Page 30 of Edge of Ruin
Vivi
“Ooh! Your own store, hmm? Lovely idea, honey. Jewelry, pottery, art objects, gift items? Pebble River is just right for a place like that, now that the windsurfers have found it. Tourism has arrived. And windsurfers have money, you see.” Margaret poured me another cup of tea out of a rose-spattered teapot and nudged the plate of pecan puffs toward me. “Come on and indulge yourself! Heaven knows you can afford the calories!”
“Margaret, I’ve eaten five already, and they’re not small.” I gazed appreciatively at the heap of powdered-sugar-glazed, melt-in-your-mouth cookies. To die for.
“I could help you find a place, you know,” Margaret offered. “I ran a cross-stitch shop in Pebble River for thirty-five years. We can get started right away. Why wait?”
“I would, but my van’s still stuck,” I explained. “Dwayne keeps putting me off because of the rain, but it’s been sunny for days, so?—”
“Well, now, speak of the devil. Look what’s coming up the road!”
I leaned over to peer through the floral print swags of Margaret’s window and saw a tractor chugging up the road. A big, round man with a cowboy hat was behind the wheel. “Is that Dwayne?” I asked.
Margaret hobbled to the window and lifted her spectacles. “It is indeed,” she said, in tones of satisfaction. “I told him all about you. Dwayne runs the gas station at the exit for Pebble River, you see. Lovely man. Put some cookies in a napkin for him, would you, dear?”
I soon found herself out on the road, reaching up to shake the hand of a youngish bald guy with several chins and a baseball cap.
“So you’re the artist?” he said. “Good to meet you, Ms. D’Onofrio.”
“Same here. And call me Vivi.” I handed him the cookies with a smile.
“I thought you might be coming by, Dwayne, so I baked your favorite,” Margaret said archly. “Vivi, let me know when you want to go to Pebble River. Maybe we should all go together.”
“All? All meaning who?” I asked.
“You, me, and Jack,” Margaret said, as if it should be obvious. “I’m sure Jack will have some wonderful ideas. He’s a very creative young man.”
“Oh, no. I don’t want to bother Jack,” I said hastily.
“Bother me about what?”
My heart jumped up into my throat as I turned around, and ... oh, boy. My reaction to him was as powerful, inappropriate and unwelcome as it ever was. Worse, even.
I’d managed to mostly avoid him since our fight, and I’d been fondly imagining that my feelings and hormones were back under control. Hah. Vivid images of the hot springs incident blazed through my body.
My face turned pink. No, I think that my entire body was turning pink.
“Hi.” Jack nodded to Dwayne and Margaret. “Heard the tractor.”
“I figured it was dry enough by now,” Dwayne said.
“I’ll walk down there with you,” Jack said.
Oh, God, no. That was all I needed. I swallowed my dismay. “Um. Okay.”
Fortunately, the rumble of the tractor chugging ahead of us made our silence less embarrassing on the walk. I’d been using the long, quiet days while the weather dried up to hang up my pictures, write down my goals, make shopping wish lists for some future when I had some money to spend. I’d set up my portable studio on the floor, and I had made several trips back and forth to the van to haul back my work supplies.
It was a new artistic era for me. It was time to beef up my stock, dream up some fresh new designs. Scrounge for new sources of unusual, pretty rubbish. I liked incorporating what most people thought of as garbage into my work. It was part of my artistic philosophy, and my mission. Making garbage beautiful. Using found objects.
Because life was like that. All in the attitude.
My first investment would be a big worktable. Then, I needed to get my hands on some some metalworking equipment. I wanted to get some big pieces of stained glass to play with. I was desperate to spread out. Everything in my life for the past six years had been miniature; from my income to my camper-van home, all the way to my artistic ambitions. But I was sick of being miniature. I wanted to sprawl. I wanted to take up space. Breathe big, greedy breaths. Use up all the oxygen I damn well wanted.
Not that I regretted the choices I’d made. I was proud of what I had accomplished. The traveling jewelry business had been good to me. My jewelry sideline had started one day when Nancy admired a sculpture I was making out of beads, wire, and glass.
“This is beautiful,” Nancy had said. “If it were jewelry, I would wear it.”
The comment had given me an idea, and for each of my sisters’ and Lucia’s next birthdays, I had made personalized earrings. Then I made some necklaces to match. Then I had tried a couple of big brooches.
