“She was?” Mauve asked, leaning forward, anxious to hear more.
“Very popular. All the boys had a crush on her. She was the prettiest girl in our class.”
“That’s not true,” Cynthia said, nudging him with her elbow. “You know it was Lisa Miller.”
“But she was mean as a snake,” David said. “Which diminished her beauty drastically.”
“That is true,” Cynthia said, laughing.
“Did you know your mother designed every theater set for the drama department?” David asked. “Designed, painted, decorated the set. One time she painted the set for an eighteenth century milieu with all these arabesques. It was very impressive.”
Mauve stared at her mother. “You did? I never knew that.”
“Yes, it was just a fun hobby. I’d never have wanted to be on stage, but I liked being a part of it.”
“And she was brilliant at it too,” David said. “Your mother turned cardboard, paint, and old curtains into entire worlds. She even knew how to build and paint flats. I’ll never forget how cute she was in this old pair of overalls, paintbrush in her hand, bossing everyone around.”
“You bossed everyone around?” Mauve asked.
“She had all of us volunteers doing her bidding,” David said. “I had no talent in art or acting, but I loved Cynthia, so I kept showing up to help.”
“That was how we started,” Cynthia said. “Working on sets together. Building something. They were some of the happiest moments of my life.”
Jason leaned forward, clearly interested. “What other sets did you build? Do you remember?”
“Our Town. I remember that one,” Cynthia said.
“Oh yes, Cynthia built all these beautiful New England facades out of scrap lumber and chicken wire. Another time she transformed the cafeteria into a Paris street for a musical. Everyone kept asking where the school got the money.” David shook his head. “It was your mother painting shadows onto plywood.”
Mauve stared openly now. “You never told me that.”
Cynthia shrugged, suddenly looking shy. “It was nothing.”
“It absolutely was not ‘nothing,’” David said firmly. “You had an extraordinary eye.”
An emotion flickered across her mother’s face. Mauve wasn’t sure what to call it. Not embarrassment exactly. Something softer and older, as if a long-forgotten part of herself had finally come out in the open.
Jason smiled at Cynthia. “That actually explains a lot.”
“Yeah, it does,” Mauve said. “You were always so good at decorating our house. I was telling Jason about the bedroom you made for Millie and me.”
“One daughter loved yellow and the other pink,” Cynthia said. “What’s a mom to do?”
“It was really special, Mom. I should have told you that more often.”
“I loved doing those kinds of projects,” Cynthia said. “Seeing your faces was thanks enough.”
“She’s taking art classes,” David added casually.
Mauve turned so quickly toward her mother she nearly knocked over her water glass. “You are?”
“Oh goodness,” Cynthia said. “That was supposed to be my secret.”
“What kind of classes?” Mauve asked.
“Watercolor and drawing,” Cynthia said. “David signed me up as a surprise for my birthday.”
“They’re at our community college near my house.” David paused. “I mean our house. I’m sorry, honey. I keep doing that.”
