Chapter 26
26
FIONA
An hour later, I was in my Artsy Fartsy bright blue t-shirt at Bud’s Bar where this month’s craft night–and competition–was held. It was Buckets of Beer night, which meant there were metal buckets filled with ice and bottles of beer on our worktable.
When we arrived, introductions were made. Team Artsy Fartsy included me, Dottie, Martha, who was a retired high school chemistry teacher, her daughter Mindy, and Mrs. Metcalf, Dottie’s sister, who was out of town. When the other team, the Brush Buffoons, was introduced, I glazed over on their names. Tammy, Rosemary, Marcia, and possibly Denise or Deirdre. With matching hot pink t-shirts, it was hard to separate them. Or it could’ve been the wine, then beer, that was doing that .
After a few appetizers arrived, I finished my beer, and we settled down at newspaper covered tables for the decorating battle.
It didn’t take long to get as much paint on my pumpkin as on myself. I sucked at anything artistic and this simple, zero rules project proved it. Outwardly, I grumbled about this entire experience until Dottie handed me another beer, then I shut up and… had fun.
There were no secrets in Coal Springs. That meant everyone wanted to dig into each other’s lives like it was an Olympic sport, including mine. No one else seemed to mind the level of invasiveness and probing. To me, it was uncomfortable to answer questions about being in the FBI, like having an eye scooped out with a melon baller. I had to weave and dodge around how I got into the profession. No one would be interested in my dysfunctional family and thankfully Dottie hadn’t shared what I’d told her earlier. I also had to avoid the fact that I was on vacation. Or why. Or why I was in Coal Springs. Or the brain tumor.
My life was a gossip lover’s dream, which meant I tried to say not much of anything.
Dottie sat beside me with a scary pumpkin covered in googly eyes. It wasn’t scary in that it would make small children cry, but scary because it was so awful.
Mine was no better.
It could’ve been the zero artistic talent in action. Or it could’ve been because I was halfway to drunk. Mine had a painted-on, big wide smile, a single white snaggletooth, plus green Medusa-esque hair. I wasn’t a fan of the googly eyes, but I’d discovered an inner-child love of glitter and sprinkled it liberally into the wet paint.
I picked up the whispers of the craft night-ers, expecting them to make fun of me. Instead, I heard Fiona’s so talented and Dottie’s been saying such nice things about her plus she needs to come to wine night next week.
They liked me? Thought I was good at painting? Looking up, I cautiously looked around the group. A few met my gaze and smiled. Really smiled. Dottie, beside me, reached out and patted my hand. While I doubted she overheard the same things I did, she somehow knew.
I gave her a real smile because being part of this group felt good, especially when we got to painting and drinking. Since I hadn’t been very forthcoming, the other Artsy Fartsy women broadened the topics of conversation. I let it all drift around me. I let the noise in, absorbing the ridiculously normal chatter. There was no talk about arrests or search warrants or evidence collection. These women didn’t deal with bad guys every day. Or ever. The problems they had in their lives were simple. Broken garbage disposal. A kid failing geometry.
No getting shot at. Or being framed. Or hiding from your father so he didn’t remind you how worthless you were. In Coal Springs, life was cheesy rice and T-ball.
“She’s expecting her second baby next month.”
“The garlic bulbs are being planted now. They have to go in the ground in the fall, you know.”
“The hot flashes are the worst. I need two fans at night.”
“The new breakfast place makes the best crepes. ”
My head popped up from my painting. Even with my multi-beer induced brain fog, I realized this town of snoops could help me with my pickle people snooping. They were better at gathering intel than my entire floor at the field office.
“What about the pickle place on Main?” I asked, glancing around the table. I shook the small jar of rainbow glitter over a bare wet spot like I would salt on french fries. “I was there earlier, and they were all out.”
If there was pickle intel, they knew it.
“They mess with my heartburn, so I steer clear,” Martha said, setting her hand on her t-shirt, right over the words Fartsy.
“I love pickles, but I grab them at the grocery store,” Mindy added, not looking up from her work, which was adding a curling mustache like a dastardly villain. “My six-year-old likes the spears in his lunchbox.”
“They must be good if they’re sold out,” Dottie mused, squirting a dab of glue then another googly eye onto the back of her pumpkin.
Drat. They didn’t know anything! Why? Did they not get up early? Not witness pickle dumping off the side of the mountain? Not recognize these things were red flags for illegal activities happening right under their noses?
I pushed for more but was cut off. “How–”
“Time’s up!” Tammy… or maybe Rosemary called. She stood from the other table and her shrewd and crafty gaze took in the competition. “We’ll bring ours over to your table, Dottie. ”
Dottie nodded, sliding her pumpkin over to make some room. “Good. We want impartial judging.” We all stood and moved away from our projects. Together, they were…interesting.
And…strangely fun.
I leaned to Dottie and murmured, “Who are the judges?”
“Randy, the owner. Plus, two other men who happen to be in the bar who are not related, work with, have kids who go to school with someone’s kids, or any kind of connection to any of us on either team so they’re impartial.”
“That must’ve been pretty hard to find,” I mused.
“It was.”
Ten minutes later, Randy, the forty-something bar owner came out of the huddle he and the other judges made. He moved down the table and pointed. “This one is the winner.”
He was pointing at my pumpkin.
Mine.
Glittery Medusa.
“What?” I screeched, putting my hands to my face and probably smearing green paint on my cheeks. I’d never won anything in my life.
Dottie, Martha, and Mindy surrounded me and screamed. I winced but couldn’t help but smile at their enthusiasm. Or drunkenness.
The other team even joined in, although I did hear Rosemary mutter ringer .
“Besides the team’s pumpkins out on display, you get the five-dollar prize, honey,” Dottie said.
“I won five dollars?” It’d barely buy a cup of coffee, but it felt like I won the lottery.
She nodded.
My heart was pounding, and I couldn’t stop smiling. “I’ve never won anything before.”
I was strangely happy. Giddy. I won. My ridiculous pumpkin painting had been considered the best, which was ridiculous. Kindergartners could do a better job than all of us. It didn’t matter.
“You also get a sash.”
Someone behind me dropped a yellow strip of fabric over my shoulder as if I’d won the Miss Universe competition. Glancing down, it was clearly handmade, with rickrack sewn on as decorative detail, then in marker with fancy cursive, it read Best Pumpkin Painter .
“And another beer,” Mindy offered with a huge smile, clinking her bottle with mine.
“This was… fun, Dottie,” I admitted, feeling ridiculous and not caring.
She slung her arm around me and gave me a motherly squeeze. A squeeze. “Oh honey, I’m so proud of you.”
She was proud of me.
“I think the judges liked green paint or glitter. They’re all… something,” I said, admiring the line of decorated pumpkins and trying not to think about why I had new squishy feelings I never had before .
She shook her head and met my eyes. “You’re special and they see that. We all do.”
Oh my.
I swallowed hard. No one had ever called me special before. Or said they were proud of me. I barely remembered my mother and my father only said I ruined his life, and I was worthless and would never amount to anything or was an embarrassment.
I swallowed hard. “Thanks, Dottie.”