The Girl I Used to Be by Heidi Hostetter (booksvooks .txt) 📗

gathered at the table. They ranged in age, Jill estimated, from fifties to eighties, with an easy camaraderie that suggested their friendship was unwavering. They chose to meet at the kitchen table and welcomed Jill as if she were part of the group already, just what Aunt Sarah would have done—and that was a good sign.

Already the experience was very different from the Brockhurst interview.

“Ladies, this is Jill DiFiore, the photographer,” Betty announced.

There was that title again. Jill felt a flicker of pride.

“Jill, this is Mrs. Ivey.” Betty started her introduction with the most senior member of the group. Seated at the head of the table, Mrs. Ivey reminded Jill of her first-grade teacher, a woman who had the power to silence a noisy classroom with a frown and comfort a child with a kind word. She wore a cardigan over a printed dress, as Jill’s teacher had, though Mrs. Ivey was quite a bit older.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Jill offered.

The woman’s gaze sharpened, as if she may have recognized Jill. Which of course was impossible. Marc had discouraged her from mixing with the locals at Dewberry, so she never did. She was confident that nobody in Dewberry Beach would know who she was.

“Mrs. Ivey works with the town to get us what we need for the festival. Securing permits, blocking off the streets, setting up first aid stations: all of it,” Betty continued. “There’s no one better placed to navigate the bureaucracy of local government, even in a town as small as Dewberry.”

“I was a middle school English teacher for many years and that comes with certain privileges.” Mrs. Ivey’s voice sounded haughty, but her blue eyes twinkled with unmistakable mischief.

“Most of the town council were students of yours. I hear they’re still afraid of you,” one of the women teased as she reached for a plate. Tall and thin, she wore a sensible knit cardigan, and her short brown hair was swept off her face and held back with tortoiseshell clips. “Remember that council meeting you busted in on last year? It was supposed to be closed-door, but no one dared to bar you from it.”

“And this is Kaye,” Betty interrupted with a laugh. “Kaye will always tell you what she thinks, and we love her for it.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Ivey addressed Kaye, as if Betty hadn’t spoken. “The only students who had reason to be concerned were the ones who neglected their work.” Mrs. Ivey’s expression suggested suppressed laughter, as if she were in on the joke.

The woman seated next to Kaye spoke up. “The fact that everyone in town—without exception—still calls you ‘Mrs. Ivey’ says something, don’t you think?” The woman turned her attention to Jill. “I’m Brenda, by the way. It’s nice to meet you.”

Jill liked Brenda immediately. She radiated an easy confidence, as if she were happy with the world and content with her place in it. She wore a black turtleneck sweater over baggy jeans, and her long dark hair was swept into a bright scarf knotted behind her ear. But it was her necklace that utterly captivated Jill, an intricate mix of turquoise nuggets and silver balls, threaded on delicate silver wire and woven loosely together. The pattern of blue and silver absorbed and reflected the light as she moved, an effect that proved all the more striking against her black sweater.

Betty must have noticed Jill’s gaze. “Brenda is our resident artist.”

A kettle whistled on the stove and Betty rose from her chair to see to it. “More hot tea in a moment, ladies,” she called over her shoulder.

“Brenda’s in charge of artist submissions for the auction on Friday,” Kaye said, picking up the introduction. “She was the one who pushed us to start an amateur show too, and that’s been very successful.” Kaye stifled a smile. “And her most recent contribution was the open call for a crafts table.”

“Don’t remind me.” Brenda rolled her eyes and groaned. “The painted-shell people.”

“Who are the shell people?” Jill asked as she noticed Mrs. Ivey shudder good-naturedly.

Kaye reached for Brenda’s arm and squeezed. “Year before last, we all had the idea to expand the festival. We wanted to make the art gallery more accessible to emerging artists in the area, the ones who had no other place to show their work. Sounds like a good idea, right?”

Jill nodded.

“What we wanted was a mix of fine art and handmade crafts.”

Brenda sighed as she sagged against her chair. “That’s not what we got.”

“What we actually got,” Kaye snorted, “was an avalanche of bleached shells—glittered, painted, and hot-glued to everything from beer can airplanes to wicker picture frames.”

Betty called from the sink as she filled the kettle, “Wasn’t that the year Mrs. Ivey arranged for local news coverage to promote the festival?”

“Now, now,” Mrs. Ivey cut in. “The idea of a place for local artists to show their work is very good. I hope we haven’t given up on that.”

“We haven’t. I still think it’s a good idea.” Brenda leaned toward Kaye and bumped her with her shoulder, her expression affectionate. “Next time we’ll ask them what they plan to sell. You can be in charge of that.”

As they chatted and got to know each other, the conversation flowed along with the tea. The sound of laughter filled Betty’s small kitchen. Jill leaned into the warmth of their group and wondered what it would be like to count these women as friends.

Betty added, “Don’t forget that it was your idea, Kaye, to put the art auction online so people outside Dewberry Beach can participate. That decision alone doubled our profits, three years running.” Betty turned to Jill. “Kaye’s son-in-law, Ryan, does all the technical stuff. He’s a wizard—he sets up the website and does live updates during festival weekend.” Then her voice softened as she flicked her gaze to Kaye. “And Kaye’s daughter, Stacy, just had another baby girl.”

The tea made, Betty brought a tray to the table. On it was a fresh teapot with a matching mug