A Promise to Remember (23 page)

"Take a deep breath. That's not my brilliant painting. You can
smell both those things."

She's in a feisty mood. Good. This ought to be easy "Glad to
see you out here painting in the middle of the day, because I
came to talk to you about just that-your painting."

Andie set her brush aside and picked up a rag to wipe her
hands. "My painting? What about it?"

"Took it to an appraiser."

"You did what? You told me you were going to use it for
advertising."

"And I am. But what if we could do even more with it? He
said it was worth close to a thousand dollars. Said you have a lot
of talent and he knew of several galleries that would be happy
to carry work of that quality."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because I've always known it was something you liked to
do and never would take the time to do it. I know that Blair's
never been overly supportive of it-or much of anything you
do for that matter."

" „
He

"Let me finish. I thought maybe if he saw that you could
earn some money for your charities by your hobby, and it would
make you happy in the meantime, maybe he'd quit being such
a...jerk about it."

"He was just raised by an old-fashioned mother."

"You mean a woman who let her husband steamroll her into
whatever he wanted. A woman with no choices, no self-worth.
That's probably what led to her heart attack."

"Christi!"

"True, and you know it. Oppressed women live shorter
lives."

Andie picked up a brush and rolled it between her fingers.
"Well, at least she was good at something. I don't think she would
have approved of me." She dipped the bristles and flecked the
ocean with traces of white foam.

Andie's self-doubts never failed to irritate Christi. Today was
no exception. "If Blair wasn't so critical, you'd know better than
that."

"But he's right. I'm not very domestic."

"That's why you should hire more help."

Andie shook her head. "His mother-"

"I know, I know. `My mother did it without any help, and
there were four of us kids.' Honestly, Andie, how many charity
boards, how many school projects, how many fundraisers did
Blair's mother run?"

Andie shrugged.

"See? Besides, you're good at lots of things. The best listener, the biggest supporter, and the kindest-hearted person
around."

Andie shook her head in her slight way. "All of that is stuff
anyone can do. All it requires is sitting around and listening. I
want to be good at doing something."

"You're terrific at painting. Just look at what you've created
on this canvas."

"But that's worthless. I need to spend my time doing something productive, not playing."

Christi hit back the comment she wanted to make. Losing
her temper now would also lose her point with Andie. "This is
a talent, and it's a mistake to waste talent. I'm going to sell your
painting of the Fair at this year's Fair. It'll bring enough money
to make you rethink your version of playing."

She seems to be considering this. Better get out of here now,
before your temper gets the best of you. "Got some other stops to
make. You think about what I've said."

"Sure."

Christi hopped into her car and sped down the driveway.
When she got to the bottom, she realized Andie hadn't been
wearing her wedding band. Odd. Maybe she takes it off when
she paints.

Andie sat up in bed and rubbed her face. A vague sense of
anticipation began to grow. Something exciting was going to
happen today. What was it?

Oh yes. The Fair. Today was the board meeting.

Since the media maelstrom over the lawsuit had begun to
diminish, she was confident they would decide to move her
back into a leadership position. Yes, today was going to be a
great day.

She strolled down the stairs and into the kitchen. The paper
was neatly folded on the table, a sign that Blair had risen extra
early and gone into work. After a bumpy week, even he seemed
to be back on track.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and looked at the clock.
Forty-five minutes until her favorite spinning class at the gymplenty of time to make it. But somehow she wasn't quite ready
for that yet. The idea of being packed in a close space with so
many watching eyes did not appeal. At all. No, today she would
ride the exercise bike in the den and read the paper.

A few minutes later, she unfolded the paper and started pedaling. After perusing the local and national news, she skipped
the sports as always, then looked into the Life section. She was just about to put it away when some photos caught her eye.
She looked again.

In Vanessa Phillips' pretentious gossip column, Santa Barbara
Chic, the headline for today was "Out and About With the Fabulous People. " Beneath the heading were candid photos of some
of Santa Barbara's most famous and wealthy residents driving
their expensive cars, wearing their outrageous jewels, doing
their extravagant things. In the very center of the spread, there
were two pictures of Andie. One of Christi and her walking out
of Saks with the bags for the silent auction. The caption below
it read, "Apparently Andie Phelps and Christi Baur are taking
matters (and several bags of delights) into their own hands. "The
next picture was of her walking out of church in one of Mattilda Plendor's outfits. The caption read, "Andie demonstrated
heavenly style at church."

The paper shook in her hands. How dare they print these
pictures? If the members of the board saw this before the meeting, her chances were over.

She jumped off the bike and walked to the phone. The white
pages stuck together and seemed to fight her as she flipped
through. At last, she found the number, stabbed it into the
keypad, and waited. The other end clicked after the second
ring. "Vanessa Phillips."

"Yes. This is Andie Phelps-"

"You didn't need to call and thank me. I should be the one
thanking you-for the killer pictures, I mean."

"I didn't call to thank you. I want to know where you got
those."

"You sent them to me."

The dark hues of anger disappeared into bright shades of
alarm. "I did what? Ms. Phillips, I've never seen those photos
before in my life."

"That's odd. They arrived in an envelope last week with
your return address on them. In fact, it was those photos that
prompted the whole idea for that column. Oh well, no harm
done. The article turned out great, didn't it?"

"Those pictures were taken out of context. One was me
carrying donations from Saks, the other was me doing a favor
for Mattilda Plendor. You made it appear that I am having one
big shopping party since my son's death. I want you to print a
retraction."

"I didn't make it appear anything. Those photos were completely unaltered. Mrs. Phelps, if you don't want people to see
you out shopping and wearing designer outfits, then I suggest
you don't go shopping or wear designer outfits. As it is, you've
left yourself wide open. I'm not going to print a retraction of
pictures."

Andie steamed. "Thanks for all your help."

"You're more than welcome." A click sounded at the other
end, and the line went dead.

The phone rang again while it was still in her hand. "Yes?"

"Andie, this is Carolyn Patterson. In light of today's paper,
the board has agreed to postpone the final vote until our meeting in two weeks."

"But that's only two weeks before the Fair."

"Would you rather resign now?"

"I suppose you want to go to lunch again today?" Melanie called
down the hall as she walked toward Sarah's room.

"Yep." Sarah's voice sounded strangled.

She stood at the wall, her fingers tracing the picture of Juanita.
The dark eyes smiled back at her from beneath long bangs.
Sarah sniffled once and shook her head. "She was the coolest
little kid."

Melanie nodded. "I remember all the stories. Sounds like a
real firecracker."

"Yeah."

Melanie put her hand on Sarah's shoulder. "I really do hope
things work out for you to go."

Sarah turned toward her and smiled, her eyes red. °I know
you do." She touched a crayon drawing of kids on a soccer field
and shook her head. "I don't know how I can live with myself
if we don't."

The aroma of garlic and fresh-baked bread filled Lorenzo's
parking lot. Melanie's stomach growled.

"I don't have to wonder whether or not you're hungry." Trish
laughed and rushed ahead to hold the door for the group.

While last week's gathering had been a bit reserved and tense,
this week the women began to feel comfortable with one another.
And with Melanie. They asked after her new job, her recovery
after Jeff, how Sarah was dealing with everything. By the time
they were halfway through their meals, even the subject of the
lawsuit came up.

There were four other women besides Melanie and Trish.
Two were mothers of Sarah's friends, the other two were new
to Melanie.

Rennie Micheel had short brown hair and no distinct features
at all. Not unattractive, not displeasing in any way, just nothing
that stood out. Melanie suspected that she could sit in a room
full of people, and an hour later very few of them would he
able to describe her, or even remember her presence. Melanie
identified with that. She, too, was one of the "invisible people."
At least she had been until the lawsuit.

Margaret Foreman, on the other hand, could only be described
as severe. From her tightly wound hair to the starched stiffness
of her clothes, everything about her looked like the stereotypical "church lady" of years past. Yet, her eyes put off a warmth that
almost seemed gentle. Melanie wondered at the apparent contradiction, and wasn't altogether certain she liked Margaret.

"Did you see those pictures of that Phelps woman in the
paper? Can you believe her, out carrying on like that?" Trish
took another slurp of angel-hair pasta, then continued. "You'd
think she'd show a little more discretion."

Rennie set her fork down and glared toward Trish. "She's not
that `Phelps woman.' Her name is Andie Phelps, and since you've
never experienced her grief, how can you condemn anything she
does? You speak about her like she's not even a real person."

So much for Miss Average. She had a big mouth and put it
in the wrong place as far as Melanie was concerned.

"She's not much of one, if you ask me. A real person, I mean."
Trish looked toward Melanie, obviously gauging her reaction
to this conversation.

She tried to appear unaffected. These women were speaking
their minds. If she gave any sign of being offended, they would
shut down and she would never hear the truth.

"That's not for you to decide." Rennie picked up her fork and
began to twirl pasta.

"You're right, it's not. It's for the court to decide." Trish lifted
her water glass, extending her pinky in triumph.

"Shouldn't be." Rennie stuffed the forkful of pasta into her
mouth and looked away. Her face began to glow with a light
pink color.

Maybe she was wishing she'd kept her mouth shut, about
now. She wasn't the only one.

"Excuse me? And why shouldn't it be?" Trish set her glass on
the table so hard, drops of water splattered the red tablecloth
around it.

"Christians aren't supposed to take each other to court."

"Says who?"

"Paul, in First Corinthians. He said Christians shouldn't take
other Christians to be judged before the ungodly. He said to
appoint men from the church to settle the dispute."

Trish's face flushed red and she nodded toward Melanie, as
if trying to remind Rennie that she was present. "Well, times
were different then."

Margaret smoothed an imaginary stray hair. "Besides, the
Phelps family doesn't attend a church. They attend a country
club. Have you ever seen that place?"

Although Melanie had been uncertain of how she felt about
Margaret before, she now sized her up as a sister. Yep, this was
a woman she wanted to get to know.