The Keeper of Happy Endings(80)

And things were finally beginning to take shape on that front. The painters had started work today, and she’d stayed late, eager to see how the slate gray she had chosen for the walls looked after the second coat. She’d ended up covered in paint after bumping into a ladder and knocking a roller out of its tray, but the color was perfect. And to top it off, she’d set up a meeting with Kendra Paterson, an artist whose stunning sea glass sculptures had caught her eye last year at an art fair in Portsmouth. If all went well, her pieces would be the focal point of the opening.

Unfortunately, she was going to have to call her mother and explain why she couldn’t make brunch. Again. She stripped off her paint-spattered clothes, started the shower, then grabbed the cordless on the way to the laundry room.

“Hey, it’s me,” she said, cringing when Camilla answered. She’d been hoping for the machine.

“Let me guess—you’re not coming tomorrow.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m heading to Freeport first thing in the morning to meet with an artist.”

“Is there a shortage of hippie artists here in Boston?”

“She’s not a hippie, Mother. It’s 1985. No one’s a hippie anymore.” She paused, measuring detergent into the washer with her free hand, then dropped the lid with a hollow clang. “She works full time and teaches classes on the side. This is the only time she could do it.”

“What on earth is that noise?”

“The washer. I was a klutz and got covered in paint today.”

“You do know there are people you can pay to do that sort of thing, Aurora. It’s not as though you have to do this on a shoestring.”

“I am paying someone. Several someones, in fact. But I wanted to see how the color turned out. I’m afraid I made a nuisance of myself, but they were great about it.”

“So things are coming along?”

“Swimmingly. It’s actually starting to look like a gallery. You could come by sometime, you know, and see for yourself.”

“I know, and I will, but I’ve been frightfully busy. I’m glad things are on schedule.”

“Ahead of schedule, actually. I’m hoping to set the date for the opening next month. That reminds me, I promised to invite Vicky and Hilly. I’ll need their addresses for the invitations. And for anyone else you think I should invite.”

“I’d include Maureen Cordeiro and Laura Ladd. Oh, and Kimberly Covington Smith. They’re younger and have loads of connections. They’ll be good allies.”

“Thank you,” Rory said, pleasantly surprised. “And what about you? Do you want to be invited?”

“Well, of course I do. Why would you even ask?”

“I was giving you an out. I know you’re not crazy about the idea. I didn’t want to put you in a position of either having to grit your teeth and go or find a polite way to say no.”

“What a thing to say. I’m your mother, Aurora. Of course I want to be part of your big night. Speaking of which, have you given any thought to who might cater? I could make a few calls, maybe work out a finger food menu. It’s one less thing for you to worry about. Also, there’s entertainment to consider. The right entertainment can make an event—or break it. There was the time Laurie Lorenz made the mistake of hiring a pianist, sight unseen. The man crooned Barry Manilow tunes all night. I offered to contact a wonderful harpist, but she insisted on doing everything herself. It was a disaster.”

Rory bit her lip. Under no circumstances would there be a harpist at her opening. There was no denying that Camilla Grant knew her way around an event, but the only fingerprints on this event were going to be hers. “Thanks, but I’ve been working on some ideas, and I’d really like to do this on my own.”

Camilla sighed breezily. “Suit yourself, but I’m here if you change your mind. How about letting me give you a makeover instead?”

Oh, good grief. “I do not need a makeover, Mother.”

“Sweetheart . . . How do I say this without sounding mean? With so much on your plate, you’ve let yourself get a little . . . shabby.”

“You make me sound like a bag lady.”

“All right, I’m sorry. But you have to admit that you’ve been focused on other things these last few months. You could do with a little . . . sprucing up. If you won’t let me help with anything else, let that be my contribution. We’ll get you a new outfit, something smashing, and maybe do something with your hair.”

“I don’t need something smashing. It isn’t going to be that kind of night—or that kind of gallery.”

“Fine. We’ll find you something less than smashing. We can do it next Saturday. I’ll make an appointment with Lorna for your hair, and a manicure, too, I think. We can grab lunch at Seasons afterward.”

“We’ll see. I have to go. I’ve got the shower running.”

“So . . . Saturday?”

“I’ll call you later in the week.”

Rory was still smarting over her mother’s use of the word shabby when she returned to the bathroom. Was she . . . shabby? She wiped the fog from the mirror and peered at her face. Her cheeks and forehead were smudged with paint, and flecks of gray speckled the wheat-colored waves that had escaped her ponytail. She pulled the elastic free, shaking out the unruly mass. It fell well past her shoulders now, her bangs so long they nearly obscured her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a haircut, and her highlights had grown out a good three inches, creating a subtle but discernible line of demarcation.