Patterns in the Sand by Sally Goldenbaum

back.
     
     
The three parked on a side street, and made their way together along an already crowded Canary Road. Even in the unusual heat of the night, Willow seemed bright and interested, her eyes taking in the sights around her.
     
     
Nell imagined Willow growing up in a small town, and wondered how she had fared in that environment. She was like a flower child, a free spirit. Had she fit in—or had she grown up waiting to leave?
     
     
They passed by Ellen and Rebecca Marks’ Lampworks gallery, crowded as always with people admiring Rebecca’s glass. Through the window, her platinum head moved in slow motion as she greeted customers graciously and explained the art of handblown glass. When talking about her art, Rebecca was charming.
     
     
Down the street, the small tea shop had a line of people winding out onto the street as they waited for a cold glass of tea or soft drink.
     
     
The road was blocked off for the evening and the threesome wove their way through pockets of people spanning the area between the shops on either side. The door to Ham and Jane’s gallery was held open by a large brass frog, its head shiny from the many hands that had rubbed it smooth for good luck. Nell reached down and touched it out of habit, then spotted Jane standing inside, talking to customers.
     
     
Jane stepped aside from the small group and greeted them, shaking Willow’s hand. “I noticed you around here yesterday, Willow, and have been wanting to meet you.”
     
     
Willow looked slightly embarrassed, as if she’d been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. “I was just walking around the neighborhood for a little while. Exploring, I guess. It’s a . . . a nice place.”
     
     
Sensing the slight awkwardness, Nell pointed to a tall narrow pot standing near the wall. “That’s Jane’s work. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
     
     
Willow’s attention turned immediately to the piece of pottery and she walked over and touched the irregular ripples along the side. “This is beautiful,” she said in a hushed tone. “This whole shop is.”
     
     
“Some of the work is ours but we also exhibit others’ works. Ham and I get tired of looking at our own things all the time. Nell tells me you’re a fiber artist, Willow. I’d like to see your work sometime. Do you have any with you?”
     
     
“Just a couple pieces. But Izzy is giving me her customers’ scrap yarn—silk, wool, organic cotton. It’s amazing what people left behind. I feel like I’m in heaven in her knitting studio.”
     
     
Nell saw the excitement light up Willow’s face as she talked about the yarn. Her cheeks pinked and her dark eyes flashed in a pleasing way, pushing away the tension of minutes before. Jane had seen the discomfort, too, Nell could tell, but the look on her friend’s face indicated she might understand the reason for Willow’s earlier discomfort. She made a mental note to ask Jane about it later.
     
     
Nell turned away from the conversation briefly, pulling a tissue from her bag to blot the dampness collecting on the back of her neck from the night’s heat. The usual ocean breeze was absent tonight, and in its place a heavy blanket of still air pressed down on the crowds that worked their way in and out of Jane’s shop. In the distance, music filled the streets and Nell knew that even the sultry air wouldn’t suppress the spirit of the evening.
     
     
She waved at Ben across the room, then turned back toward Jane and Willow, but Willow was gone. Jane stood near an exhibit of ceramic vases, talking to a customer.
     
     
“Where’s Willow?”
     
     
“Beats me, Nell. She hurried out and asked me to tell you she’d meet up with you at the restaurant later.” Jane wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “It’s hot, Nell. Where did this come from?”
     
     
Nell nodded. “It’s oppressive.”
     
     
A question from the customer drew Jane away and Nell gave a small wave, then slipped out the door to wait for Ben, hoping the air outdoors was less stagnant,