practiced for many years.
* * *
On the first day of the fair, Laurel rose bright and early. She dressed carefully, choosing a flowing rayon skirt and a simple sleeveless blouse that left her arms free for pottery demonstrations. After twisting her long red hair into a large braid, she put on a pair of dangly silver and turquoise earrings and just a touch of makeup. She smiled at her reflection, realizing she looked every inch the part of the Bohemian artist.
Soon after she arrived at the gallery, Cooper came by to check whether she needed anything and to critique what he had seen so far of the festival. She thanked him but said she had all she required, except maybe a cup of tea to ward off the morning chill. He smiled and gallantly offered to fetch ‘whatever the talented artiste requires.’ In truth, Laurel was interested in getting him out of her hair for a while. She appreciated his help, both in securing the interview with Crenshaw and his support at the fair itself, but his biting cynicism about the other artists, the fair, and the patrons threatened to interfere with her enjoyment of the event. It was a joyous occasion for her, and she wanted to feel . . . joyful.
Laurel was setting up for a ten o’clock demonstration when she heard a vaguely familiar voice behind her.
“Laurel Elliot, is that really you?”
She whirled around and gasped. “Adrienne? Adrienne Smith?” She held her arms open wide and the two women hugged and squealed like high school girls.
“Yes, it’s me! How in the hell are you? It’s been what . . . four years?”
“Since graduation. What have you been up to? Are you one of the artists here?”
“Oh no, not here, no. I’m working.”
“Working?”
“I work for Neil Crenshaw. I’m making the rounds to double check that everything’s set up and ready to go. I saw your name on the roster, and I just had to come over and see if it was my Laurel Elliot in the big fancy gallery. Is this your work?” She stopped to examine one of the pieces.
“Yes, it’s mine.”
Adrienne nodded appreciatively. “Simple and beautiful, but then I’m not a bit surprised.”
“Thanks.” Laurel checked the time. “Hey, listen, I’ve got to do this demonstration, but I should be finished by 11:30, and the gallery will be closed until one. You wanna go grab some lunch somewhere?”
“I’d love to! Can we make it 11:45? That will give me time to finish up my morning and get back here.”
“I can meet you somewhere.”
They made arrangements, and Laurel hugged her old school friend one more time. “It’s incredible to see you. I can’t wait to have a nice leisurely lunch and catch up.”
Adrienne cocked her head at Laurel, a question in her eyes, but then she gave her an enthusiastic nod. “I’ll be there,” she promised.
* * *
“What do you mean you’re not coming to lunch? Cooper will be there.” Mr. Elliot was unusually stern when Laurel told him about her plans.
“Just that — I’m not coming to lunch. I promised Adrienne, and I haven’t seen her in ages. I’ve already seen Cooper this morning — twice.”
Her father tried a patient voice instead. “Laurel, I know you’d like to see your friend, but this lunch is quite an honor. Cooper had to pull some strings to get us in, and I think you ought to go. It will give you a chance to see what these people are about and how to fit in with them.”
“Dad, is this you talking or is it Cooper? Since when have you worried about any of us ‘fitting in?’”
He looked crestfallen. “This weekend is important, daughter. Finally, you have a chance to be successful at what you love to do. It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it — recognition for your talent and your hard work?”
“No, it’s what you’ve apparently decided you want for me, Dad, and I love you for it. But recognition wasn’t ever my motivation for my art. It was never what I always wanted. I wanted — ”
She paused.
“You wanted what?”
A life with James. She didn’t utter that out loud, however, and just shook her head a little. “I just want to see my friend, and she’s free for lunch. I won’t break my plans with her because some better offer came along.”
“Well, when you put it that way, it does sound rude, but if she works for Neil Crenshaw, I’m sure she’d understand.”
“Perhaps she would, but that