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"Drink your coffee," he told them. "Have a chat. Don't mind me."
His voice sounded stronger, and more confident, than he actually felt. Then, with Charlie's warm smile on him, he began to draw. She chatted with her mother about the new friends Francine had already made, told her all about the group home, the Mavericks, Susan, Bob, Noah, the kids working on the tile. She repeated the word family and by the fourth time, he was so glad to realize she'd felt like part of his family. Finally, she understood that she was a Maverick.
As the women talked and his pencil flashed across the page, he felt pretty good. For a while. But then...
His tension started to rise, higher by the second. The drawing wasn't right. Wasn't perfect. He could show off Francine's bright eyes, her childlike delight, her enthusiasm, but something about her face didn't hit the mark. He wanted to capture the webbing of fine lines, contrasting it with her sweet smile and illustrating the woman who was strong enough to endure. That was the real Francine, but he couldn't do it. Couldn't master any part of the sketch. Couldn't do Francine justice.
You drew this crap? You drew all these pictures of me looking like shit? His father's voice rang through his head as if Ian Montgomery had risen from the dead and was standing right in front of him. My stupid, worthless kid thinks he's an artist. But he's nothing. I'll show you where your pictures belong, you little shit.
Sebastian erased the lines and started over. He would not let his father get the best of him. But when he tried once more, the voice he couldn't get out of his head was even louder now, and he had to erase again.
"May we see?"
Charlie's voice abruptly jolted him back to the present. To the garden at Francine's nursing home--and the sketch he was all but erasing holes in.
He took a breath, silently counting to four before replying. "Let's work on this drawing later." He made himself smile for them both, feeling it stretch too far across his face until it resembled a grimace. "I can sketch your face from memory, Francine."
But Francine was already holding out her hand. "Please, Sebastian," she said with a sweet, appreciative smile, "don't keep me in suspense."
He couldn't hurt Francine's feelings, would never forgive himself if he did. So he handed over the sketch, hiding his reluctance. It was ten brutally long seconds--he counted each and every one of them--before she looked at him again.
"You've made me beautiful."
"Of course I did. You're very beautiful, Francine."
"I'm old, Sebastian. Old people are usually completely invisible. But I'm not anymore. Not when I look at this wonderful picture you just drew. Look how marvelous this is, honey."
He swallowed hard as Francine handed Charlie the sketchbook.
Whereas Francine had taken only ten seconds, Charlie had barely looked down at it when a sheen of tears swelled in her eyes. Her smile trembled. "This is beautiful." She held the sketch to her chest, as if she needed it next to her heart. "The most beautiful drawing I've ever seen."
*
Charlie had begged her mother to let her keep the drawing--and Sebastian had promised to do another of her very soon. It lay on Charlie's lap as they drove back up Highway 880 to Sebastian's mansion on the hill. She smoothed the edges with her fingers. "I'm going to frame it and hang it on the wall."
"You're going to frame it?" Sebastian got that panicked look she only ever saw when he was talking about his art--or his parents. "You've got to let me try again. I'll make a better one."
They'd stayed late at Magnolia Gardens and now traffic was gridlocked. But for once, Charlie appreciated it, because it meant Sebastian was her captive audience. "You can draw my mother as many times as you want, but you're not getting this one back. It's mine now."
Sebastian was silent for a long moment. Long enough that she prayed he finally understood just how special his gift was.
"I wanted to convey her strength of character. But I couldn't get it right."
"You did get it right," she said, frustration seeping into her voice despite her attempts to hold it in. "This is my mother the way I remember her when I was a child. Before the pain. You've captured her heart as a young woman."
"That's great, but I still didn't draw what I wanted to draw."
Why was it so hard for him to believe in his own art? "You might not have meant to sketch her like this--" She stroked her mother's jubilant face. "--but it turned out to be magic. This drawing makes me remember cookies baking in the kitchen and the dolls she used to knit. Can't you see? That's what art is all about. How you make a person feel."
He kept his capable hands on the wheel, switching lanes, eyes on the road. "You love it because you love me."
She almost growled at him. She'd shamelessly tricked him into sketching her mother, but even though she and her mother had been moved to tears, it clearly hadn't proven anything to him.
Why could he see eve
ryone's brilliance but his own?
CHAPTER THIRTY
