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‘I didn’t hang that painting there, Annie,’ Sketch whispers after a long, comfortable silence.
‘You painted it, didn’t you?’ I say, recognising the brushstrokes and choice of colours. I think that’s why I like it so much. It reminds me of the painting my father threw on the fire.
‘Yes.’ Sketch smiles. ‘But it’s not very good. I painted it a couple of months after Ma died, and I really didn’t know what I was doing back then.’
I lift my head and twist my neck to stare at it some more. I can’t find fault, and I wonder whether Sketch means he didn’t know how to paint or if he didn’t know how to cope with his mother’s death. I don’t ask.
‘The shading is all wrong here. See.’ Sketch releases me to point towards the bright yellow paint that creates the full skirt of Mrs Talbot’s dress. ‘It should be lighter here and darker there,’ he explains.
I nod as if I understand, but I don’t know anything about art. I don’t think it matters. I think it’s just important that I see it. That anyone – everyone, who comes into the house sees it. It doesn’t matter if it’s a masterpiece or an amateur attempt. It’s so much more than a painting. It’s a declaration of love. Sketch loved his mother with all his heart. He loved his mother the way I love mine. It broke his heart when she left him. It would destroy my mother if I ever left her. My heart sinks as I slowly wonder if falling in love with Sketch is terribly unfair. Not to me, to him. I can never run away with him. Not to France. Not to anywhere. I can never belong completely to him.
‘What are you thinking, Annie?’ Sketch asks.
‘About how talented you are,’ I say. ‘I hope you get to sell your paintings in France someday, Sketch. I really do.’
‘Do you want to know who hung that painting?’ Sketch asks reaching for my hand. His fingers slip between mine, locking us together.
‘Of course,’ I nod.
‘Pops,’ Sketch says proudly.
I smile so wide my cheeks push up into my eyes.
‘Actually,’ Sketch continues quite seriously, ‘I’d forgotten I’d painted it, since I haven’t seen it in a long time. Sometimes, when I was younger, I used to go up into the attic and just sit amongst the boxes of her stuff.’
‘That’s so sad,’ I whisper.
Sketch nods. ‘Yeah, I guess it was. But it made me feel closer to her. But in all the time I spent up there, rummaging through boxes, I never once came across this old painting.’
‘Oh,’ I say, intrigued.
‘Pops kept it somewhere else…’
‘Somewhere he could look at it anytime he wanted to see her,’ I add.
‘Yes. I think so,’ Sketch admits. ‘I used to think Pops hated my art. But now I think the only thing he hated was how much he missed her. It wasn’t disapproval I saw in his eyes all these years. It was heartbreak.’
‘Why do you think he hung it up now?’ I ask. ‘After all this time?’
‘You,’ Sketch says confidently.
‘Me?’ My eyes widen.
‘He cares for you, Annie,’ Sketch says. ‘I suspect he thinks you’re good for me.’
I blush.
‘He’s right. You are. And you’re good for Pops, too.’
The sting in my cheeks intensifies from a gentle tingle to a full-on burn.
‘I think you remind him of her,’ Sketch says.
‘Oh.’
‘It’s a good thing, Annie. Trust me. She was fantastic.’
Sketch tilts his head to one side to peer around me, and his eyes settle on the painting. They glisten and sparkle, and I wonder what happy thoughts are dancing in his mind.
