Page 42 of Sterling Stone

I swallow the thickness in my throat and question, “How’d you know he kissed me?”

“Let’s see.” She taps her chin. “Was it the steamy stares? Or the way he tracked you around the yard?” She turns her head to face me. “Or the fact he couldn’t take his eyes off you in general?”

“Trudy,” I whisper, shaking my head like she’s making these things up.

“Might have been you reciprocated that stare. More like an angry glare.” She pauses. “Are you mad you kissed him? Didn’t like it?” She wrinkles her nose.

I shake my head again. “No. I liked it.” I liked it a little too much.

Suddenly, I straighten my shoulders and sit taller. “But it doesn’t matter. I have commissions to fulfill. More adventures to be had.” I hate how much I sound like Mama, and almost weak, as if I no longer believe in the thrill.

I love my art, and I’ve developed a newfound love of teaching, but I’m growing weary of hopping from one place to the next. Always chasing something that seems out of reach.

“Sometimes, adventure can be found right in your own backyard.”

“Bloom where I’m planted? How very Wizard of Oz of you,” I joke. “Plus, I don’t have a backyard.”

“Yes, but whose fault is that?” Aunt Trudy holds her dark, rich eyes on me, imparting wisdom I don’t have the bandwidth to read.

I’m tired. I’ve been drinking. It’s been a long day of information overload and puzzling reunions. And some heavy sexual tension.

But most of all, I’m questioning me.

What do I want?

And why don’t I have a backyard?

14

September

[Stone]

“Uncle Stone, you got a postcard.”

“A postcard?” Stepping over to where Hudson stands by the kitchen island, I take the piece of mail from his hand and scan the picture on the front, then flip to the back.

My latest commission is complete. Thought you might like to see what little ol’ me can do with the side of a building.

Also heard you and your brother re-roofed Aunt Trudy’s house.

Thank you.

—Delilah

Flipping the postcard over again, I observe the image on the front a bit longer. The side of a two-story brick building has been used as a large canvas and transformed into a giant mural. One covered with sharp angles and dramatic edges, representing a community in Philadelphia. The mural holds symbols of America along with blue-collar icons and pieces of history not as openly shared. It’s striking and beautiful and all Taxi. I hear her laughter in the faces of the people she painted and better understand her style. Bold colors. Graphic but rich. I note the name of the organization that sponsored the project at the bottom of the card and plan to look into it.

“Who’s Delilah?” Hudson asks, breaking into my thoughts. Nosy little man has apparently already read the postcard.

“Private joke,” I mutter, continuing to stare at the mural.

But was this a joke to her? Why send me something when she could hardly look at me back in July?

Her gratitude for fixing her aunt’s roof wasn’t necessary. My family would do anything for Trudy Wallace.

“Pretty.”

I lift my head, finding Vale standing at my elbow, staring down at the picture.