apprehensive, hopeful, frightened and eventually empowered as she was pulled and pushed into a new wardrobe and a different frame of mind.

How many women dreamed of becoming a more vibrant, attractive, self-assured person when passed through the hands of professionals in a bankrolled weekend? Touting inner beauty as praiseworthy, didn’t society bombard women with the how-tos for changing their outward appearances? Six magazine pages of great desserts were usually followed by twelve on weight loss. Weren’t we always greeted with endless counters of cosmetics when entering large department stores? Ads extolling long-legged women with flowing tresses reached out from mall windows. The promised allure from perfumes pelted us from magazine inserts, and there was an ever-growing list of cosmetic surgeries available. 

Feeling confident without all those trappings happened for some, maybe most, but for others—those willing to admit it—the dream, the hope of a fantasy transformation lay just below the surface. 

The reader thought of the three weddings, the college reunion and the bar mitzvah scheduled for that spring. Gliding into those twenty pounds lighter in a slinky black dress with lots less grey in a new hairdo was the mental image stashed in her consciousness and the reason she was able to eat one more bite of tuna. “Clamor for Glamour” resonated with her. The question was: would it touch the nerves of others? The reader jotted down the name on the byline. The evaluation sheet carried high marks and the comment to keep Lilly Beth Pease on their radar screen.

~~~~~~~~~~

If he noticed any difference in her behavior or attitude, it was never mentioned. She would have preferred him to be short-tempered, surly, dismissive, curious about her absences. He was none of those. He was as easygoing as ever, kind as always, encouraging to a fault. In fact, his attitude was permeated with a certain cheeriness. Whether it was due to the increased number of subscriptions or the idea of a third baby, Paul was more likeable than ever.

Lilly skirted him and the emotions he invariably created in her as much as possible. Her new schedule helped. The beginning of the fall semester allowed fewer hours for spending time in the newsroom in the evenings. She missed it, especially since she had tasted a bit of success with an article that had run in the new “Fresh Perspectives” column in the
Community Voice.
“Clamor for Glamour”, describing the before and after experience in Houston, was a hit with both the office and subscribers. Betts and Carrie urged her to do a follow-up piece. Lilly thoroughly embraced the challenge—thrived on it. More mental space occupied by one thing left less room for another. 

The house was impressive: a dare against any force nature hurled its way. Nothing about it spoke of defeat. Even its shroud of white was a challenge to the elements constantly stroking or bombarding it, depending on the whims and temperament of the Gulf of Mexico. Its concrete hardness was softened by curved corners and lush vines edging their way up on all sides. Its size alone should have condemned it to garishness; instead, the mansion stood in stubborn splendor.

Bernadette tugged at Josh’s arm. She had to stop. Lumbering up endless stairs was proving to be arduous. All of this wealth, where was the elevator? Catching her breath, she unconsciously patted her stomach.

“Maybe we should have suggested meeting at Brad’s,” Josh said.

Bernadette breathed in deeply. Salty, humid air filled her nostrils and lungs. Her chest heaved and she took another step up.

“I’m fine. It’s just that walking around tables and climbing like a goat are totally different. Payne says I need the exercise. Besides, it was a nice drive out here. And just look at all of this! It goes on forever!”

The formidable hike allowed a visual survey of a perfectly landscaped yard professionally arranged to present an off-hand appearance, all well defined by waving palm trees and oleander bushes. Varying colors exploded from an array of tropical flowers, their scents in competition with hitchhiking odors traveling on gusts from the beach.

Reaching the massive mahogany entrance, Josh pulled a silver knob, setting off a musical announcement. Panels of glass flanking the entry afforded them a quick glimpse inside, where sunlight popped through shutters casting long fingerlike shapes across wooden floors. When the door opened, they were met by a tall, striking figure with an engaging smile. The woman was neither plain nor beautiful, but wonderful to look at. Grey streaks shot through chestnut hair held in place with tortoise shell clips. She wore a loose-fitting dress that was clasped to her hips with a belt of silver and turquoise. Cherry-red toes peeked through sandals the exact color of the stones in her belt. Her invitation was quick and chatty.

“Please, come in. I’m Mattie Bertan. My dear, if I had known you were expecting, I would have told Tom to direct you to the entrance with the elevator. Are you all right? Please, come and sit down.”

Bernadette flashed a smile at Josh and followed their hostess into a cavernous living area with an expansive view of the Gulf of Mexico. The room was alive in chaotic order. Pottery, glass, oils, watercolors, deep cushions on soft sofas, everything jostling for attention. The woman floated through it, leaving behind a wake of calm and whiffs of Chanel.

“Come sit here. You’ll be comfortable and won’t have to struggle to get up.” 

Bernadette was led to a straight-back chair with upholstered arms and seat.

“You must forgive the disarray. I’ll bring you something to drink?” 

Josh and Bernadette nodded at what was more a statement than a question.

“Good, good. We do appreciate you driving out to meet with us. Mr. Bertan is on a conference call and will join us shortly.” She left on what BAD figured would be a long trek for drinks.

Bernadette turned to Josh. “Not bad. Where are the stables and tennis courts?” Magazines at Pop Walker’s had formed Bernadette’s ideas of the wealthy.

Josh smiled and continued looking around the room with shades of amazement. He had seen similar
objets d’art
in large museums. Price tags dangled from many of the pieces which ranged the gamut from fire sale to Guggenheim.

“Quiet a collection—very eclectic.”

Their hostess returned with a pitcher emblazoned with pink flamingoes filled with a liquid the color of periwinkles. Eyeing Bernadette’s condition, the woman assured them that the drink contained no alcohol. She poured it in icy glasses and handed one to each of her guests. 

Their hostess swept her hand around the room. “We are in the process of readying and moving into our new store.” It was an explanation, not an apology. “In the meantime, I’m able to enjoy it all.” 

“Do you have a gallery in town?” Josh was familiar with most of the island’s gallery owners and importers.

“No, this will be our first. We are quite excited about it. It is always hectic getting things up and running, but we both like the challenge. We will mostly feature local artisans. There is a wealth of talent in the area. But I’m certain you know that, Mr. Donahue.”

“I’m Josh—”

Before he could finish, Tom Bertan strode into the room. He walked over to Mattie, lightly bussing her cheek, then turned to his guests. “Sorry I’m late. Thank you for coming. I hope you didn’t have any problems finding us.”

“No, not at all,” Bernadette said. “Your directions were excellent.”

“Good, good. Now, Mr. Donahue, how much has my wife told you?”

Bernadette shot Josh a look. His smile said it would be up to her.

“Actually, Mr. Bertan, I’m B. Donahue. Miss Bernadette Ann Donahue. This is Joshua Court, my friend, teacher, and today, my driver and agent.” 

A momentary hush stretched across the room before Tom Bertan continued.

“Miss Donahue, accept my apologies. I made some poor assumptions.”

“That’s okay, I understand. Mr. Court is the artist responsible for my work being in
The Phoenix
.”

“You are a busy man, Mr. Court. And you, Miss Donahue, are a young woman with a lot of talent. Nothing changes for me except the person I address.”

“I guess that would be both of us then. I trust Mr. Court’s opinion.” She took another sip of the tangy punch, hoping to sound more experienced and look less pregnant than she felt.

Getting to the point, Tom Bertan laid out his plan. “Mattie and I are opening a gallery on the island in the very house captured in your watercolors, Miss Donahue. We bought it a few weeks ago. Renovations have already begun, with an opening date around the first of the year. This is really Mattie’s project. She is in charge of interior design and purchasing. I’m mostly responsible for the nuts and bolts financial part. We make a good team.” Tom Bertan patted his wife on the arm and smiled before resuming his explanation. “When we saw your painting of the house, we decided we’d like to make it the logo for the gallery. If you agree, we’ll have it printed on our business cards, advertisements, open house invitations…you know, that kind of thing.”

“And,” Mattie chimed in, “we would like for you to be our first Artist in Residence. Part of the upstairs will be built out as an apartment, with the studio space downstairs. Your living expenses would be paid while you are with us. Of course, we understand the difficulty of swapping studio spaces, and the hassle of moving for a few months, but we would be responsible for all the details. You’d simply need to supply us with a list of your needs.”

“We could have our attorney draw up copyright and permission documents once we agree on financial terms.” Tom Bertan paused, letting his words settle in the room before finishing his proposition. “What do you say?”

Bernadette’s head buzzed; she seemed unable to form cohesive thoughts. Several seconds of quiet elapsed as she struggled to put meaning to the multitude of sentences offered in a short span of time.

It was Josh who finally answered. 

“Mr. Bertan, this is quite an interesting proposal. Sounds very exciting. I know I’d like to talk it over with my star client.”

His words gave Bernadette time to find her voice.

“Mr. Court is right, Mr. Bertan. This is a lot to think about and I will have to do just that.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Tom Bertan said, managing to stifle his impatience. It was obvious he preferred immediate answers. “Please, do that. It will take time to have papers drawn up, invitations printed and all the preparations that go along with an opening. Just let us know as soon as possible.”

“And of course call if you think of further questions,” Mattie added. “You have my number?”

“Yes, we do. And thank you. I’ll,
we’ll
, be sure to call if we do.” It was all Bernadette could muster before Mattie Bertan gracefully guided them to the elevator.

It was several miles from the Bertans’ when BAD spoke again.

“Josh, was all of that real or am I going to wake up and be severely disappointed?”

“Oh, it was real all right. And a good offer. I think you should start figuring out dollar amounts and how you would like to be an ‘Artist in Residence’. If you’d like, I’d be glad to help you with some of the details.”

A loud sigh filled the car. “I was urgently praying you would say that. The only decision I feel capable of making at this point is how fast you should drive to the café so we can tell Payne the news.”