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With a charcoal pencil, I make a long black line down the oversized sheet of paper. Stepping back, I close my eyes, considering how I can make Winona Clarke unforgettable.
This day was unforgettable, starting with Deacon in my bed and ending with me here, in Beto’s garden cottage planning out a portrait of Aunt Winnie.
Deacon and I have texted a few times. He’s in Harristown, two and a half hours away. He’s well, safe drive… I’m well, I miss him like crazy… He’ll be home soon…
I didn’t say a word about my new job with his aunt. I don’t want him feeling like he needs to do anything. If I’m going to be an artist, I have to be able to work with difficult people. I can’t have the men in my life swooping in and smoothing the way for me.
Anyway, at this point, there’s nothing to smooth. I’m going in tomorrow for a trial period, and we’ll take it from there.
Natural light streams through the open windows of the cottage, and the scent of gardenia floats in on the breeze. I close my eyes and inhale my mother’s spirit, focusing on the moment, letting the creativity flow through me.
Winnie’s eyes are the same color as Deacon’s, which I can see in my sleep, but the emotion flowing from them is very different. Deacon is open and generous. Winnie is not. She’s proud… and suspicious. I have an idea of what I’d like to do with her, but it’s a little unorthodox. Still, she might go for it.
“I’ve never watched you work.” My brother’s voice breaks my concentration.
He stands in the doorway, holding the frame above his head. “Is that how you do it? Sketches first?”
“Depends on what I’m doing.” I step back, glad I haven’t gone any farther.
“What are you doing?” He lowers his arms and enters the small house.
“Brainstorming.” I pick up a damp towel and wipe my fingers.
He nods, going to my portfolio lying open on the table. “I wasn’t sure what I’d do with this place when the realtor showed it to me. I thought it might be a playhouse for Sofia.”
“It’s a great place for art.” I motion to the windows. “Natural light. The breeze keeps the air fresh.”
He thumbs through the plastic sleeves, studying my landscapes. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Since I lived in Mexico. Mamá taught me the basics. I took classes at school.”
“Some of these are really good. We could frame them, hang them in the house.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I guess he’s trying to be friendly. Too bad he shot all that to hell when he tried to hurt the man I love.
“What’s this?” He takes out my sketch of our mother from its plastic sleeve.
Holding it up, he looks at it in a way that makes my chest tighten. The muscle in his jaw moves, and his eyes tense.
“It’s our mother.” Obviously, he knows who it is.
Clearing his throat, he lowers the piece to the stack. “You have a lot of talent.”
His voice is different, and I remember our conversation over breakfast Saturday. I remember what he said about her leaving, why he never came to visit us in Mexico.
I’ve always kept Mamá on this dreamy pedestal. Our life in Mexico was focused on the present, what we were doing every day. She made her art and she would talk to me like our life there was an adventure. I was a little girl. I never thought about what she left behind.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Beto.” My voice is quiet, my heart warm, and he pauses in the doorway, looking back.
“Then don’t.”
11
Deacon
“It’s crazy to think how busy this place will be in just a few weeks.” Noel LaGrange grabs a big box from the stack outside her door.
We’re meeting at the store she converted from a feed shed on her family’s 100-acre peach orchard in Harristown.
