7. CHAPTER SEVEN
Effie’s bones ached. She’d spent every day since the inspection bringing the store back to code, and quickly realized why the things on Theodore’s list were necessary, especially on the day that she worked in the storage room and the fire alarm went off.
She couldn’t make it to the exit because of all the boxes that were still waiting for new homes, and the door into the store had slipped its stop, locking her in the back.
Thankfully, the alarm was a symptom of some curious two-year-old who pulled it while hoisted on his mother’s hip and not an actual fire.
Otherwise, Effie might have been burned to death.
She could imagine the smugness on Theodore’s face when he read the headline: LOCAL CRAFT CLERK TRAPPED BY KNITTING NEEDLES BURNED ALIVE.
Effie roared a yawn and desired a catnap in the sun that filtered through the window of the hobby room. It took all of her effort to keep her head up.
“This isn’t going to be a very flattering portrait if you keep doing that,” Beatrice teased from behind her painting desk. A pad of cold-pressed watercolor paper lay before her as she translated the soft contours of Effie’s face as lightly as she could with a mechanical pencil.
“Don’t you already have four or a dozen portraits of me?”
“Yes, but I want one now. One that shows the woman that you’ve become.”
“It’s very flattering, but I don’t feel as though I’ve changed that much since my portrait three years ago.”
“Then you haven’t been paying attention,” Aunt Bea scolded, eyes bulging behind the bifocals she had to wear to do her paintings. Issa, who was only ten inches tall from head to tail feather, cocked her sunset yellow head to the side as though she too were chiding Effie from her perch on the desk.
She lifted off and swooped to the arm of Effie’s chair. Aunt Bea had never clipped Issa’s wings, and the little bird would frequently fly to her. Effie worried that it was a sign that her fate was linked to Bea’s. That she’d find love just to lose it—or never find it at all.
Aunt Bea was admirable. She was creative and intelligent.
She’d taught chemistry for years at the university and somehow had combined her capacity for knowledge with her capacity for wonder to become an excellent watercolor artist. In a lot of ways, Effie should want to be like Beatrice.
But she often wondered if there was more to Bea’s love story than she let on.
If she had closed herself off and said no before she could be shown more of that blissful connection that kept the world spinning.
Effie stroked the parrot’s head with her forefinger, admiring how the orange and yellow feathers of her head and breast gave way to emerald and sapphire wings. “You’re very bold, little bird,” Effie said, struck by the proudness of her color.
“The boldness comes from being fully what you are,” Aunt Beatrice mused.
“You remind me of soft pinks and dried flowers. Your essence, Effie dear, is cinnamon buns and embroidery threads and worn book pages. You are soft and sweet and timeless. That is who you are becoming. That is why I am painting you anew.”
Effie smiled. If that was how Aunt Bea saw her, then she’d be happy to be painted again.
Just because books and cinnamon buns, crafts, and long walks were softer and less showy than the musicals, theater, and bright makeup that Louisa loved, or the pots of paint, tropical birds, and wildflowers Aunt Bea loved didn’t mean that Effie should take up less space in the world.
Beatrice began laying soft, light washes of color over her sketch, gradually building the rosy and tan tones of Effie’s cheeks. She liked to work in layers, not necessarily aiming to get the right pigment in one try but rather adding bits of color on top of one another to get her portraits to sing.
“Did you find Hope the other night?” Beatrice asked as she rinsed her brush.
“I did,” Effie confessed, deciding there was no harm in giving Aunt Bea the bare bones details. “She was in a state, didn’t want to talk at all. We had dinner and went for cocoa after. All I learned is that she’d closed a door.”
“She’s not one for second chances either.” Beatrice sighed, and it was the same sadness in her look that Effie had in her heart.
Hope appeared in the doorway and rapped lightly on the wall. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.
“Not at all! Come sit. Talk to us while this layer dries,” Aunt Bea invited.
Hope stepped into the room, wearing a pair of black leggings that climbed almost to her rib cage with a soft, cropped, burnt-orange sweater—whose baggy sleeves pooled at her wrists—tucked into the band.
Effie had seen her in it a hundred times, but today, it had the added effect of showing off Hope’s baby bump.
Effie almost couldn’t believe she’d been so blind. Hope was clearly pregnant.
Effie must have been staring because Hope said, “I’m trying to embrace it and celebrate the changes.” She sat in the chair opposite Effie and rested a hand on her belly.
“Of course. Sorry. I’m still getting used to it,” Effie apologized.
“Me too.”
“And this man of yours? Is he getting used to the idea?” Beatrice dared ask, and Effie was impressed with her gumption.
“I decided not to tell him,” Hope admitted, but she glanced sideways at Effie while Aunt Bea checked the dryness of her paint, which meant there was more to the story. Effie had guessed things had gone sideways, but not that Hope hadn’t even uttered the truth.
“I’m not sure that’s fair of you,” Beatrice said, giving voice to Effie’s thoughts.
“I know it isn’t,” Hope asserted. “I’ll tell him. Eventually.” Effie couldn’t imagine what had changed. Couldn’t imagine keeping such a big thing from the father of her baby. She couldn’t actually imagine being in Hope’s position at all, and maybe that was even scarier.
Hope’s sadness filled the air. Effie didn’t say another word about it and neither did Beatrice.
They knew they’d have to run interference for Hope as best they could, but the Thatcher women could only be swayed off the scent of fresh meat for so long.
Eventually, Brayden would join the ranks of those devoured by their disappointment.
Effie hadn’t wanted to leave Hope in such a state of distress. It was Effie’s night to teach a class at the store, though, so gossip and man-hating would have to wait until later.
Effie did weekly classes in embroidery, but one Wednesday a month, she offered a special workshop where guests could bring their own wine and partake in some kind of craft.
Frequently, they practiced floral arrangement, collage, or cookie decoration.
Tonight, they were making faux stained glass.
It was a simple enough project that wouldn’t get too much in the way of the mingling and sipping her guests usually enjoyed.
Six people had registered to attend. She lamented that their system only captured emails, and she couldn’t practice people’s names and taste them before they arrived.
She didn’t need to offend anyone. Effie reached into her tote, printed with various illustrations of tea canisters, in search of her gum.
Real flavors trumped word flavors, so it was easier to get through a class without too much interference from her taste buds when chewing gum.
She opened the pack to find it empty. “Sugar stacks,” she cursed.
She couldn’t very well swear like everyone else and say shit without tasting that too.
The unfortunate circumstance of an early association being made when her mom bemoaned stepping in dog shit on a walk when she was five.
She would have much preferred the word being associated with surprise or being startled; then it might taste like birthday cake or starfruit.
Effie dropped her tote to the floor beside her. She’d just have to suffer through .
Effie laid the materials out on the large bench used for cutting fabric.
She covered it with a tablecloth so it wouldn’t get ruined and went to work creating stations.
Each consisted of a picture frame with real glass, craft paint, Elmer’s Glue, black puff paint for the leading, palettes, and junky paintbrushes that wouldn’t mind the glue.
She set cups of water at each station to rinse the brushes, and in the center of the long table, copies of various designs ready to be traced onto the glass.
Effie had created a design of a lady slipper orchid, her favorite flower.
Another depicted a teacup atop a stack of books.
The last was a simplistic rendering of a cardinal on a birch branch.
Each was already divided into sections to mimic the look of stained glass so that her students could focus on tracing and color placement.
Effie picked the book and teacup design for herself and sat at the end of the bench with her supplies.
She checked her watch, bouncing her knee.
Her stomach always housed a swarm of butterflies before class started.
The prospect that she might have to engage with someone under the age of fifty always triggered her anxiety.
The bell chimed, and a couple of greying heads bobbed down the aisle to her counter.
It was Mr. and Mrs. Robecheck. They were both teachers at the local high school and very kind.
They frequented Effie’s classes and fondly remembered her as a quiet yet diligent student in their English Honors and culinary classes respectively.
“I’m excited for this one!” Mrs. Robecheck chimed as she took a seat and drew a bottle of cabernet from her oversized tote.
Effie loved that they always brought gaudy goblets to drink from too.
The ones she had tonight bore stems cast into gold talons.
Effie was grateful they were the first to arrive.
She settled into excitement instead of letting the butterflies win out .
The bell chimed again, and Effie recognized one of Ellen’s mom friends and her husband.
Not exactly Effie’s peers, but it was more intimidating trying to entertain someone closer to her age.
They smiled politely and took their seats as well, unpacking their picnic-style wineglasses and a bottle that Effie herself would have bought just based on the label, bedecked in dazzling floral illustrations.
“We’re waiting for two more,” she announced. “But if you want to choose your designs, there are few options in the center. If you’re feeling extra adventurous, you can grab a blank sheet and draw your own while we wait.” Everyone leaned in and picked a premade design.
“Did you draw these yourself?” Ellen’s mom friend asked.
“I did,” Effie proclaimed with some pride.
Her little band of pupils nodded, impressed.
It was a morsel compared to Hope’s fame or Louisa’s talent on the stage, but it was enough for Effie.
At least it used to be. Rumblings of wanting to be singled out and admired rapped against her mental walls.
They had worked their way forward in incremental gains since she realized life would be different all over again with the arrival of Hope’s baby.
She chalked it up to envy and shoved the thoughts back to their cells.
After only a couple minutes wait, the door chimed again. Effie’s stomach shot up her throat as soon as she realized who walked in. Theodore Tillerman. And he wasn’t alone.