All Your Pretty Dreams by Lise McClendon Page B

tilted in a coy way.
    “ Look at you. Working so
hard,” she said, smiling down at the table piled with sheets of
paper. “Just doodling or something special?”
    The morning’s drama crashed
back into his mind. He jammed the papers into the sketchbook and
threw down a five-dollar bill.
    Cuppie asked, “Where are
you going?”
    He rounded the table, hit a
chair with his foot and knocked it over. Someone— that stuck-up
college girl— righted it for him. Cuppie was calling to him, asking
him to stop. Of all places, the Owl Bar, a sanctuary from nagging
wives and small-town gossip. She never went into bars. Why start
now? He stopped, unwilling to give her the last word— or these
people something to talk about.
    “ What is it?” He kept his
voice even. He turned to face her. Yes, that was the right thing.
Face your demons. “What do you want?”
    “ I just wanted to say
goodbye.” Cuppie looked at the students lined up at the bar, at
Lenny, at Walter. She stepped closer to him, smiling. Her scent
again repelled him. “And that I’ll see you at home
soon.”
    Jonny blinked, amazed by
her stubbornness. Why couldn’t he just push her away, here in front
of everyone? He was a coward.
    She gave him a little
squeeze as she swished out the door.
     

Chapter 6
     

     
     
    When Isabel arrived at the
gathering of rose lovers in Margaret Knobel’s parlor she was
already tired. The day started at dawn in the blueberry fields.
When she got back she downloaded the photos of the screens, counted
the bees, and worked on her spreadsheets. If she didn’t keep up
with the logging of the research, her own notes as well as
Professor Mendel’s, she would get too far behind. Even one day
could threaten to throw the entire project into chaos.
    So many bees. That was the
good news, for the environment, the earth, the project, the apples
and berries— and the bad news. More bees, more work.
    And the phone call from her
sister. Somehow Daria had gotten the number of the University’s
cell phone. The anticipation of being sucked back into her family’s
drama made Isabel weak as she mounted the sagging front steps of
the Victorian farmhouse.
    Gray clapboard, peeling,
rot . So different from the houses back
home. Surrounded by gardens, that at least was similar. The front
lawn had been ripped out for rose bushes, a stone path, an arbor of
climbing vines. The same attention didn’t extend to the house.
Cardboard filled a broken pane. Shingles were missing. Dead leaves
accumulated on the stoop.
    Isabel felt the wind go out
of her crusading sails. But she knocked and arranged a smile on her
face.
    Margaret was wearing
chartreuse Capri pants and a pink print blouse, a Florida look
rarely seen this far from a beach. Her lipstick missed her mouth in
places. She offered to take Isabel’s flowered beanie, and there was
a moment when Margaret almost snatched it off her head.
    In the parlor she met Vern
and David, Vern’s wife, three plump women from New Ulm drinking
wine from tumblers, and Margaret’s friend, Carol Chichester, who
followed the same fashion cues with a frizzy perm and vivid yellow
slacks. A dark-haired woman in a tight skirt, high heels, and
bright red lipstick entered from the kitchen. Loreen was a
secretary at the church and at least ten years younger than the
others. She carried in a tray of carrot sticks and ranch dressing.
Ozzie followed with coffee.
    After the chitchat died
down Isabel told the old story of ‘Silent Spring,’ new material to
this group. The food chain, DDT and the bald eagle. Then she
launched into her bee message. She explained the Bee Wild study,
what they hoped to find about the relationship of wild bees to
orchards, about feral bees versus honeybees. She explained about
colony collapse disorder, the mysterious die-off of honeybees. The
importance of bees to fruit and vegetable yields. The magic of
insect life. The intricate balance of plant and animal
interdependence. Yada yada.
    They asked