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She sighed heavily. "I'm doing the best I can. And she has you and all that huge family."
"You're her mother."
"Yes, I know. As I said, I'm doing my best."
I gritted my teeth because as far as I was concerned, she wasn't, but I was determined to stay on civil terms with her.
“Chad, you know motherhood has never been my thing. We weren’ttryingto get pregnant, remember? It just happened. I’m doing what I can.”
"If that's all," I said, "then I have to start my day."
"Sure, sure," she said distractedly. "So do I."
After hanging up, I looked down into the courtyard, but Scarlett wasn't there. I chuckled to myself. If anyone had told me a few months ago that I'd be looking out the window multiple times a day for a glimpse of the woman I loved, I would've told them they were crazy.
I sucked in a deep breath as I replayed my own thoughts. Yes, it was fucking true. I was in love with Scarlett, and I wanted her to know it. I wanted to show it.
The question was how?
Ever since we went to the night market all those weeks ago, I'd been hunting down that painting of Jackson Square that she'd liked so much. I’d assumed the painter would return to the market regularly, but it turned out that he'd only been there for that one evening, and no one knew his whereabouts. That had been frustrating, to say the least. But now more than ever, I wanted to get my hands on the painting.
An idea struck me. Not for nothing, my mother owned a gallery. She'd track it down.
As a rule, I rarely asked my parents for favors. That's what I had all those brothers for. But I’d make an exception this time for Scarlett.
As I glanced out the window again, I called Mom.
She answered after a million rings—as usual. "Darling, so sorry. I couldn't find my phone. It kept ringing throughout the gallery."
I chuckled. "Don't worry, Mom. I understand."
"And to what do I owe the honor?"
"I need a favor."
"Sure, anything."
"I want you to track down a painting."
"That's my specialty. Go on."
"Yeah, I figured I'd go straight to a pro." I debated simply telling her about the painting, leaving Scarlett out of it. But why hide? I didn't mind my mother knowing how I felt. "Scarlett and I were out at the night market a few weeks ago. She saw a painting of Jackson Square that she truly likes, and I went to buy it for her."
"And you can't find the vendor again?" Mom said.
"No. I honestly always thought that most vendors are locals."
"Some are, but the night market is famous. Artists from all over the country come in the hopes of selling. Can you give me more details about what else he had?"
"Paintings!"
She laughed. "Chad, I need details. What kind of paintings? What technique was he using?"
"I have no idea whatsoever."
"All right. Then at least tell me, was he at the start of the market?"
"No. There was a vendor with weird candles right next to him."
