Alone, I look around my mother’s studio, trying to memorize it just as it is. My eyes land on the painting she’d been working on when she died, the one that emanates so much hope that my heart grows buoyant the moment I look at it.
When I stand in front of the painting, I draw in my breath.Because now I see what I couldn’t see the last time I came out here—that this painting is of the view from the Oceanview Home. This is the field of golden poppies that stretches beyond the western garden wall, the sloping meadow of wildflowers that leads to the scattering of trees, the silver sea beyond.
My mother had already been to the Oceanview Home when she died.
But when?
And why?
Two hours later, my father and I drive down to the community center, the bed of my truck filled with boxes of art supplies. When we step into the lobby, the air is fragrant with the fresh scent of the potted primroses on the reception desk, but I see my father’s eyes catch on the peeling paint, the grubby grout. He walks over to the lopsided bulletin board, frowning.
I tell the girl at the desk that we’ve brought a donation of art supplies, and she breaks into a smile.
“We really need them,” she says. “I’m in the Thursday painting class and I’ve started bringing in some of my own stuff because the center is running so low on everything.”
“Are there any tools around?” my father calls from where he stands at the bulletin board. “This needs to be rehung properly.”
“I have no idea,” the girl says with a cheerful shrug. “But there are some people working in the theater. Maybe they have some.”
In the art studio, as we’re adding my mother’s supplies to theshelves, I notice my father stop in front of the painting of my mother’s that hangs on the wall. I walk over and stand beside him, feeling that sense of determination, that sense of overcoming fear, swelling within me as I look at the image.
“Remarkable,” my father murmurs.
“Gregory! Lucy! What are you two doing here?”
We both turn to see that Roger stands in the open door of the studio. My father gestures toward the shelves and explains that we’re dropping off some of my mom’s old painting supplies.
Roger smiles a bit sadly. “What a nice idea. She would have loved that, wouldn’t she? Knowing that all of her old things will be used to create new art?”
I nod and ask him how the work in the theater is going.
“Well, it’s a bit more of a project than any us thought.” He lowers his voice and steps farther into the studio. “It’s kind of a motley crew with an entirely unhelpful skill set in there. My talent for cooking only gets us so far.” He gives my dad a hopeful glance. “Any chance I could convince you to give us a hand, Gregory? It would be great to have someone who actually knows what he’s doing operating some of these tools. We have coffee and lasagna and cookies and wine.”
I suspect that Roger and I both hold our breath then, waiting to see what will happen next. My dad glances back at my mother’s painting, then faces Roger again.
“We’ll need to fix the bulletin board in the lobby, too,” he says. “It’s crooked.”
Roger claps his hands together, grinning. “Sure! We’ll add it to the list.” As we’re leaving the studio, he leans toward me and murmurs conspiratorially, “It’s a very long list, Lucy. Never-ending, really.”
Chapter Thirty
Rock rose: A hearty, flowering shrub profusely laden with papery blossoms whose warm, amber scent strengthens resilience
When I step into the Oceanview Home the next day, the air once again smells of sugar and vanilla. Even Gully seems relieved by this, trotting forward confidently as the door to the home swings shut behind us.
“Oh, Lucy,” Noreen says when she sees me. “I’m so glad you’re here. Everyone is gathering on the terrace.”
We walk together into the sunroom.
“What are those?” I ask. Hanging from the wall, there are a number of small black devices.
Noreen pulls a face and explains that the lock has finally been fixed on the doors. “But Jill has come up with a plan,” she goes on. “A staff member can unlock the terrace doors and, ideally, accompany any resident who goes outside. If a resident wants to walk outside without a companion, they take one of these wearable medical alert devices.”
I feel a pang at learning this news. Mr. Fitz likes to be alone,and I suspect he will bristle at the thought of wearing a device that tracks his movement. But, in the end, I suppose it’s a small price to pay. I just hope he will see it that way.
“This is Jill’s plan?” I ask. “I thought she was suspended.”
“She has her ways,” Noreen says with a wink. Then, as she holds a card up to a sensor and the doors open, she whispers, almost gleefully, “She’s here, actually.”
