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After she put it on, she took one last look in the mirror. Then she went downstairs.
Anita was already there, standing by the front door. She was dressed in a pretty lavender rayon pantsuit. Her snow-white hair was coiled into a huge bun at the base of her neck. "How are you doing?" she asked.
"Shitty. Maybe I wont go. Art should sell itself, right? Theres nothing more pathetic than a middle-aged woman crying in public. Oh, God, what if I throw up?"
Anita came forward, grabbed her by the shoulders. "Breathe. "
Elizabeth did as she was told.
"In and out, in and out. "
Elizabeth relaxed a little. "Thanks," she said, still shaky.
Anita reached down into her pocket, then held out her hand. In her palm lay a small gray stone, polished to a mirror sheen, striated with rust and black and green. "This was your daddys worry stone. It was always in his pocket. He used to joke that when you were born, it was the size of a bowling ball and he wore it down to the nub. "
Elizabeth couldnt imagine her father afraid of anything, let alone carrying a worry stone around in his pocket.
"Were all afraid," Anita said. "Its the going on that matters. "
Elizabeth took the stone. It settled in her palm like a kiss. She could almost hear her daddys booming voice: Fly, Birdie. You can do it. It calmed her down, reminded her of what mattered. "Thanks," she said, pulling her stepmother into a hug.
When she drew back, Anita said, "Wed better get going. We dont want to be late. "
All the way to town, Elizabeth concentrated on her breathing. The roads were closed off in a lot of places, but she found a parking place in front of the Hair We Are Beauty Salon.
Echo Beach was dressed for a party. Banners and balloons were everywhere. The weather was surprisingly good; steel-gray clouds and cold breezes, but no rain. Every storefront was decorated in bright colors. A few hardy tourists, dressed in down parkas and knee-high boots, walked along the narrow main street. The beach was littered with people flying kites, dogs chasing Frisbees, and kids building sand castles.
Elizabeth stood on the sidewalk across from Eclectica. A white sign filled the window. It read: meet local artist elizabeth shore.
"I think Im going to be sick. "
"You most certainly are not," Anita said. "Youre Edward Rhodess daughter. There will be no vomiting in public. Now, get movin. "
"Elizabeth!" Marge was standing by the gallery, waving her arms. She wore a drop-waisted raisin-colored corduroy dress with open-toed sandals. Her hair had been tamed into a pair of thick braids. A stunningly beautiful cloisonne necklace hung between her breasts. "Hurry up," she yelled, then disappeared inside.
Elizabeth walked across the street. At the gallery, she stopped. Her feet refused to move forward.
Anita said, "Good luck, honey," and shoved her into the gallery.
Inside, the Womens Passion Support Group was waiting. At her entrance, they burst into applause.
Elizabeth stumbled to a halt. "Hey, you guys," she said, hating the tremor in her voice. "It was nice of you to come. "
Mina giggled. "Youre our new hero. Were putting you on the passionless stamp. "
Joey grinned. "I was gonna buy one of your pictures, but sheesh, my tips arent that good. I think Ill have you sign a napkin instead. "
Then everyone began talking at once.
"Your work is incredible!"
"Amazing! When did you start painting?"
"So cool! Where did you learn to do this?"
Elizabeth couldnt answer any single question, but it didnt matter. Their enthusiasm was exactly the balm she needed to calm her ragged nerves. For the first time in hours, she relaxed enough to be hopeful.
She even allowed herself to dream of success: A wonderful review in the Echo Location . . . a sellout of her work . . . a call from a bigger gallery in Portland or San Francisco . . .
