Beads of Doubt (5 page)

I noticed a pickup with a large camper on it pulling into the parking lot, claiming a space very near the walkway. There were other vehicles there, too. And now I saw two women pushing dollies and carrying large cases toward the tent. The beads had arrived.

I hailed several of them as Beth handed me two large plastic boxes to carry. I put my things on top.

“Are people mostly selling beads or finished jewelry?” I asked.

“Both. Roberta Wills will have her Swarovski crystals and Pam and Doug will be bringing beads, but I’m guessing the rest of us have jewelry for this show.”

“What kind?” Beth is not only a dear friend but also one of those incredibly creative women who can take a handful of leftover beads and turn them into a piece of jewelry that the czar of Russia would have fought for.

She glanced at her watch. “Pearls, lots of earrings—oh, you’ll see. I’m hoping I can get everything set up before the party. I already put my clothes in the house.”

Once inside the tent I nearly dropped the boxes I was carrying. A few of the booths were already set up, and one had strings and strings of beads hanging from a black wire rack.

I moved closer. There were lemony-colored quartz chunks next to soft orange citrine and then brilliant green malachite. A woman was digging strands out of a box and adding them to the display. Faceted garnets and tiny chips. Something pink, maybe rose quartz, or rhodonite. I was being hypnotized.

“Kitzi,” Beth called. “You want to bring that box over here.”

“Oh, right.”

She already had a tablecloth down and her other boxes open. As we talked she unloaded and set up several displays. “Here’s a new piece.” She held up a necklace.

“That is gorgeous!” It was made of freshwater pearls in every color. Not just the usual creams to pinks, there were also shades from purple to cranberry to green, blue, and bronze. In between the pearls were tiny seed beads in shiny gold and mauve. “Beth, you are flat unbelievable.”

“Ron was saying that just the other day.” There was such sarcasm and self-deprecation in her tone I wanted to cry. Beth was one of the finest people I knew and one of the best friends. Why hadn’t she married a nice man?

I touched her arm. “That man can be a real jackass when he tries and you know it.”

“He can be a jackass without trying.”

“Yes he can, and I’m glad you finally realized it.”

She sighed and plopped down in a chair behind the table, still bringing things out of boxes and placing jewelry on stands. “Did I tell you that I called Shannan? She can’t decide what to pack for San Francisco. I told her it gets cold at night, and they wear a lot of black, but she doesn’t think she has anything that’s right.”

“Then Ron can buy her some clothes in San Francisco.”

“Maybe I should go home and help her—”

“Is Ron at the house?” I asked. She nodded and I said, “Then it’s not happening. He’ll just say something nasty to make you feel bad, and they’ll whisk off in a whirlwind leaving you to feel terrible.”

“I already feel terrible.”

“But here we have a better class of terrible.” I handed her my own contribution to the booth: phone dangles. I had chosen some really beautiful beads, about seven or eight on each side, and put them on waxed linen, leaving a three-inch gap in the middle. Most cell phones have a tiny hole somewhere that looks like it was made for a phone dangle. A friend just got back from Taiwan and said that everyone had jewelry on their cell phones, and some had dozens of strings of cartoon figures hanging off. I used beads because I like beads.

We had a papier-mâché mannequin and I was hanging the phone dangles on that. We had an instruction card on how to attach them that would accompany each purchase. They were very basic, but they were pretty, and I was donating all the money they made to the Ovarian Cancer Organization.

I had most of them attached when I said, “Beth, I think it would be smart of you to just let go of everything to do with Shannan and Ron. Tomorrow afternoon, if you still want to talk with them, then I’ll man your booth for you.”

“They’ll be long gone by then.”

“Excellent. Perfect timing on my part, again.”

Under other circumstances she might have laughed, or at least smiled, but today I got a sad look. “I hate this divorce. I feel like someone has taken my heart out.” She touched her chest. “There’s nothing left but a hole, and it hurts.”

I could almost feel the ache for her. “I’m so sorry,” I said, putting an arm around her. “I know it’s awful. Even though I wanted my divorce, it still hurt.” Just saying it made me remember what a terrible time it had been. I’d been much younger with two kids and no job. It was one of those step-up-to-the-plate times in my life. I had surprised myself with how efficient I could be when circumstances demanded it.

And it had hurt like hell. I remember dropping my kids off here at the Manse for my mother to babysit and then driving down to Zilker Park where I could cry until I didn’t have tears left. My divorce had not only ripped my family apart, but it had also squashed every ounce of my self-esteem. I went through all the steps of grieving, and during the anger phase I changed my last name, and the kids’, back to Camden. If he had given me even a few dollars of child support that might not have been possible, but he had never gotten around to helping out in any way. As he so graciously pointed out, I was the dead horse, and he wasn’t going to keep feeding me. He didn’t care if his children suffered, either, although that was because at some point, after several of his infidelities, he decided I should forgive him and let him come back. Not only should I keep the home fires burning and care for the kids, I should also put on a happy public front so he could continue to trade on my family’s name. What a son of a bitch and how lucky I was that I had the strength to continue with the divorce.

I looked at Beth, who was wiping away a stray tear. “Beth, I know how much it hurts, but there is one thing you have to remember: it gets better. Honestly, much better. And at some point you’re going to feel like you’re eighteen again with a whole big world out there, and you can do whatever you want in it.”

“I don’t want the whole big world. I want to go home. I want my husband back and my plain life. It was a nice life and I hate this one.”

I remembered feeling just that way. But like it or not, life is always changing. It’s the one constant. Children grow up, friends move away, parents get old and die. Even young friends get sick. And husbands sometimes want divorces. Life is like a river: you can’t stop it no matter how much you want to or how hard you try.

“I have a new saying you’ll like,” I said.

Beth looked up and I could see the tears still in her eyes. “Are you going to try and be funny?”

“No.”

“Okay, then I’ll listen.” She sniffed. “I’ll listen even if you are trying.”

“Oh, well then, maybe I am. Here goes. ‘Everything turns out okay in the end. If it isn’t okay, then it isn’t the end.’ Well?”

“Did you make that up?”

“No, I didn’t, but I can’t remember who said it. Oh, and I have another one. This I did make up, but it’s true. Men always come back. Always. The trick is that if you’re smart, you won’t want them by the time they do.” This time I sighed. “I especially learned that at the craft retreat when Jeb showed up.” Jeb Wright was an old flame who disappeared into the wilds of New York with promises that he’d return, only he never did. Amazing that I still had a crush on that man years after he’d left. Luckily the crush disappeared after I saw him again.

Beth’s eyes went wide. “I almost forgot! We’ve got a cocktail party in”—she looked at her watch—“just over an hour. I’ll finish this. You get ready.”

“I’m just going to throw on something. It won’t take long.”

“No. You’ve worked too hard today. Go take a bath, and wear something wonderful. Oh, I know, that blue dress with the beads on the front.” Back around Easter I bought the dress, which was pretty plain, and Beth sewed beads on the bodice. Not too many, just enough to add some sparkle. “You need to be stunning,” she added.

“And why would that be?” I hadn’t had a date in months. Three to be exact. I had been rather attracted to Nate Wright, who happened to be Jeb’s brother, but we had one dinner before he had to leave for a buying trip that took him practically around the world. I hadn’t heard a word from him since.

It was a disappointment, too, since I’d liked that man.

“It’s because the party is at your house and you are Kitzi Camden. Do you want people to show up and see you the way you are now? No makeup, your hair needs combing, and your clothes . . .” She stopped as if my clothes were too tacky for description.

I was tired. “Okay. See you in the conservatory.”

“With beads on.”

The party was in full swing, although
swing
might be the wrong word since the quartet in the corner was playing something so dreary it could have been used to cure insomnia.

Beth had turned herself out in a sleek navy sheath dress that accentuated her new curves, accessorizing it with a beaded necklace and earrings in lapis and pearl. “I love your necklace, Beth.”

“Thanks. I was working on a bracelet, too, but I ran out of time.” She reached out to touch my bracelet, which I’d made with amber and green crystals, interspersed with leaves. “This is beautiful.”

“One of these days, I’m planning on making earrings. But lately, I’ve spent all my time on the phone dangles.”

“Tell me about it,” she said. I knew Beth had been spending most of her time lately getting ready for the Bead Tea. “It’s a good thing I like my work; there’s been a lot of it lately.”

At that moment, one member of the band hit a particularly sour note.

“Now there’s music you can really tap your toe to,” I said to Beth.

She nodded. “You can’t complain, though. They’re volunteers.” Almost everyone who was working the party, from the caterers to the bartenders, was donating their time.

“Which says a lot for—” I came to a full stop.

Framed perfectly in the entryway was none other than Houston Webber. On his arm was a blonde. A tall, very slender, elegant blonde, which stunned me since his wife Rebecca has curly auburn hair and this woman obviously did not.

Houston paused, the light glinting off his silver hair. He’d have been exceedingly distinguished, except for the furtive look on his face. I could understand why he was looking furtive. These were Rebecca’s friends and he ought to be real damn nervous about escorting another woman. My blood pressure shot up and I charged in that direction.

Luckily by the time I got there the blonde was speaking. “Doesn’t everything look pretty?” She saw me. “Kitzi!” Both her arms went out.

“Rebecca?” I hugged her. “I was about to give Houston hell—I didn’t even recognize you.”

She grinned. “When I started losing my hair I was going to get an auburn wig, but I’ve always heard that blondes have more fun. You don’t see people racing out to get their hair dyed reddish brown. So, here I am.” She did a small curtsey. “Well?”

I stepped back to look at her. With her green eyes she was as stunning as always—they mirrored the dark green Swarovski crystals against her elegant neck. “You look wonderful as a blonde. An Irish bombshell.”

“That’s a new one. It’s fun, though, because no one recognizes me at first. In the grocery store I was in line behind two women from my bead class and they didn’t even give me a second glance.” She twitched at the wig, which was short and wavy. “Sometimes I think I look like a demented secretary, like in the old fifties movies.”

“Not a chance. How are you feeling?”

“Not too hot—surgery and chemo aren’t fun, but they say it seems to be working. And at least I get to experiment with new hair styles,” she said.

I smiled with relief. They’d caught Rebecca at stage II, and after her diagnosis she’d gone through an extensive surgery. According to her they’d taken out everything below the waist that wasn’t keeping her alive or holding her up. A few weeks later she started on chemo. Fortunately, it sounded like the treatments were working.

“But how about you?” she asked. “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing fine,” I said.

“You’ve lost some weight.”

“I have a new exercise program.”

Houston was looking nervous again, glancing at the door and around the room. I started to ask why when he said, “Rebecca, isn’t that Jill from your bead group?” He pointed to a woman across the room. “Didn’t you want to talk to her?”

He moved Rebecca in that direction and she only had time to say, “Talk with you later, Kitzi,” before they were out of sight.

I took a few steps and out of the crowd appeared Andrew, Houston’s faithful factotem. “How are you doing tonight?” I asked, wondering where in the world he’d come from.

“I’m fine.” He was gazing around the conservatory, not so much at the crowd but at the room itself. “This is some house.”

“Thank you. My grandfather had it built when he was governor. During that time the governor’s mansion was badly in need of renovation, so he used this as the official residence while they raised the money for the work.”

It was the standard spiel, but I’d forgotten who I was talking to when I went into it. Since Andrew worked so closely with Houston, he probably had architectural blueprints of the Manse in his coat pocket. Along with Houston’s plans for the place. Condos or some such terrible thing.

“I didn’t know your grandfather built this,” he said.

“I thought you lived in Houston’s hip pocket and knew everything he did.”

“Not lately.” He leaned forward, shaking his head sadly. “We used to work pretty closely, but when Rebecca got sick Houston wasn’t around much and I ended up running the whole company. Houston was trying, but his attention wasn’t on business, if you know what I mean.”