Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [37]
“Poor Gabe,” she said.
“And it’s only going to get worse, what with Nora’s death.” I nodded toward the co-op studios. “How’s everyone doing?” I’d come to rely on Evangeline to keep me informed on the general emotional tenor of the artists.
“Everyone’s buzzing, of course. It’s such a sad thing. Nora was only a few weeks older than me.” Her face became as pale as unbleached muslin. She touched a hand to her stomach. “It makes me sick to even think about it.”
I nodded and changed the subject. “How’s your story for the festival coming along?” Evangeline’s specialty was, naturally, Cajun folktales, and a few days ago she’d given me a performance of the Gabriel and Evangeline story she’d modified. She’d turned it into a comedy—making Gabriel and Evangeline fat and sassy Hampshire pigs (with her humble apologies to Gabe and his cohorts) separated on the way to the slaughterhouse. Unlike Longfellow’s lovers, their tale ended happily, with them wallowing in a cool Louisiana mud puddle, grunting as the sun set behind a weathered gum tree. By the end of the story, she’d had me giggling like a little kid.
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” she said. “I’m nervous, of course, but once I can look into people’s faces, I’m fine.” She rubbed her palms down the sides of her faded gingham shirt. “How’s things in the North Forty?”
“With D-Daddy in charge? You have to ask?”
She laughed. “You’re right. What do you have planned today?”
I gestured around the room. “Everything’s done here, thanks to your dad, so I guess I’ll just go to my office, have a cup of coffee, and contemplate the cosmos.” And Gabe and Sam, I thought, then took a deep breath. And Rita. I’d almost forgotten about her.
“Why the sigh?” Evangeline asked, her eyebrows curving inward in concern.
I waved my hand. “Nothing, just some unexpected company. I’ll fill you in later. Want a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. I have to get changed and get to work.”
“Don’t forget the last board meeting Wednesday night at Angelo’s,” I said. “The pizza’s on me.”
“Seven o’clock, right? I never miss a free meal.”
After a quick raid on the never-empty coffeepot in the co-op’s small kitchen, I walked past the wood shop into my windowless office. The now familiar scent of wood shavings, hot glue, and wet leather calmed my agitated soul almost as much as the comforting ranch smells of my childhood. I set my mug down on my desk and surveyed my very full “in” box. I had things to do, there was no doubt about it, but I was nervous and antsy, as I always was before a big museum function, and I knew I’d probably be better off tackling my paperwork next week when the festival was over.
I propped my feet up on my desk and stared at the double-framed pictures of my husband. One showed him sober-faced and perfectly groomed in a dark suit posing for his official chief-of-police portrait. The other was a snapshot I took one afternoon last summer when he was washing his dad’s old Chevy truck, right after it arrived from Kansas. He wore a pair of shredded Levi’s cutoffs, and his thick black hair was at the shaggy stage just before he gets a haircut. Soapsuds dotted his dark chest hair, and his face beamed with pure adolescent pride and joy. It was my favorite picture of him.
A sharp tap on my door startled me out of my daydreaming.
“You busy?” Peter Grant asked. Without waiting for an answer, he sat down in one of my metal office chairs. He wore a dark green T-shirt today stating GO CLIMB A ROCK and he was scowling.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, setting my coffee cup down.
“What isn’t?”
“Okay,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. This sounded serious. “I guess we’re playing twenty questions. Is it something to do with the festival?”
“It’s Roy.”
“What about him?”
“One of the stories he’s going to tell on Saturday trashes environmentalists. Stop him.”
I contemplated him for a moment. We were treading on delicate ground here. I didn