I couldn't help notice my neighbor when we were setting up our stalls. For one thing, hers was right next to mine. For another, her compact, curvy frame moved with efficient grace as she set her paintings out for display. The big thing, though, was her cropped hair - an elegant cap the color of burnished steel. That, plus a face full of laugh lines (and a few others) really set her apart from the generally younger crowd of artists setting up for the fair. Having someone my own age right there made me feel a bit less ancient.
We were both set up comfortably before the gates opened, so she had time to change from jeans and sneakers into her "show" clothes. On her, that meant a linen jacket and slacks, barely-there sandals, and a gray blouse. The scoop neck wasn't especially daring, but her soft, heavy bust showed plenty of cleavage - and a pleasant bobble as she moved around the stall. She wore a wedding band, too. (C'mon, I'm a jeweler. I notice jewelry.) Outside of that, she had an un-fussy look: no makeup that I could tell, and short, neat nails.
She introduced herself, during the lull before the gates opened. "Hi, I'm Bette." She extended a hand in businesslike greeting.
"Beth?" My hearing isn't the best any more. "Dan. It's a pleasure." Her small, cool hand took mine in formal greeting. It always makes a good impression on me when a woman gives a real handshake.
"That's Bette." She accentuated the last 'T' sound. "You have some nice work here." She looked around the cases near the entrance to my stall. A lot of those pieces were priced to help a teenage boy impress a girlfriend. A few were meant to attract more discriminating buyers - Bette had zeroed in on those immediately.
"I'll be happy to show you more when things get quiet. And I'd like a tour of your paintings, too." A few of them were 'safe' subjects, mountain landscapes or girls in white dresses. They showed competence. I'm sure one or another would go with the colors in just about any living room. The abstractions really caught my eye, though. They covered a range of moods, often in colors that really wouldn't go with the couch - but good art never does.
"Sure. When do you take a break?"
"Monday," I answered. "It's just me here."
"Me too. I'm sure a moment will come up."
Once the gates opened, it didn't come until late afternoon. She's a social type, greeting anyone who came in, chatting with anyone chatty. I tried to look busy - an easy thing to do, when I had about six hundred more jump rings to link into the choker necklace I was working on, and more work after that. Some customers get a kick out of seeing me making the jewelry they might buy, and maybe buy it for that reason.
When the day warmed up, Bette hung her jacket over a chair. The blouse was short-sleeved, and showed a surprising tattoo on her upper arm. I offered her bottled water from my cooler, when a quiet moment came for both of us. I pointed to her arm and asked, "May I see?"
She showed me a relatively recent tattoo, still sharp-edged, not blurred with time, but completely healed. Two gold rings linked together, side by side, with a roses' stem woven between them. The name 'Mark' appeared below, along with three numbers. They looked like a year just a little after I was born, another just two years prior to the current date, and a third one between the two. Two years might be birth and death, the middle one puzzled me. I read it aloud, with a question inflection.
"That was the year Mark and I married."
"Wow. Not many couples last thirty five years, any more." She smiled, but somehow her eyes weren't smiling along. Cautiously, I asked about the third number.
"That's when he died." She could say it conversationally, despite the emotion behind the words. Then, rather than let me fumble saying something inept and sympathetic, she added. "Life goes on." I took the hint that the topic was closed.
Later that afternoon, the cell phone in her jacket pocket rang. She got to it and answered on the third ring. "Hello?" A pause, "Speaking. What can I do for you?"
I had a customer at that point, so didn't catch any more. Her tone of voice and gestures took on an angry edge. My non-buying customer wandered out about the same time she flicked the phone shut with a sharp click.
"Damn."
"What was that?" I asked cautiously - sometimes, anger overflows.
"That was my hotel, telling me I don't have a room after all. A construction crew broke the water main that supplies the place, and the board of health shut them down until the water comes back and they can flush the pipes. That will probably be tomorrow, but I'm still stuck for tonight."
"Ouch." I wasn't quite sure what to say. "So, what now?"
"They're trying to find another room for me, but they said it might take a while. Everything else is booked for miles around, because of this fair, and another hotel with the same problem was competing with them to find rooms for their customers. What about you?"
"I have a camper and a spot over at the state park. It sleeps two." Oops - that came out before I realized what I was saying. It does sleep two, but two together.
"Uh, Sam?" Here it comes, I thought, the appeal to my chivalry that I won't be able to turn down.
"Yes?"
"Could you ... would it be OK if I ..." She wasn't quite sure how to ask.
"Stay in my camper? Sure - but when I said 'sleeps two,' that means one big bed. Big enough two and some space between them."
"Well, we're both grownups. Just sleep, right?"
I imitated a Boy Scout salute. "Just sleep."
----
The fair closed for the night long after dark. We both packed our stock up for the night. She loaded the paintings into a small pickup with a hard shell over the bed, and I moved my cases into a compartment in the back of my van.
"That's your camper?" She looked a little askance. Really, it's just a largish passenger van with a sleeping platform in the back. Extra headroom keeps it from being too claustrophobic, but two people in there would have trouble avoiding each other.
"If you don't want to ..."
She cut me off. "The only room the hotel could find for me was over an hour away." With a late night and an early start in the morning to set up again, that wouldn't give her rest. "Just sleep, right?"
"Just sleep."
She parked her pickup in the exhibitors' lot and grabbed a small overnight bag. I put it in the back of the van, and she got into the passenger's seat. The park was only a little way away. I parked and said, "I'll be right back." I rummaged for my toothbrush and toothpaste.
"Where are you going?"
"Men's room. I'll just be a minute."
"Wait, I'll go with you." Once she had her toiletry bag in hand, we walked to the only building in sight. She entered her door and I went into mine. After I finished, I waited outside and we walked back together. She stepped hesitantly through the side door of the van, into the lit interior.
I offered, "I could sleep on the floor. I have an extra blanket somewhere."
"Don't be silly. I'm not kicking you out of your own bed. The deal is, just sleep, right?"
"Right."
"Grownups should be able to handle it." She started taking off her jacket. "Now, if you don't mind ..." A little twirling motion with one finger.
"Oh, right." I turned around and started undressing. I usually sleep buff, but kept my boxers and T-shirt tonight. I heard the zipper on her bag, some rustling, and the zipper again.
"OK, I'm all set." She had a black, over-sized T shirt on, and modest black panties. She crawled over to one side of the platform, and I moved as far as I could to the other side.
"Good night." I turned the lights out.