Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [21]
Roy, a lean man with tough, stringy muscles, straightened the corduroy Gator Ropes cap on his shaggy brown hair and allowed Grace to coax him back to his chair. But he continued to glare at Ash with narrowed eyes. Grace unconsciously stroked his forearm much in the same way a person might try to calm an agitated animal.
“Let’s get started,” I said, pretending I hadn’t noticed the altercation. “I’m sure we all agree Nora’s death is a horrible tragedy. I was thinking that in her honor we might think of something that we could commemorate her memory with at the festival. Any ideas?” I pulled a notebook out of my purse and surveyed the committee members.
Evangeline’s face visibly relaxed. In the six months I’d known her, I’d noticed that conflict of any type made her nervous. Many times I’d seen her walk out of the co-op studios when there was even the slightest hint of it. She was a tall woman with broad shoulders and long slender legs, but she had the grace of someone who’d come into her size gradually. She possessed the most pleasing voice I’d ever heard, clear, warm, and melodic, with a laughing quality that compelled you to move in close. Perfect traits for a storyteller.
“Perhaps we could dedicate part of the program to her,” I suggested when no one answered. “Maybe the children’s storytelling competition?” I looked around and tried to gauge their reactions. Roy wore a disgusted expression. Grace was attempting to look neutral, but the deep lines between her eyes gave her true feelings away. Peter and Ash both looked as if they didn’t care one way or the other.
“There’s a few members missing,” I continued, “but we’ve got enough to vote.” Behind us the front doors swung open.
“Have I missed anything important?” Jillian Sinclair asked. Behind her was Dolores Ayala, whose specialty was Mexican folktales and colorful, hand-painted folktale pottery.
“Sorry I’m late,” Dolores said. “It was busy down at the restaurant.”
“Hi, Dolores, Jillian,” I said. “We were just discussing what we should do to honor Nora Cooper at the festival this weekend. Why don’t you both take a seat, and we’ll continue?”
Only two seats were free, one next to Ash and one on the other side of Evangeline. Dolores and Jillian reached the seat next to Ash simultaneously, and for a split second they stared at each other. Jillian pursed her bright coral lips and calmly sat down. Dolores turned and crossed the circle, her face blank, but her eyes flashing angrily. She dropped down next to Evangeline. Ash leaned over and patted Jillian’s silk-trousered knee with a familiarity that seemed to confirm what we’d all speculated—even the sophisticated Jillian Sinclair had at some time fallen for Ash’s line.
In the next hour we finally agreed on sending flowers to Nora’s funeral, whenever that might be, and giving a short testimonial in the opening ceremonies rather than during the children’s storytelling competition.
“Children see and hear enough violence,” Evangeline wisely pointed out. “I think we should honor Nora, but not at the expense of the children.”
As the meeting broke up, Ash and Dolores huddled in a corner discussing, I assumed, their tandem-storytelling performance and workshop at the festival. Though her specialty was Latin-American folktales and she did have a performance scheduled in both Spanish and English on Saturday, she and Ash had worked up an act using local San Celina history. Dolores’s face was animated as she showed Ash a book she pulled from her old green backpack.
“Aren’t they just the cutest thing since the Captain and Tennille,” Jillian commented, walking up beside me. A strong cloud of expensive perfume filled the air around me like tule fog.
I shrugged, not sure how she meant the remark.
She touched my hand lightly, her nails tickling my skin. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. That old green animal strikes again. She’s very pretty. And talented.” She grimaced