Surfside Sisters(62)
“Hey, Mom, guess what Janine told me at the grocery store. Kathleen Knight’s art gallery has an opening tonight. I think we should go!”
“Darling, you go on without me. I’m not really up to it today.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Come on, this will be fun. You know Kathleen always serves champagne and fabulous munchies.”
Eloise waved her hand vaguely. “Too many people…”
“Yes, and they’ll all point and snicker and whisper, ‘There’s that pitiful Eloise Green who retired from the hospital and now just sits around being uninterested in the world.’?”
“Don’t be mean.”
“Don’t be lazy.” Keely bit her cheeks to keep in a smile. Lazy was, to her mother, a deplorable trait.
“I’m not lazy! I worked with you all morning sorting out the house. Now I’m tired.”
“I’ll take you to dinner at the Boarding House if you go with me.”
“I’m not hungry. That sandwich you made was too filling.”
“Mom, are you depressed?”
“Possibly. I certainly have the right to be depressed. My husband’s dead and I no longer have the job that was my life.”
“Okay, think about me for a minute. Obviously I don’t rate very high on your scale of reasons to live—”
“That’s not true! You’re putting words in my mouth!”
Keely stifled a grin. She’d gotten a rise out of her mother. “Back to the subject of me. I want to go into town. I want to see old friends. But, Mom, what if I run into Isabelle or Tommy? They’ll be together, the happy married couple and I’ll be all alone, the pitiful and unattached.”
“No one thinks you’re pitiful!”
“No one thinks you’re pitiful!” Keely fired back.
Eloise sighed and slumped. “You are a manipulative child.”
Keely pulled into the drive. “Wait till I get some lipstick on you. Maybe some blush. You’ll look gorgeous.”
* * *
—
Early in the evening, Keely drove into town. Nightlife wasn’t up to full speed yet, so not all the boutiques and galleries were open. Still, the winter was over, and the island was waking up. Lights shone from the stores, and the doors of some of the shops were open, allowing alluring fragrances to drift out.
She strolled side by side with her mother, window shopping.
“Do you remember, Mom, how Isabelle and I used to attend the gallery openings on Friday nights in the summer?”
Eloise smiled. “Lord, yes. You were fourteen, fifteen, and you draped yourselves in layers of black, wore mahogany nail polish and lipstick and kohl eyeliner, and such high heels I knew you’d break your ankles.”
“But we didn’t break our ankles. We were terribly grown-up and sophisticated, sauntering around with artists and the summer visitors who could afford to buy the paintings.”
“Yes, and you also managed to snag a forbidden glass of wine.”
“We did not!”
“Of course you did. I smelled it on you when you got home.”
“Well, it was champagne. Or prosecco. Anyway, we didn’t make fools of ourselves.”
“I suppose not. You two were such beautiful girls. You both wore your hair down your back almost to your waist.”
Keely laughed at the memory. Tonight she was wearing an apple green slip dress with an orange and gold shawl that brought out the flecks of gold in her eyes. Her mother wore slacks and a trendy geometric black and white top that Keely had given her for Christmas.
They turned onto India Street and in a few steps were at Kathleen Knight’s gallery.
“We’re here, Mom,” Keely said. “Come on.”
Reluctantly, Eloise followed Keely up the stairs. The gallery was a large, airy space with high walls displaying paintings and tables set here and there to hold sculptures. Dozens of people were studying the exhibits while sipping wine. Keely quickly scrutinized the crowd. She didn’t see anyone she knew, and was oddly disappointed by that.
Suddenly, Daphne Hayes rushed up to Eloise. “Eloise! I’m so glad to see you! I’ve missed you at our lunches, and I have loads to tell you.” Before Eloise could object, Daphne said, “Keely, if you don’t mind, I’m going to steal your mother away for a minute.”
“Of course.” Keely was as happy as if her mother were a toddler greeted by a friend in a playgroup. She took a glass of prosecco and strolled around the gallery, studying the art.
In the corner, beneath glass, a display case showed pieces of scrimshaw, an art form from the days when sailors on the whaling ships passed the time finely engraving the bone and teeth of the whales with scenes from the ocean, the boat, and their memories of home.
Keely bent over the case, admiring the workmanship of the three minutely detailed square-rigged whaling ships. She’d always considered this work, requiring such concentration and skill, similar to writing a novel. She couldn’t produce a novel all at once, with the broad sweeping strokes of a Pollock. She had to create her books carefully, a bit at a time. Just so with scrimshaw. Although, she admitted, she had the ability to erase and rewrite, to cut and paste, or toss out and begin again. With scrimshaw, the slightest slip could ruin a work.