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  Across the gallery a little knot of attendees burst into laughter. From their midst emerged a trim middle-aged man in beautifully tailored evening clothes. His head was completely bald and shone as if waxed. Diamond studs sparkled in his earlobes, and a vest, lavishly embroidered in deep metallic blues and greens, could be glimpsed beneath his dinner jacket. A man’s voice somewhere to Elizabeth’s right said in a low tone to an unseen companion, “He’s here to protect his little investment. I warned him that he was taking a chance with a loose cannon like Boz, but oh no, the big gallery owner knows best. He swears that the photographs from this performance will fly out the door, once he mounts the show at the QuerY.”

  “I’d heard that he likes them rough,” sniffed the other man. “I, personally, don’t care for the acne-pitted look. Now, the other one…that blond boy…quite delicious. Just like that gorgeous elf in the Lord of the Rings films.”

  The owner of Asheville’s newest gallery had succeeded in gaining Boz’s attention and was trailing after him, speaking urgently as the young artist continued his circuit of the room, seemingly intent on capturing images of all the attendees. After a few minutes, Boz turned the camera on the bald man, aiming first at his shining head, then, as he had done with the shapely trophy wife, slowly panning the gallery owner’s body, pausing at his crotch, then crouching down to angle for a rear shot.

  The bald man whirled, his face flaming, and melted back into the crowd. Pleased snickers erupted from the pair at Elizabeth’s right, and they, too, moved away, trading delighted speculations as to whether or not those particular photographs would show up at the QuerY.

  Elizabeth looked around the crowded room for Laurel, who seemed to have disappeared. Standing on tiptoe, she tried to catch a glimpse of her daughter’s fiery mop of dreadlocks amid the careful coiffures of the society matrons who were giggling like teenagers as they struck match after match.

  But Laurel was nowhere in sight. Elizabeth began edging toward the door that led to the smaller gallery where photographs of rural Appalachia were on display. She had seen them before, but…All this silly carrying-on, she thought, I need to look at something real.

  She wove her way between the chattering art patrons, feeling safely invisible in her anonymous black skirt and white shirt. Maybe not exactly invisible, she thought, as a pair of men thrust empty glasses in her direction while continuing to squabble amicably about the stock market.

  At the door to the smaller gallery, Elizabeth stopped and scanned the crowd once more for sight of her daughter. No sign of Laurel, nor, she suddenly realized, of The 3. She hesitated, wondering if a new phase of the performance was about to begin. But the smell and smoke of hundreds of matches were beginning to be annoying. Deciding that she would risk missing whatever was next, Elizabeth shouldered her way between two brittle-faced women who were regaling each other in piercing tones with horror stories concerning the outrageous demands of their respective au pairs.

  The smaller gallery was blessedly quiet and almost empty. A few patrons studied the large black-and-white photographs whose subjects were so like many of Elizabeth’s neighbors. Straight ahead of her was a picture of a sturdy white-haired woman in a housedress leaning down to milk a cow. That looks familiar. Elizabeth smiled, remembering her recently deceased neighbor. She moved slowly around the gallery, working her way to her favorite picture— a shaggy workhorse being led down through a snowy barnyard toward a rude gate— when she heard voices.

  She paused to read the artist’s statement, which was on an easel by the door. Beyond the door stretched a small hallway where restrooms and an elevator were located, and glancing out the door, Elizabeth saw The 3 reflected in the glass of a framed poster hanging beside the elevator. She was about to move away to avoid being caught skipping out on their performance piece when she heard Aidan say, “And you’ll show up before they actually arrest me?” In the reflection she could see him tossing his long ash-blond hair back in a strangely girlish gesture. “I don’t want to end up in a cell with some big Bubba type who fancies me for his bitch.”

  She could see the mirrored Boz clap Aidan on the shoulder and hear the growl of his deep voice. “Don’t worry, man; I’ll be back in time to save your skinny ass.”

  Her curiosity fully in gear, Elizabeth strained to catch what Kyra was saying. The young woman’s voice was pitched low and she sounded distressed: “…tell us where you’ll be…danger…” That was all Elizabeth heard before Boz’s deep rumble cut off Kyra’s murmurings.

  “Naw, baby girl, it’s better Aidan don’t know where I’m at. They might want to give him a lie detector test and he’d spill his guts. Now you two get on back in there and we’ll get this show on the road.”

  Hastily, Elizabeth moved away from the door and hurried back to the main gallery and the pile of burnt matches. Without the presence of The 3 and their busy cameras, the attendees/participants seemed to have grown a little weary of the game. Many were frankly ignoring the unopened matchboxes still on the gridded wall. Most of the men seemed to be huddled discussing financial matters or golf, and the table where champagne was being poured was doing a lively business. The ancient benefactress and her bodyguard were gone, but no one had presumed to sit in her chair. The director and the chairman stood on either side of it, deep in talk, each holding an empty champagne flute.

  “What do you think, Mum?” Laurel, her tall, slender frame draped in a floating garment made of red-orange silk shot with gold threads, materialized suddenly at her mother’s elbow and waved her glass at the pile of matchsticks on the red circle. “Look at the composition that makes! And the grid on the walls— well, obviously it references Mondrian, but the ongoing depletion speaks so clearly to a postmodern sensibility!” She nodded toward the dark lattice of shelving. It was mostly empty now, but for a few untouched matchboxes, and Elizabeth had to admit that it did have a certain…

  “Well,” she ventured, “in the words of the philosopher, I don’t know much about art, but— where did that outfit come from, Laurel? It looks expensive.”

  Laurel grinned and struck a pose. “It’s an original— a friend lent it to me. We did a trade; I’m going to model some stuff for—”

  She broke off as Kyra and Aidan reentered the room and began snapping pictures again. Elizabeth was amused to note that many of the patrons who had been busy with their champagne and gossip were suddenly moved to resume the lighting and extinguishing of matches. Just as one particularly expensive-looking woman was elaborately placing her scorched match at the very apex of the pile, there was a loud hissing sound.

  The crowd of art patrons parted, revealing Boz, carrying a hefty fire extinguisher in one hand. His other hand held its hose and he grinned with manic glee as he aimed the dripping nozzle at first one woman and then another. Each brief hiss was accompanied by a little jet of white foam.

  The crowd shrank back— but not too far— eager to see what the next act of the performance piece might hold. Boz advanced steadily on the pile of burnt matches and the blonde woman in the blue-green dress, who seemed frozen there, her hand extended over the twisted and blackened slivers.

  The onlookers stared in delighted anticipation as Boz, brandishing the hose, came nearer and nearer to the stricken woman. She uttered a tiny sound— fear? excitement?— but stood stock-still, as if hypnotized. Boz, his face set in a demonic rictus, raised the fire extinguisher as if in salute, then slowly lowered it and covered the cowering woman and the pile of burnt matches with white foam.

  There was stunned silence and then Boz spoke. “Aidan, you pathetic shit, it’s over.” He dropped the fire extinguisher and walked calmly over to Aidan and Kyra. A woman behind Elizabeth whispered, “Isn’t this exciting! I just adore performance art! But I had no idea that Marilou was going to be part of it.”

  Marilou, evidently the woman who had been sprayed with foam, didn’t act as if she had known either. She was wiping the white froth from her arms and making sputtering noises as she stared down at the r
uin of her turquoise silk gown. The throng of guests made no move to assist her as they watched eagerly to see what would happen next.

  Elizabeth was confused. Aidan and Kyra seemed to be cowering away from Boz as he approached. He strode toward them, his body massive in the black slacks and black T-shirt that were the uniform of The 3, his red cowboy boots resounding on the slick floor. The two stood mute while Boz reached out, snatched the cameras from their hands, and hurled them to the floor. With a sardonic grin he ground his boot heel into a metal case. There was a sharp crack and a lens popped out and skittered across the polished floor. The boot heel came down again, crushing the second camera.

  “Boz, you crazy fucker!” Aidan’s anguished howl reverberated in the stunned silence as he dove for the sad little pile of broken components. “You’re destroying the show!”

  “You got it, little buddy,” replied Boz. Satisfied that the cameras were ruined, he walked placidly over to the nearest wall and began pulling down the flimsy shelves. Kyra was crying helplessly and the woman who was standing behind Elizabeth whispered again, a little dubiously this time, “It’s all part of the art, isn’t it?”

  CHAPTER 2

  “I’LL BE BACK”

  (SATURDAY NIGHT, AUGUST 27, AND MONDAY MORNING, AUGUST 29)

  AND THEN,” ELIZABETH SAID, “BOZ RAISED HIS fist and shouted, ‘That’s the end of The 3!’ And he looked over at Kyra, who was sobbing her heart out by now, and he did this big wink and said, ‘I’ll be back,’ you know, like in that movie, and then he walked out while everyone just stood there. A few people started to clap but with Aidan looking so furious and Kyra so terribly upset, really, no one was sure what was going on.”

  Elizabeth and Ben were sitting in her kitchen, sharing a late-night snack of rum-soaked peach slices and fresh blueberries. She had returned after the show to find her nephew sprawled on the sofa, watching a movie and obviously waiting to hear about the performance. Three years ago, Ben, her sister’s son, had graduated from college with a degree in philosophy. After a year of travel, financed by odd jobs of every description, he had come to live with her at Full Circle Farm, asking only room and board in exchange for his labor in the fields and drying sheds. Ben had spent many summers on the farm and had already proven himself a reliable worker. Furthermore, he had a relationship with the aging tractor that, in Elizabeth’s opinion, bordered on black magic. Whereas she was often baffled by its seemingly random breakdowns, Ben always knew exactly what fluid to add or which widget to replace in order to appease the sulky mechanical brute.

  She had welcomed him, happy for the company, now that both of her girls had lives elsewhere, and grateful for his help. Ben had moved into the old cabin across the creek from her house, and within three months, he, with the help of Julio, a Mexican worker who lived in a house near the drying sheds, had taken over most of the day-to-day operations along with all the heavy lifting. His efforts had almost doubled the farm’s revenues, and Elizabeth had made him a partner in the business.

  “Well, hell,” he said, staring gloomily into the empty bowl that sat on the table before him, “now I wish I’d gone. I was afraid it would be kind of lame and I had work to do here, so…you say Kyra was crying? Was she really upset? Or do you think it was just part of the act?”

  Elizabeth studied Ben narrowly. For some time now she had suspected that her big, handsome, and unattached nephew was more than a little interested in their pretty new neighbor. Several times he had commented on “the way she lets those guys take advantage of her,” and his frequent visits “just to see how they’re getting along” had not gone unnoticed.

  “Hard to say, Ben. You see…” and she told him what she had overheard just before the final scene. “I guess it was all planned but Kyra did look really…I guess the word would be ‘distraught.’ She ran off after Boz and then Aidan just stood there for a while. He didn’t say anything, just kept looking around at the mess Boz had made of their stuff. There was foam everywhere and the cameras were completely trashed. Then he just kind of stomped out of the gallery. There was a little applause again but that died out pretty quickly and everyone left— well, as soon as the champagne was gone, everyone left.”

  “What did Laurel think?” Ben rose and stretched, then collected their bowls and carried them to the sink.

  “She wouldn’t say anything…just looked smug and hummed a few bars of that old gospel song— you know the one, ‘Farther along we’ll know all about it,/Farther along we’ll understand why.’ ”

  * * *

  Twenty-one years, Elizabeth thought, as she unpinned her long coil of dark hair, brushing it and plaiting it into a loose braid. She noted the white hairs that silvered the braid, more every day, and shrugged. Her deep blue eyes looked unseeing into the mirror. Sam and I came to Full Circle Farm twenty-one years ago. And Rosemary is twenty-nine; Laurel, the baby, is a sophisticated twenty-five…and you, Elizabeth, are fifty-three. When did all this happen? It seems like forever…and it seems like yesterday.

  It had been an idyllic life, raising their two daughters on this beautiful North Carolina mountainside. She and Sam had been fortunate in so many ways, not least in their shared love for the land and each other.

  In the early years they had grown tobacco like their neighbors: plowing the steep hillsides with mules, growing the plants from seed, setting them in the long rows, hoeing the rocky soil to discourage the rampant weeds, topping the tall plants by cutting off the pink flowering shoot at the top to encourage the main leaves to grow larger, snapping off the useless suckers. They had been willing acolytes to the endless familiar ritual that bound the families of their rural community. At one with our brothers in the Third World, Sam had said one spring day as they set out plants using crooked sticks to dig holes in the muddy fields. But when the sprays— herbicides, fungicides, sucker control— needed to make a crop became ever more numerous and ever more toxic, Sam and Elizabeth had gone organic, turning their fields over to flowers and herbs.

  Now, after some lean years, Full Circle Farm’s fresh herbs and edible flowers were in constant demand among Asheville’s growing number of trendy restaurants. And the luxuriant wreaths of dried flowers and herbs that Elizabeth designed and constructed in her workshop, with part-time help when big orders came in, sold briskly.

  The work kept me going, the work and the girls…. It’ll be six years in December, she thought, as she turned out the bathroom light and sought the comfort of the old brass bed. Sam was whistling “Good King Wenceslas” as he headed out the door. And that was the last time I saw him.

  Six years ago, Sam had died in the crash of a friend’s small plane. And she had gone on.

  * * *

  Monday morning came and with it a necessary trip into Asheville for various items unattainable in Ransom. Most of her errands accomplished, Elizabeth swung by her daughter’s studio, hoping to take her to lunch. Laurel’s mixed-media work, requiring ever larger canvases or wooden panels, as well as a flea market’s worth of odds and ends—found objects, Mum, they’re called objets trouvés— had overflowed her tiny Asheville apartment. Finally she had rented a space in the River District where a motley collection of old warehouses and mills had been reborn as studios for much of Asheville’s thriving art community.

  The district was a bit of a mixed bag: spread over several miles along railroad tracks that ran near the French Broad River, it contained some carefully restored buildings, some that were minimally habitable, and some that were empty ruins; the majority, however, were simply aging structures that had been brought into compliance with code as cheaply as possible in order to be reborn as low-rent studios.

  The space Laurel had taken was in The Wedge— a three-storied clump of buildings that housed potters, fiber artists, painters, a world dance studio, and four sculptors, including one whose raw material was steel. Elizabeth had visited briefly when Laurel had moved in and had come away with the impression of a busy, if assuredly eccentric, community. It really gets you fir
ed up, Mum, being around other artists, Laurel had explained. If you’re working hard, no one will bother you. But if you lose momentum, all you have to do is walk down the hall— there’s a communal kitchen where you can fix a cup of tea or something to eat— and you’ll always find someone to talk to.

  She found her daughter in the parking lot behind The Wedge, standing beside her recently acquired secondhand VW van. Ragged overalls splattered with bright paint hung loosely on her spare frame. A greasy young man was deep in the tiny engine compartment, and as Elizabeth approached he withdrew his head and held up some unidentifiable engine part. “Fahrvergnugen!” he declared, and flashed a dazzling grin before plunging back into the bowels of the van.

  “Oh, Mum, thank god you’re here!” Laurel scooped her knapsack from the cracked pavement and loped toward the jeep. “Can you give me a ride down to the junkyard? I promised Rafiq I’d be there at noon and Milo says he has to rebuild the engine before the van’ll move.”

  Elizabeth forbore saying that she had warned Laurel that old VW vans were notoriously unreliable, that she and Sam had had one, possibly even this same one, twenty years ago, and it had given them nothing but grief. Like her parents before her, Laurel had been seduced by the cozy little camper setup, and, with visions of a cross-country trip luring her on, she had traded her aging but reliable Subaru for this hippie cliché.

  “The junkyard?” Elizabeth frowned at her daughter. “I was thinking more along the lines of maybe going somewhere for sushi.”

  “We can do that after.” Laurel settled herself in the passenger seat. “Let’s just get going and I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

  During the drive to the junkyard, Laurel explained that Rafiq was a friend of hers, an artist who did sculpture from junk cars. “He’s crushing one today at noon— he always does them at noon or sunrise or sunset— he has this thing about portals— he, like, casts the car’s horoscope and when and where the car was built determines how he aligns it in the crusher and when— Oh, it’s totally hard to describe—” Laurel broke off. “But I wanted to go and take pictures. It’ll just take a few minutes and then we can go somewhere for lunch.”