Page 7 of Playing With Forever

“Oh, sorry, I’m totally rambling. I get this way after I’ve been locked up with no human interaction.”

That was a half-truth. Lindy was a talker, since the day she could form words, she hadn’t run out of things to say.

“Locked up?” Josie asked with a fair amount of concern.

“I paint. Dad built me a studio in our backyard. When I’m in the middle of a project, I get lost in it and lock myself in there; sometimes I don’t come out for days.”

Josie turned towards me. The concern had vanished, and censure clearly now took top spot.

Lindy hadn’t been home last night, she was at a concert with her friends and had stayed in Charleston. No way in fuck would I have brought her to my house if I hadn’t known my daughter was safely out for the night.

The drinks were delivered, burger orders placed, and this time it was Josie who went for it.

“What style of painting do you make?”

My daughter’s face lit. She was a talker all the time, and when art was involved, she could have a one-way conversation for hours. I knew this because, over the years, we’d had countless.

“I have decided on a signature style. Right now, I’m gravitating toward realism and landscapes. But last night, while I was at this concert in Charleston, all I could think about was painting the stage, the lights, the hands in the air. Nothing distinguishable, just the feel of the music, the energy. It was amazing standing in the crowd feeling the colors come to life all around me. When I paint, I hear the beat of the painting.” Lindy paused, a blush I hadn’t seen in many years tinged her cheeks. “I’m sure that sounds strange.”

“Which part do you think sounds strange, Lindy?”

Fuck. I didn’t know which was worse—me liking the sweet, gentle way Josie said my daughter’s name, her clear interest in what she had to say, or Lindy liking those things.

“All of it. I mean, I feel colors. That’s strange. But I also hear beats while I paint.”

“I wouldn’t think you’re alone in that. I’m not an artist. I can’t draw a stick figure, so I can’t know for sure, but I would think many artists feel colors or, at the very least, the colors on their palette call to them. But even if you were the only artist in the world who heard a beat while creating or felt something as amazing as feeling the colors around you, that wouldn’t be strange, Lindy, that would simply be what makes you extraordinary.”

It was rare for old demons to creep up, but when they did, they slammed into me and stole my breath, replacing the oxygen with noxious gas. I had long ago reconciled my part in the failure of my marriage. I’d even gone as far as forgiving Lindy’s mother for betraying me and shitting all over our marriage. What I hadn’t done, and would never do, was forgive her for being a shit mother and abandoning her daughter.

And it was in times like these, when my daughter’s face was slack and her lips were parted and her eyes were unfocused, that I was reminded of the consequences of my daughter not having a mother.

The way Lindy was staring at Josie was not about receiving a compliment.

If there was one thing I knew I didn’t fail at, it was making sure my daughter knew she was loved. She knew she was immensely talented, smart, beautiful, and I’d worked my ass off to make sure my daughter knew her worth, knew how she should be treated—not only by men but by friends, bosses, and people in general.

Lindy didn’t lack self-confidence, she lacked a female role model because I’d never given her one.

“Thank you,” Lindy whispered.

“No need to thank me for telling you something I’m quite certain you already knew. Now, tell me if you’re enrolled or planning on going to art school.”

“I’m undecided.”

“You have time to decide. Unlike you, my youngest, Kane, had no idea what he wanted after he graduated. He was twenty-two when he decided on a career path.”

I knew from group chatter that Josie had two grown sons. I didn’t know where they lived or what they did for a living.

“Kane’s a cool name,” Lindy excitedly told Josie. “What’d he decide on?”

“Law enforcement,” Josie pushed out, as if the words tasted bad.

“Your son’s a cop?” I asked.

“Of a sort. He started as a patrol sheriff in Camden County. Though recently, he’s moved to CID. I have to admit, as a mother of a law enforcement officer, I much prefer him investigating crimes instead of being on the streets.”

Fuck me, her son was a cop.

“Dad’s a cop.” I didn’t miss the pride in my girl’s tone.