tomorrow.
A voice came over the loudspeaker. This time in the relative quiet, I heard Eve clearly. She called out the attendance like the announcer at PacBell Park—paid attendees: 2,423 people. A cheer went up from the sales floor. I waited to hear if Eve would mention Claire’s death directly. Instead, she thanked the vendors for their hard work on a difficult day. She reassured everyone that there would be no changes to the schedule. I heard a murmur of approval.
Were these people nuts? I saw a man give his wife the thumbs up. It was ridiculous that the show would go on tomorrow as usual.
At the end of the row, instead of being able to make a U-turn down another aisle to the front door, I found myself at a dead end. Without realizing it, I’d entered an alcove off the main room. A sign overhead read “Award Winners.” Straight ahead was a quilt with Claire’s name on the artist’s card. I stopped, saddened that this was the first time I was seeing any of Claire’s work when she was already gone.
The quilt was a large rectangle, make up of pieced arcs and circles. The colors were blues and browns. I noticed plaids, stripes, and print fabrics. The effect was calming and exciting at the same time.
A tap on my shoulder made me jump. It was the diminutive security guard I’d met earlier this morning.
“Time to go, miss.”
I’d been staring at the quilt without seeing it, my mind lost, Claire’s death replaying in my mind. I swallowed my resentment at being startled. I felt unjustly accused of something.
“I was just leaving,” I said.
“This way.”
He stepped away from me, allowing me room to pass, but staying close. The hall was deserted. I must have been looking at that quilt for longer than I’d thought.
Once we were out the door and into the atrium, he made a big show of locking up. He was pretty pleased with himself. After dealing with the real cops all afternoon, I was in no mood for a Target reject, pushing his weight around.
“That’s a lot of keys on your belt,” I started but checked myself. Let him be. He was just doing his job.
He was oblivious to how close he’d come to getting bitched out. “Just make sure you have your ID card with you tomorrow,” he said.
I held it up, showing him I’d been wearing it around my neck since I put it on this morning. He didn’t acknowledge me.
Eve was sitting in her information booth in the atrium. I wanted to know if she’d considered Myra’s feelings in going on with the show as usual. I crossed over and knocked on the wooden frame to get her attention. She looked up, scowling.
“Eve, hi. I heard you say there would be no changes to the activity schedule. You did hear about Claire, right?”
She nodded. “Of course,” she said, looking at me quizzically. Her cell phone began playing a Sousa march. She glanced at the readout, her face screwed up into a moue of frustration.
She snarled into the phone, holding it six inches from her mouth, “Just handle it, okay? I’m sure she’ll be along any minute.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Freddy approach.
“How about a drink?” he said.
Eve waved him off gruffly.
“Come on, you two,” Freddy persisted. “We all deserve a libation after a day like this. I’ll buy.” To me he said, “I need to make up to you for what I did this morning.”
“What did you do?” Eve asked Freddy.
“I mistook her for her mother.”
He answered without taking his eyes off an attractive young woman in a crisp white fitted blouse and tight jeans who cut between us. Eve came out of her booth, locking the flimsy wooden door behind her.
Eve looked me up and down. “I don’t see it.”
“I could use a drink,” I said, the truth of the statement only hitting me after the words were out of my mouth. A tall glass of syrah would go a long way toward smoothing my ragged edges tonight.
“He won’t, you know,” Eve said to me.
“Won’t what?” I asked.
“Buy drinks. Freddy never does.
A voice came over the loudspeaker. This time in the relative quiet, I heard Eve clearly. She called out the attendance like the announcer at PacBell Park—paid attendees: 2,423 people. A cheer went up from the sales floor. I waited to hear if Eve would mention Claire’s death directly. Instead, she thanked the vendors for their hard work on a difficult day. She reassured everyone that there would be no changes to the schedule. I heard a murmur of approval.
Were these people nuts? I saw a man give his wife the thumbs up. It was ridiculous that the show would go on tomorrow as usual.
At the end of the row, instead of being able to make a U-turn down another aisle to the front door, I found myself at a dead end. Without realizing it, I’d entered an alcove off the main room. A sign overhead read “Award Winners.” Straight ahead was a quilt with Claire’s name on the artist’s card. I stopped, saddened that this was the first time I was seeing any of Claire’s work when she was already gone.
The quilt was a large rectangle, make up of pieced arcs and circles. The colors were blues and browns. I noticed plaids, stripes, and print fabrics. The effect was calming and exciting at the same time.
A tap on my shoulder made me jump. It was the diminutive security guard I’d met earlier this morning.
“Time to go, miss.”
I’d been staring at the quilt without seeing it, my mind lost, Claire’s death replaying in my mind. I swallowed my resentment at being startled. I felt unjustly accused of something.
“I was just leaving,” I said.
“This way.”
He stepped away from me, allowing me room to pass, but staying close. The hall was deserted. I must have been looking at that quilt for longer than I’d thought.
Once we were out the door and into the atrium, he made a big show of locking up. He was pretty pleased with himself. After dealing with the real cops all afternoon, I was in no mood for a Target reject, pushing his weight around.
“That’s a lot of keys on your belt,” I started but checked myself. Let him be. He was just doing his job.
He was oblivious to how close he’d come to getting bitched out. “Just make sure you have your ID card with you tomorrow,” he said.
I held it up, showing him I’d been wearing it around my neck since I put it on this morning. He didn’t acknowledge me.
Eve was sitting in her information booth in the atrium. I wanted to know if she’d considered Myra’s feelings in going on with the show as usual. I crossed over and knocked on the wooden frame to get her attention. She looked up, scowling.
“Eve, hi. I heard you say there would be no changes to the activity schedule. You did hear about Claire, right?”
She nodded. “Of course,” she said, looking at me quizzically. Her cell phone began playing a Sousa march. She glanced at the readout, her face screwed up into a moue of frustration.
She snarled into the phone, holding it six inches from her mouth, “Just handle it, okay? I’m sure she’ll be along any minute.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Freddy approach.
“How about a drink?” he said.
Eve waved him off gruffly.
“Come on, you two,” Freddy persisted. “We all deserve a libation after a day like this. I’ll buy.” To me he said, “I need to make up to you for what I did this morning.”
“What did you do?” Eve asked Freddy.
“I mistook her for her mother.”
He answered without taking his eyes off an attractive young woman in a crisp white fitted blouse and tight jeans who cut between us. Eve came out of her booth, locking the flimsy wooden door behind her.
Eve looked me up and down. “I don’t see it.”
“I could use a drink,” I said, the truth of the statement only hitting me after the words were out of my mouth. A tall glass of syrah would go a long way toward smoothing my ragged edges tonight.
“He won’t, you know,” Eve said to me.
“Won’t what?” I asked.
“Buy drinks. Freddy never does.
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