I burrowed back under the covers and tried not to think about what the rain would do to the flimsy canvas tents we’d rented for the Folk Art Festival the co-op was sponsoring this weekend. As curator of the Josiah Sinclair Folk Art Museum and chairman of the Artists’ Co-op affiliated with it, it was up to me to figure out what to do, and at that moment all I felt capable of was turning over and going back to sleep.
Formerly a morning person, I’d come to dread them since Jack died. There were times, in that moment between sleep and wakefulness, when I’d hear his voice call my name as clear as if he were bending over me, and I would jerk up, my heart beating like a puppy’s, to confront an empty room. But in the last month or two, I’d become wise to my mind’s tricks, and though I still heard his voice, I’d bury my head in my pillow, refusing to be fooled, except for my heart.
I crawled out of bed and padded into the kitchen. A gust of wind and rain sprayed the windows again, giving me the feeling of being trapped inside a giant car wash. After putting on the coffee and feeding some bread to the toaster, I lifted the shade over the sink and studied my reflection in the dark window. I undid my braid and pulled my fingers through the tangled curls. If Dove succeeded in pawning Aunt Garnet off on me, it’d be my hair as well as my social life she’d be after. Though she’d long ago given up on Dove and Daddy, Rita and I gave her fresh fodder for her self-acclaimed matchmaking abilities. I felt a brief flash of sympathy for my young cousin. Rita was no match for Aunt Garnet’s Noah’s-Ark mentality.
Flipping on the radio to KCOW, I commiserated with Patsy Cline as she fell to pieces. Brahma Bob gave his usual highly professional and scientific meteorological report—“Rain, rain, rain, as far as this cowboy can see.”
After burning my throat with the first cup of coffee, I carried the second into the bedroom to root around for something to wear. Yesterday’s jeans hung on the post of my brass bed and looked clean enough for one more day. I grabbed one of Jack’s faded flannel shirts, tucked it into my jeans and rolled up the sleeves. Except for his old Colt .45 pistol, they were the only things of his I hadn’t packed away. I’d followed the advice of friends and family and started a new life, but as I rubbed the soft, frayed collar of Jack’s shirt against my cheek, I couldn’t help but wonder what I would do when they all wore out.
Pulling on one brown boot, I limped around searching for the other. It still amazed me how disorganized I’d become since living alone. Though I’d maintained the Harper Ranch books for ten years, in the three months since I’d moved to town I’d had two warnings from the electric company, spent more time than seemed possible searching for my truck keys, and had once squeezed Ben-Gay on my toothbrush.
After a few minutes of half-hearted searching, I gave up and settled for a pair of white hightop Reeboks and quickly rebraided my hair.
The rain peppered my face with icy needles as I dashed out to the red Chevy pickup truck Jack and I bought the first year we were married. Driving south down University Avenue toward the museum, I became ensnarled in a traffic jam of ranchers’ trucks, students late for class and senior citizens trying to make that last breakfast-special. It was the first storm of the season, and San Celina, like all California towns south of San Francisco, was unprepared for its intensity. A pink-haired old lady in a tan Gremlin shot me the bird when I accidentally cut in front of her. I laughed when she ignored my palm-up apology and sped past me. I guess senior citizens in a college town had to get tough or move on.
The old Sinclair Hacienda, once so isolated it took a day on horseback to reach the nearest neighbor, now shared its little piece of commercially zoned real estate with the huge Coastal Valley Farm Supply, San Celina Feed and Grain Co-op and a dozen or so small businesses housed in metal prefab buildings. The rain had washed the off-white adobe walls of the two-story hacienda clean of its usual dust, and the building’s normally dull, red-tiled roof glistened.
I parked my truck beneath the initial-scarred oak tree at the back of the lot and squeezed through the small pickups and Japanese imports of the artists, managing to avoid all but one puddle.
Trudging through the lobby, my now piebald shoes squeaking like rubber cat toys, I inspected what Eric, the museum’s alleged maintenance man, had accomplished.
In the main hall, the floor was a mine field of tools; wooden quilt hangers languished against the adobe walls, and stacks of quilts lay wrapped in tissue and old sheets I’d scrounged from friends, family and members of the co-op. Plastic would have been easier to get and kept the quilts cleaner, but the book on old quilts I’d almost memorized while getting the exhibit put together said it would rot the delicate cotton fibers.
A portable stereo with tiny speakers blasted Van Halen while a leak from the ceiling into a tin saucepan added a percussive zing every few seconds. Silence answered me when I called Eric’s name.
Eric Griffin, part-time handyman and full-time goof-off, had been hired by Constance Sinclair, zealous patron of Central California arts and richest lady in the county. The Josiah Sinclair Folk Art Museum, named for her great-grandfather, was currently one of her favorite projects. Eric, the footloose son of some acquaintance of hers, was another.
She felt all he needed to discover what he should do with his life was the encouragement of an older, wiser person and the
