It was beginning to dawn on me that I'd been more than a little forgetful lately. I hadn't remembered to tell the police about Sylvia Costa's feud with Eric until seeing her neighbor, Jack, had jogged my memory, and the Roadrunner's Christmas party hadn't been on my radar, either, until Susan mentioned it.
Although I was aware that my financial woes had been weighing on my mind, I hadn't realized how much. I'd have to make a concerted effort to press on with my art career, despite the fact that December was shaping up to be a disappointing month sales-wise.
I reminded myself that my family would soon be with me to celebrate Christmas and that Brian would be home before New Year's Eve. I didn't want my concern over money to put a damper on our holidays.
Much as I hated to put everyday expenses, such as groceries or utilities, on my credit card, I'd very likely have to do that sooner, rather than later, despite my balance's creeping closer to my credit limit. Even though I'd known making my living as an artist would come with normal ups and downs in sales, adjusting to living with the reality of a roller-coaster income was more difficult than I'd ever imagined.
Unlike Lieutenant Belmont, who wouldn't be going home from the reception hungry, I'd been busy helping Rebecca, and I hadn't eaten anything there. My rumbling stomach reminded me that I'd skipped lunch, too, not something I often did, so, by the time I arrived home, I was ready for dinner, and my pets were more than happy to eat a little earlier than usual. I treated myself to a slice of the chocolate meringue pie for dessert and didn't worry about being too full now that I'd traded my navy suit and tights for pajamas and a robe. My fluffy slippers felt much more comfortable than the high-heeled shoes I'd worn to the memorial service. It was hard to believe I'd spent years wearing high heels to work every day when I'd assisted Ned at his insurance office. Now, casual attire was my norm, and my footwear usually consisted of sandals, sneakers, or moccasins.
Remembering that Emma had said she'd call me back today, I checked my phone, and, sure enough, she'd tried to connect with me during the memorial service. I called her immediately with apologies for not calling sooner. We chatted for more than an hour before she returned to studying. She had five final exams, all jammed into the first part of next week, and she claimed she wasn't planning on coming up for air until she'd finished them. I wished her luck, knowing that she'd do well. Emma had always been a good student, and she didn't choke at the prospect of taking a test. I couldn't wait to see her again. It would be only a few days before I'd be at Sky Harbor in Phoenix to pick her up. I called Dustin, but my call went to voicemail, and I realized that he was probably out on a date since it was Saturday night, so I decided to call him the next day. I always called my parents on Sunday, and I set the alarm on my phone to remind myself to call my son, too. Usually, that wouldn't have been necessary, but, as forgetful as I'd been in the last few days, I figured it couldn't hurt.
The next morning, after I'd walked Laddie and made my phone calls, I got to work in the kitchen, making the vegetable casserole and apple pie that I'd promised to bring to the Roadrunner's Christmas party, which was scheduled to begin at six, an hour after the gallery closed for the day. After I put the casserole and the pie into the oven to bake and set the timer, I had several free hours to spend in the studio, although Laddie coaxed me outside for a game of fetch and Mona Lisa kept bringing me her stuffed mouse, dropping it at my feet and waiting for praise. Once I picked it up, she always seemed satisfied. Sometimes, I'd hide it from her, behind the sofa or in some other out-of-the-way location. She invariably found it and never tired of the game.
I painted in my studio for a few hours, until it was time to get ready for the party. I dressed in a sparkly red sequined top and charcoal-gray, tailored wool slacks. Since the party was a pot luck in the meeting room of the Roadrunner, I thought that most members would dress casually, and, as it turned out, I was right.
Like me, many of the women wore a top that sparkled or shined, and some of them wore jeans, rather than dressier pants. There wasn't a skirt or a dress in sight. Others wore Christmas sweaters or even holiday sweatshirts. A few of the men wore sweatshirts and jeans, too, while others sported Christmas ties. Ralph, our oldest member, wore a spiffy red plaid vest.
Our utilitarian meeting room had been transformed for the party with swags of lights draped from hooks on the ceilings, holiday centerpieces on each table, and a huge Christmas tree in the corner.
A long table laden with food stood at the back of the room. I added my casserole and set my pie on the dessert table. Several of the small easels that the Roadrunner provided for students who took classes here were set up in the front of the room, and about half of them displayed a painting to be judged in the Roadrunner's holiday small works competition. Prizes consisted of certificates of achievement and vouchers for dinners for two at various restaurants around town, tiered by cost so that the first-place winner would be dining at one of the swanky restaurants at Lonesome Valley Resort, while the artists who won honorable mention received pizzas from Chip's father's pizza parlor.
Since I didn't normally produce paintings with dimensions of fourteen inches or less, I wasn't participating in the competition, but Susan had entered one of her small watercolors of yellow roses that looked like a winner to me.
I looked around for Susan and saw that she was placing a large bread basket on one of the tables in the back, I caught her eye, and she joined me. In the meantime, the rest of the easels were filling up, as members set up their artwork on them, but I didn't see any other paintings that I thought deserved first prize more than Susan's, and I told her so.
“Thanks, Amanda.” I guess we'll have to wait until after dinner to find out if our judge agrees with you.”
“Judge? For some reason, I thought the members were voting for the winners.”
“Not this year, although we have done it that way in the past.”
“Don't tell me Brooks Miller is going to judge.”
“Brooks? No. I think Pamela asked one of the art teachers from the community college to judge the contest.”
“Oh, good. I wouldn't have thought of Brooks except that I noticed him sitting over there with Pamela and Rich, and I wondered what he was doing here.”
“Just a goodwill gesture, according to Pamela.”
“I'm kind of surprised he came.”
When I'd first moved to Lonesome Valley, Brooks had owned his own exclusive gallery off Main Street, featuring his own truly awful abstract art, and his wife had managed the place while he managed the Lonesome Valley Resort, which his family trust owned. He'd made it a practice to drop by the Roadrunner regularly to criticize our members' artwork. He'd been arrogant and obnoxious to say the least, but he'd since closed his downtown gallery and opened a new one in the Resort's shopping mall. Reinventing himself as an influential gallery owner, he'd booked several famous artists for shows at his new gallery, and he no longer displayed any of his own paintings. Along the way, he'd realized that he wasn't the great artist he'd thought he was, something his wife had cruelly pointed out to him when she'd announced she was leaving him.
The “new” Brooks was making an effort to get along with the rest of the art community in Lonesome Valley, and his gallery and the Roadrunner had participated in some joint events during the few months since he'd opened his current gallery. Even so, I couldn't imagine him as a judge of our contest, because his latest strategy depended on others' expert opinions. He offered gallery shows only to artists who were well established in their careers and widely acclaimed by critics.
“Where's Chip?” I asked. “I hope he didn't feel too depressed to come.”
“He's coming with Josh and Kayla. He persuaded Josh that he needs a distraction, but I doubt they'll stay very long.” She motioned toward the meeting room's rear door. “Here they come now.”
Chip arrived, carrying a large covered pan, probably manicotti, a specialty of the pizza parlor, while Kayla carried a pretty, decorated cake that I was sure had come from the supermarket bakery, because I'd noticed one just like it there the last time I was grocery shopping.
Josh surveyed the room while he waited for Kayla and Chip to find a spot for the food they'd brought. Brooks looked up from his conversation with Pamela and Rich, saw Josh, and nodded. Josh waved to Valerie, one of our board members, who taught art at the high school, and I wondered whether she, like Sylvia Costa, had been one of his high school teachers.
Brooks had turned back to his conversation by the time Chip made room for the large pan of manicotti, but Rich had noticed Chip's arrival, and his face began to turn red as he started to stand up.