Hungry for Love (70 page)

The salesgirl came over then, smiling in a friendly way, and asked, “Can I help you?”

“We were just admiring your things,” answered
Laurel
.  “I love this cabinet.  My mother paints furniture like this.”

“Oh no,” answered Annabeth, “I could never do anything as good as this.”

“Your things are just as good as this.  And you paint inside the cabinet as well as on the outside.”

“Yes,” agreed the salesgirl, “That’s a nice touch.”

“Look at this,” said
Laurel
, holding the price tag up for Annabeth to see.

“Wow!  Expensive.”

“We have more pieces from this artist over there,” said the salesgirl, pointing toward the corner of the store.

Laurel and Annabeth smiled at her and then continued browsing.  Each treasure deserved a comment, a sigh of admiration, and then they resumed their stroll outside, where there were more windows to view, more shops to investigate, the wonderful aroma of haute cuisine beginning to fill the streets.

“This is the best lobster bisque I’ve ever tasted,” said Annabeth, once they’d selected from among the many restaurants offering tantalizing menus in their windows.  “The food here is so much better than at home.”

“Yes, the food here is fantastic,” agreed
Laurel
.  “See—aren’t you glad you came?”

“Yes.  It’s wonderful to be here with you.”

Laurel
worked long hours, and after the first couple of days she resumed her social life, leaving Annabeth to the painting job she had come to do.  Each morning she rose early, and after making breakfast for them both and seeing
Laurel
off to work, Annabeth set about her task.  With each brush stroke she agonized; this wasn’t some flea market junk she could just toss if it didn’t turn out, and the worry that she could mess up
Laurel
’s apartment stayed in the back of her mind.  Each day after she’d painted part of what she envisioned, she would take the plain white paint and blank it out.

By the fourth day,
Laurel
spoke up.  “What’s the story here, Mom?  Every day I come home and smell paint but there’s nothing been painted.”

Annabeth blushed, swallowed hard, then confessed.  “I’m just not good enough.  I get started and then look at it and I can see it’s crap and know your landlord will sue you so every afternoon I paint over what I have and start from scratch then next day.”

“Mom!  I may have to throttle you.  From now on, leave what you paint until I come home and look at it, okay?  And then if it’s crap, I’ll help you paint over it.  Promise!”

The next day Annabeth was tempted once again to white out her paintings, but because of her promise to
Laurel
, she kept on working, kept pushing through the fear that her paintings were horrible until she reached the point where she could stand back and view them in a stage of relative completion. They weren’t bad, not bad at all, and Annabeth could finally see that she hadn’t messed up.

On the old wooden kitchen cabinets she painted vivid scenes from nature, Sweet Peas in three delicate pinks clustered on stone paths, violet Morning Glories entwined around gnarled trees, serpentine brooks bubbling through overgrown emerald meadows as tiny children chased jays and cardinals swooping up from the earth.  In the window seat, Annabeth painted something simple, vines starting at the floor and twisting subtly, their tendrils curving in toward the window, clustered with faintly colored blooms. At the base of the window seat below the glass were masses of Jasmine bushes, their tiny blossoms an echo of the actual plants blooming outside on the terrace.

In the bedroom,
Laurel
asked for a mural on the wall behind the bed, and so Annabeth created a scene of mountains giving way to a waterfall which coursed down a rocky ledge.  Above the hills, the sun rose, radiating reds toward the sky and creating glints of pink reflecting in the pool that lay at the base of the waterfall. 

It was a more ambitious project than Annabeth had undertaken before, but her confidence was building and each day it grew easier to work without worry. Each morning she painted for hours, feeling herself being pulled into the scenes she was creating and in their creation being healed of her worries.  In the afternoons for a few hours she would change out of her paint dappled clothes and roam the streets near
Laurel
’s place, absorbing the city air and the atmosphere that was so different from Gull’s Perch, her lifelong home.

The French Quarter was absolutely off limits as far as Annabeth was concerned.  The ancient buildings, so charming and picturesque compared to most of the rest of the city, had a strange lure, but all around the Quarter lurked a sense of imminent danger, abetted by the constant warnings of those working there to be cautious, to go in this direction rather than that, to watch out for strangers.  The rest of the city seemed safer, although Annabeth never quite felt comfortable there. 

One afternoon, she strolled past the New Orleans Art Institute.  She recognized it immediately; this was the school she’d wanted to attend. Annabeth entered and followed a sign toward a gallery of student exhibitions.  She wandered through the big hall, slowly taking in each entry, stopping to read the small white cards posted beside them, noting students’ names, and then moving forward toward the next.  These were real artists, kids with real talent.  They would finish school and go out into the world, be painters, movie directors, who knew what?  It was thrilling and the possibilities were endless.  Maybe she should have pushed harder to come here, should have made more of a commitment to it.  Back on the street, Annabeth walked along, deep in thought.  Yes, she could envision herself back at school, and even if she were much older than the others, so what—she could stay with
Laurel
and become an artist.

Still imagining this scene, she stopped to gaze into a store window for just a moment, and when she turned to walk away there was man, slick and seedy looking, whose nearness she hadn’t even sensed, his hand reaching for the zipper of her purse.  “Hey!” she said involuntarily and jumped back, causing him to dart away.  “Oh my!” she pressed her hand to her throat, her heart pounding.  This was a scary city. It was wonderful to visit
Laurel
and to see her every day, but there was no way she could stay in
New Orleans
; it was just too scary.  She must have been crazy to consider it. 

Annabeth had hoped during this trip she would see her future, that maybe there was something for her, something as
Laurel
had said, of her own.  But as much as she loved being with her daughter, she missed her home and missed her husband.  That was where she belonged, not here in this scary place.  It was odd.  R.J. traveled most of the time, but she was used to expecting him back, used to planning her time around his arrivals and departures, and Annabeth missed that, missed her own life, and even though she didn’t know what she’d find when she got to Gull’s Perch, Annabeth was relieved that soon she could return to the safety of her home. 

When the painting was completed, they sewed the curtains and made a moss green velvet slipcover for
Laurel
’s old couch.  At a flea market they found an antique iron bed, which was ornate, but peeling and rusted, something they repaired easily.  What was old or discolored they lacquered white or sometimes a robin’s egg blue.  And on top of the old tables and squat bookcases, they draped lengths of fabric, sometimes sheer scarves and sometimes lace, trimmed with ribbon. 

“Oh Mom, it’s so beautiful,”
Laurel
enthused.  “These are the best paintings you’ve ever done.”

Annabeth blushed at the praise.  The paintings were good, and the apartment did look beautiful.  She hadn’t messed it up at all.

*

There was such a comfort in coming home, being in her house once again, feeling it all around her and herself safely inside it.  The two weeks she’d spent at
Laurel
’s were the longest she’d been away from the house since they’d moved in.  Now there was such a sense of joy in her at being back, even though the house was much too silent and she was lonely.  She yearned for R.J. and wished each day that her life was back the way it used to be, that her husband would be coming home to her as he used to do.  He had done something awful, had hurt her terribly, but she loved him still and missed the only life she’d ever known.  She could forgive him, forget the hurt, move forward with him, if only he’d come back.  Was it so terrible that she felt this way, that she wanted to preserve the status quo?  Didn’t most people want that?

Sally’s party was coming up and Annabeth threw herself into the work of planning for it.  R.J. loved parties, and he would be there.  She’d lost a little weight while in
New Orleans
and she had two new outfits—a pink party dress and some gray silk palazzo pants with a matching knitted top.  This would be her opportunity with R.J.

When Maggie, Sally and Annabeth sat down to discuss the menu, she began offering suggestions in as confident a manner as she could, thinking all the while of
Laurel
and how she would handle the situation.

“Jambalaya?” asked Maggie, flashing a look that said Annabeth must have lost her mind.

“And what is that again?”  asked Sally.

“It’s this Creole rice, you know,
New Orleans
rice.  It has tomatoes and lots of spices plus shrimp and chicken and sausages.  It’s elegant yet simple, and it’s easy to make in big batches,” answered Annabeth.

“Oh yes, I love that,” remembered Sally.

“I planned to do the sort of party food we always make,” said Maggie, “Ham and a turkey.  There are lots of people coming.”

“That sounds good.  I just thought some Jambalaya would go with it.  I brought back all the spices with me,” said Annabeth in what she hoped was a firm manner, without being too pushy.  “It’s just really important to me that we make this party special, that the food is interesting and that it all looks good.”

“I know what you’re doing,” said Sally, “You’re trying to impress Daddy and win him back by making this extra special stuff.  I get it….”

“When did R.J. ever notice anything but the beer,” asked Maggie.

“I have to try, don’t I,” said Annabeth, “So just please go along with me on this.”

“Okay, sure,” conceded Maggie.

“Look at this recipe for chocolate mousse cake—fantastic—huh?” continued Annabeth, hoping the enthusiasm in her voice would be catching.

“I was going to make my chocolate sheet cake,” said Maggie, scowling slightly.

“You can never have too much cake,” interjected Sally.

“I thought you’d make a platter of cookies,” continued Maggie, looking at Annabeth.  She had never sounded so indefinite before.  Annabeth should have stood up to her more often.  No wonder R.J. found her so dull; she never pushed for her own ideas and she was more creative than Maggie.

“Well I could do that, but wouldn’t it be fun to try some new things?”

“Are we going to have my stuffed mushrooms for appetizers?” asked Maggie.

“Oh!” enthused Annabeth, “We could stuff them with crawfish étouffée, or spinach soufflé.  Or we don’t have to do that.  We could use the stuffing you usually make.”

It had gone well.  Annabeth had done most of the planning and they had come up with a very good menu that promised to be much more interesting than the usual party fare they prepared.  Annabeth began shopping and cooking right away, tucking into the freezer whatever could be prepared in advance.  Her trip to
New Orleans
had been expensive and now with all the shopping for the party, the money in the checking account seemed quite low; R.J. hadn’t made a deposit in a long while.  She could make a withdrawal from the savings account, but they’d both agreed not to touch that money.  It wasn’t a very romantic reason to call her husband, but at least it was something important.