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“Meghan is an amazing artist. So talented. June says she’s lost a lot of confidence over the years, though.”
Mom had caught me just as I had come in from my evening run. I was out of breath and sweating like a pig and not in much of a mood to discuss Meg.
“Sorry to hear that,” I replied, getting a bottle of water out of the fridge.
“June says her last gallery showing was five years ago, and it didn’t go well. Meghan was humiliated.” Mom sounded concerned.
“Well, you have to grow a thick skin if you plan to put your work out there for people to consume. Sometimes they want it; sometimes they don’t.” I didn’t mean to sound insensitive, but after the way Meg had treated me at my parents’, I wasn’t feeling very charitable.
“Adam Lee Ducate, don’t be cruel. Meghan only needs a jump start. A way to remind herself that she is talented,” Mom scolded.
“What are you getting at, Mom?” I asked, leaning against the kitchen counter.
“Hire her to do the bicentennial mural,” Mom suggested.
I barked out a laugh. “Uh, no.”
“Why not?” Mom sounded chilly.
“Because…well I can’t be seen as playing favorites—”
“That’s ridiculous, Adam. The artist you originally hired was Marla’s great-niece,” Mom pointed out. And she was right. Damn the small-town gossip wheel.
“Okay, but doesn’t Meg paint abstract stuff? I mean, that’s not what this project is meant to be,” I argued.
The truth was if Meg took on this project, I’d be forced to interact with her. A lot. And given our previous encounter, the idea of dodging her snarky barbs didn’t sound particularly appealing. There was only so much battering a guy’s ego could take, and Meg knew how to hammer the shit out of it.
“Meghan would do an amazing job, and you know it. Don’t you remember the painting she did for your Dad and mine twenty-fifth anniversary?”
Did I remember? Was she kidding me?
I saw it every time I visited their damn house. It had pride of place above their fireplace in the living room, and Mom would often point it out to guests enthusing about their brilliantly talented adopted daughter Meghan who was an artist in New York.
I also remembered Meg working on it for almost three weeks when we were both sixteen. She had agonized over every detail. In the end, she had painted a beautiful meadow covered in wildflowers with the sun setting over the mountains. It wasn’t just some random meadow either. It was the meadow on the Wilson farm where my dad had proposed to my mom. I had assured her they’d go crazy for it, and I had been right. To say they loved it would be an understatement.
“Of course I do, Mom, that doesn’t mean—”
“Adam, I raised you to be kind. I raised you to be sympathetic. I sure as hell didn’t raise you to be an asshole.” Mom’s voice literally trembled with her anger.
I was rendered completely speechless. I couldn’t remember the last time I heard my mother cuss. And never directed at me.
“Meghan is an old friend. She used to be your best friend. Now I know you two have had issues in the past. I’m not completely ignorant, or did you think I wouldn’t notice that Meghan stopped coming to the house around the same time you started dating Chelsea?”
And here I thought I had done a good job of keeping my parents in the dark. I underestimated my mother and her powers of deduction.
“Yeah, well, some people know how to hold a grudge,” I muttered.
“And some people need to grow up. And by some people, I mean you,” Mom snapped before softening her tone. “Look, June has a lot of pride, as did David. Meghan is cut from the same cloth. She’s had a tough time with her art. June says she’s felt really defeated. Plus, I know they could use the money. June won’t tell me how bad it is, but I know it can’t be good. June would never sell that house unless she felt she had to.”
My mother knew how to push my guilt button like no one else.
I would have argued my point a bit more if she wasn’t right. Meg was a great choice to do the mural. And honestly, I was sick and tired of Marla Delacroix bugging me about it. She had sent me six emails and called twice already this week. And it was only Tuesday. So hiring Meg, a respected artist who was also one of Southport’s own, seemed like the perfect solution.
I guess it was time to dust off the verbal armor because her barbs could maim.
“Okay, yeah, it’s a good idea. Do you have her number? I’ll give her a call.”
“Thank you, Adam.” Mom sounded appeased. “And who knows, maybe this will provide the two of you an avenue back to each other.”
