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“Good to see you, honey.” Cherise was in her sixties and had been a museum docent back when Rosie used to come here with her parents. “You’ve got friends.” She ran her eyes up and down Gideon’s impressive frame, not in the least abashed to show how much she appreciated his form. “How lovely. You know how much our patrons love to see artists at work.”
After they’d passed, Gideon finally spoke again. “People are going to see our paintings?” His voice might actually be tinged with terror.
Before Rosie could respond, Jorge said, “I like it when people look at our paintings. They always say nice things about them, about how talented me and Mom are. I’ll bet you guys get lots of compliments too.”
Gideon didn’t look convinced, even by Jorge’s enthusiastic response. Rosie could have smoothed things over by telling him the playdate was just for the boys, that all he had to do was dab his paintbrush on the paper and pretend. But she’d already decided not to pussyfoot around him anymore—even if he clearly wasn’t at all thrilled about painting. Plus, a part of her still hoped that he might let himself get into it, rather than holding back like he usually did.
Crazier things had happened.
As she led them back to the last room that housed the Impressionists, with every painting they passed, she felt as though she’d come home to good friends. “I love The Russian Bride’s Attire. And the Renoir and Anthony van Dyck too. These paintings, they feel so…” She breathed deeply, as if she could drag in their essence from the air in the room. “So wondrous. Even after all the times I’ve been here, I still can hardly believe this museum has Van Gogh and Manet and Monet and Salvador Dali and Degas. That I don’t need to travel to France or Spain to see them.” She turned to Gideon. “Do you know Van Gogh destroyed most of his initial paintings because he thought they weren’t good enough?” She shook her head. “Just imagine if those paintings were still around. Not for how much they’d be worth, but for how beautiful they’d surely be.”
Jorge pulled on the hem of her shirt. “I want to do the Salvador Dali, Mom.”
“The Dali sounds great, honey.” She turned to Gideon. “What do you think about doing Monet’s Water Lilies with Noah? They’re one of my favorites—almost everyone’s, really.”
“Monet was my mom’s favorite painter,” Gideon said. “She had a book about Water Lilies when I was growing up.”
It was Rosie’s turn to be stunned. After getting his back up over painting in public, the last thing she expected was for him to open up to her in any way.
Finally, she found her voice. “There’s a reason his paintings of the lilies in his backyard in France are popular around the world—they’re undeniably beautiful, in all seasons.” When he didn’t say anything more about his mother, she offered, “I’ll help you two set up.”
Though he thanked her, she knew that painting in a gallery was the last thing he would choose to do with his free time. If not for the boys, she suspected he would have sprinted out of the museum and back to the SUV.
After she set up Noah’s and Gideon’s easels, along with sketch pads and palettes, she got Jorge going. Her son liked to work in colored pencil, sometimes charcoal. He often started out at the easel, then moved to a bench and worked with his sketch pad on his lap.
She positioned her easel so she could see Noah and Gideon without being obvious that she was watching them.
Jorge raced over to whisper in Noah’s ear as his friend made great swipes of color across his pad.
When Jorge ran back, she reminded him, “Walk, sweetheart. Be respectful.”
“Sorry, Mom.”
But his excitement was catching. She wanted to race to Gideon, whisper in his ear as he picked up his brush, looked at the paper, then at the paints. He stood unmoving for so long, she thought he wouldn’t do it, after all. That he might just walk away.
Until, suddenly, he grabbed a brush and began splashing color on the pad.
The museum was surprisingly empty for a Sunday, though that could have been due to the gorgeous day outside. Patrons occasionally stopped to watch them paint for a few seconds before walking on. But the person getting the most attention was Gideon. And Rosie knew exactly why.
Though he clearly had no artistic training, from the first brush of paint across the paper, both Gideon and his painting seemed to vibrate with energy.
At first, he used the same colors as the Water Lilies—blues and greens, dabs of purple, a little red. But as he continued to paint, the colors grew darker, covering the brighter tones he’d started with, until it bore no resemblance at all to the original Monet.
Yet, in every drop of paint, there was something so visceral, so gut-wrenching, as if the very flowers he was trying to paint were dyin
g right before him. He swirled pain and grief and anger and regret across the paper, his hand flashing, slashing, dashing, the colors mixing, bleeding, running.
He moved as though he was in a trance, as though everything was coming out of him without conscious effort. He anointed the painting with pure, raw emotion.
And what he created was amazing.
* * *
Slashes of color flew across Gideon’s vision, flaming reds and burning oranges and intense yellows over dark, bruised blues and guilt-ridden browns and howling blacks. And rising up out of the swirl of color were the faces of Hank Garrett… Jonny Danzi… Ralph Esterhausen… Ralph’s wife and kids… And Karmen. Loyal, dedicated Karmen, who never should have been there in the first place.
Gideon’s team.
Gideon’s responsibility.
