Читать книгу Always Florence - Muriel Jensen - Страница 10
ОглавлениеCHAPTER TWO
NATE LOOKED THROUGH the rack of Halloween costumes, spotted the bright red and blue, and triumphantly pulled out Spider-Man. They’d been to four stores, found Dylan’s Iron Man right away, but had been searching all afternoon for Sheamus’s choice. Everyone was now tired and grumpy.
Certain this find would change the mood, Nate was surprised when he held up the costume and turned around, only to discover Sheamus close to tears—again. Nate drew a breath for patience.
“I thought you wanted to be Spider-Man.”
“I want the one with the muscles.” Nate looked to Dylan for help. Dylan, holding the bag with his own costume in a death grip, reached up to a shelf of masks for a skull with a rubber snake crawling out of the mouth. “Would you lend me a hand here, please? What is Sheamus talking about?”
Dylan rolled his eyes, clearly disdainful of his uncle’s ignorance. “Some of the superhero costumes have built-in muscles. They’re more expensive.”
“Built-in muscles,” Nate repeated under his breath. What he needed was built-in patience and endurance.
A smiling older clerk gave him a sympathetic look. “Musclemen are over there.” She pointed to a long rack across the floor. A half dozen parents and children were rummaging through it.
Sheamus ran in that direction. Dylan shook his head. “He’s not going to be able to reach it. Then he’ll start crying again.”
“Why don’t you go help him,” Nate suggested, nerves frayed after the grueling afternoon, “instead of making fun of him?”
“Because he’s such a baby!”
Nate directed him toward Sheamus, who was already being pushed aside by older kids. “You find things hard sometimes, and he’s a lot younger than you are. You should try giving him a hand rather than telling him the neighbor is a witch who collects body parts of little kids.”
“Who’d believe that, anyway?”
“He’s seven, Dylan. And he’s scared.”
“So? Isn’t everybody scared?”
The profound question stopped Nate in his tracks, but the frantic shoving going on at the rack precluded a discussion. And Dylan had already wandered away, looking as though he regretted that admission.
Nate spotted all the red-and-blue costumes hung together, and reached for a small one at the same moment that a beautiful, pregnant young woman did. Prepared to fight her for it no matter how bad it made him look, he was relieved when she grasped another size instead. He yanked the small outfit off the rack and got down on one knee to hold it up against Sheamus. Stitched to create the appearance of muscles across the torso and along the arms, the costume brought a smile to the boy’s face. Sheamus wrapped his arms around Nate’s neck. “Thanks, Uncle Nate! We got it!”
“Great. Now we have to get candy for the trick-or-treaters.”
“How can we give out candy?” Dylan asked. “Aren’t we going to be at the Monster Bash?”
“Stella’s going to stay until we get back,” he said.
Nate cringed inwardly at the thought of the event. The city-sponsored Halloween celebration held in a Parks and Recreation building was intended to keep children safe while letting them enjoy a ghoulish experience. He heard it was an ordeal for parents, who often commiserated with each other about having to go.
There was a brief discussion over the merits of mini chocolate bars, small boxes of licorice and sour candy. Nate bought several bags of each.
“Can we get something to drink?” Dylan asked at the checkout. “I’m thirsty.”
“Sure.” Nate pictured a tall gin and tonic, but led the boys to the Starbucks on the other side of the store. “We shoulda brought the brownies with us,” Sheamus said on the drive home. “They would taste good with this.”
Nate found the boy’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Sheamus drew on the straw of his smoothie so hard that his thin cheeks sucked in. “We can have them for dessert tonight. Stella left us mac and cheese for dinner.”
Dylan grumbled. “She’s a really good cook, but I like the mac and cheese in the box better.” Then he asked seriously and without warning, “Do you think Bobbie had cancer?”
His older nephew’s out-of-the-blue observations never failed to surprise Nate. Mostly because they were usually on target.
“Her hair looks like a man’s. And she looks kind of like she has a bad cold. You know what I mean?”
Nate knew exactly what Dylan meant. Their neighbor had beautiful eyes, but they were a little soupy, as though she wasn’t quite well. And he, too, had wondered about her hair.
“Yes, I do. But we shouldn’t mention it unless she does.”
“She’s kind of skinny,” Sheamus contributed. “But I like her. We should have her over for dinner sometime. When Stella makes that Mexican stuff with the chicken and the corn chips.”
“Mexican chicken casserole.” Nate nodded. “I like that, too. But Bobbie has a lot of work to do. Especially after what happened today.” He let that hang in the air a moment for guilt effect. It was probably bad parenting, but he was just an ignorant bachelor pressed into service.
“She could come on game night,” Dylan suggested. Nate studied the boy, wondering why his nephew suddenly seemed keen on the woman. Could it have been the brownies? “When Hunter comes over to watch our big TV.”
Hunter had lost his own accounting business when his office manager embezzled from him, then disappeared. Hunter had liquidated all his assets to pay creditors and his employees, then moved into the Grand Apartments with a few pieces of furniture he’d saved, and an old television he’d bought at Goodwill. He loved coming over to watch big games and play-offs on Nate’s plasma TV.
“We’ll see how it goes.” Their neighbor had kindly given them brownies, but he couldn’t imagine she’d want any more to do with them.
“I don’t think she has a husband.” That was from Sheamus, who thought Nate needed a wife. Nate had explained over and over that he had more than he could handle with the two of them and the business, but the boys’ mother had been a wonderful, warm, funny woman, and Sheamus was trying hard to put those qualities back into his life. He didn’t realize that not all women were like Sherrie.
“I didn’t see a ring.” That was from Dylan, who enjoyed stirring things up.
“She could have a boyfriend.” Nate paused to sip at his coffee and thought longingly of that gin and tonic. “There’s no way of knowing that.”
“If she isn’t married to him,” Dylan said, “it doesn’t matter. She’s still available.”
“That’s a big word.”
“I’m a smart kid.”
“I don’t know. A smart kid would stop annoying me by trying to get me married off.”
Dylan met his eyes in the mirror, smiled grudgingly and the subject was dropped.
Nate pulled into their driveway, congratulating himself on a day that had turned out better than it had begun. He’d made peace with their neighbor, found the right costume for Sheamus and had a conversation with the boys that hadn’t ended in tears or with Dylan stomping away.
And they had brownies. All in all, a successful afternoon.
* * *
BOBBIE DUNKED AN English Breakfast tea bag into the hot water in her favorite pink mug and picked up her ringing phone. The caller ID read Molloy, D. J. She prepared herself to lie through her teeth.
“Hi, Dad!” she said cheerfully, carrying her tea to the kitchen table and sitting down. Monet leaped onto the table and rubbed against her face. He smelled of fabric softener. He’d been sleeping on top of the dryer again. She pulled him onto her lap. “How are you doing? How’s the arthritis?”
“Under control.” His voice was deep and gentle. It had soothed many a patient in his long career as a general practitioner. He was retired now, and Bobbie’s health had become his focus. “I’m taking my glucosamine chondroitin and getting my exercise. How are you? Still thinking the move to Astoria was a good idea?”
When she’d left Los Angeles to come here, she’d had a hard time convincing him she’d be fine on her own. He’d watched over her treatment, moved in with her to manage her recovery, and hovered over her with suggestions about diet and exercise until she knew she had to get away. Not just for herself, but for the single women in Whittier, California, who were interested in him but had taken a backseat to his daughter’s illness and recovery. Bobbie wanted him to reconnect with his own life so that she could go to Florence with a clear conscience.
The commission from Sandy Evans’s office had come at the perfect moment. Bobbie could have completed it in Whittier, but the lease was up on her apartment and she didn’t want to sign another one, or move in with her father. When she’d explained her predicament to Sandy, her friend had offered her the monthly rental of this tiny two-bedroom in Astoria that she’d inherited from her aunt. The selling point had been the two-car garage that Bobbie used as a studio for messy papermaking.
“I love it here,” she said. That was true. The hilly old neighborhoods with their turn-of-the-twentieth-century homes were wonderful for walking, collecting leaves and flower petals, and enjoying beautiful vistas. Even in tightly built areas there was the occasional empty lot where she could see the broad Columbia River and the Washington hills on the other side. “I walk all the time and the air smells of wood smoke and pine.”
“Mmm. That sounds heavenly.”
Encouraged by his approval, she went on, stroking the cat as she talked. “Sometimes, on the river walk, which is this wonderful paved strip that runs a couple of miles right along the water, you get a whiff of fish and diesel because of the fishing boats, but I’ve come to love that, too. It’s a very lively, working waterfront.”
“Are you getting acquainted with anyone? You’re not just spending all your time working in your studio and walking alone, are you?”
“I am meeting people,” she fibbed. “Of course, I have to spend a lot of time on the commission, but Sandy has introduced me to her friends.” Bobbie hesitated a moment. That was a big lie. Sandy was a single mother with two little girls and a full-time job. She was always working for one worthy project or another, and barely had time to go to the bathroom, much less party with friends. But Bobbie’s father must have lost the lie-detector skills he’d had when she was in high school, so she forged on. “And just today, I met my neighbors. Well, I’ve seen them come and go, but there hasn’t really been time to talk until this morning, when Nate and the boys came over.”
“And his wife?”
“Nate’s a single dad. Well, an uncle, actually, and I’m not sure what happened, but his two nephews live with him.”
“Really.”
She heard it in her dad’s voice. Speculation on the possibilities.
“I’m not getting married, Dad,” she stated quickly, firmly. “I explained it all to you. A couple of times, as I recall. I’m going to Florence in January.”
“Did I say anything?” He sounded innocent and a little injured.
“You didn’t have to. I can read it in your voice.”
“Hmm. New skills acquired through chemotherapy, no doubt. Because in the past, you’ve always heard my voice, but I’ve never noticed that you listened to it.”
“Ha, ha. Very cute. I’ll be thirty in February. It’s time I did what I was born to do.”
“We’re born to love and be loved,” he said gently.
She agreed. “We are, but I love Michelangelo, Tintoretto, Monet, Renoir, Giacometti.... And when I see their work, it’s as though they love me back.”
She heard her dad draw a breath, and knew he wanted to take issue with that, but he changed the subject instead.
“I’m coming to see you,” he announced abruptly.
Oh, God, no. It had been hard enough to pull away from him once—for him and for her. It would be awful to have to do it again.
“I thought you were going to come and visit when I get to Florence.” Her voice sounded high and a little strained. At least that way she’d have made it to Italy.
“Well, I want to visit you there, too. But I thought we should spend Thanksgiving together. I know it’d be too hard for you to come here, so I’ll come up there. I got a new van, did I tell you that? Actually, it’s new to me but a couple of years old. I can throw all my stuff in the back, a sleeping bag, and be gone at a moment’s notice.”
“No, you didn’t tell me. And...wow.” Her attempt at excitement fell a little short.
“You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not.” She answered quickly, decisively. She couldn’t hurt his feelings. The cat looked up at her, as though sensing her ambivalence. “It’ll be fun. When will you be here?”
“How about the Monday or Tuesday before Thanksgiving?”
“Perfect.” She just had to make sure her commission was completed so she could show him around. She could do this.
“Great.” She could hear the smile in his voice and was glad she’d made him happy. Then he added with a sudden burst of speed, “I’ll stay through Christmas, then we can say goodbye.”
She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together to prevent anything he wouldn’t want to hear from coming out. Through Christmas? He’d done that deliberately. He’d been a very astute father and he’d always read her like a book. He knew she wanted to be on her own to prepare herself for Florence. Leaving family and friends behind was difficult, but she was desperate to do this, so she’d started with the move to Astoria. And now he was doing his best to foil her plans.
He didn’t want her to go. He’d been clear about that more than once. He considered her still too delicate to be on her own in a foreign country with what some considered less sophisticated medical options. Or—she had to face this—he was afraid she’d die there and he’d never see her again.
But she felt sure she had time. She didn’t have forever, but she wanted to spend all the time she did have stretching the artist in her to the furthest reaches of her talent. And she couldn’t do that with her father’s arms around her. Or a husband’s.
She ramped up the cheer in her voice. “That’ll be fun, Dad. I’ll love showing you around. This is the most beautiful place, everywhere you look.”
He expelled a breath. Relief, she guessed. “Good. Good, Bobbie. I’ll see you in about a month.”
“Okay, Dad.”
“Okay. I love you, baby.”
“Love you, too, Dad. See you soon.”
“Bye.”
She turned off the phone and growled and stamped her foot. Monet jumped down and meowed in protest. Bobbie stroked him with the sole of her shoe. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t let herself do that anymore. It was a waste of energy and she had too much to do.
She could do this. She could walk into her father’s embrace one more time and be able to let him go at the end of it. She just hoped he could do the same.
She sipped at her tea and carried the cup to the second bedroom, where she had a drafting table and her paints and inks. She put her cup safely out of the way and leaned over the piece she was working on. A quote from Oliver Wendell Holmes about dying with one’s music unsung was partially complete. It was going well. She wouldn’t say that aloud, of course, because it had a way of jinxing a project, but she could admit to being happy with her progress.
She had just pulled her stool into position when there was a rhythmic knock on the front door. Sandy. “Come in!” Bobbie shouted.
Tall and red-haired and just a little plump, Sandy Evans breezed into the room in jeans and a short, pumpkin-colored jacket. Her two little girls, Adalyn—Addie—and Zoey, were with her. Three and four respectively, they were fair-haired like the father, who’d walked away after Addie was born, claiming to be overwhelmed.
Sandy didn’t know what the word meant. She worked full-time as an office manager, was completely devoted to her daughters and still found time for community involvement. She made Bobbie feel like a slug.
She dropped a white paper bag on Bobbie’s table, then came around to look over her shoulder at the artwork. She was distracted for an instant when Zoey reached out to touch a jar of paintbrushes. “Hands in your pockets, girls,” she said. “No touching. This is all important stuff to Aunt Bobbie, and we don’t want to break anything.”
Leaning over Bobbie’s shoulder, she breathed an “Oh!” of approval. “That’s going to be gorgeous!” She pointed a pumpkin-painted fingernail at a pale blue flower petal in the paper. “What is that?”
“I dried hydrangea, and took one of the petals.” She indicated another spot. “That’s a hawthorn leaf. And that longer yellow petal is from a forsythia I saved from the spring.”
Sandy gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You are so clever. And that’s what I came to talk to you about.”
Bobbie opened the white bag. Sandy had brought a berry scone from the Astoria Coffee House downtown, one of Bobbie’s favorite indulgences.
She looked up at her friend suspiciously. “Thank you, but what do you want from me that requires a bribe?” The girls came closer at the possibility of treats. “Can I give them a bite?”
“Just a little one.”
Bobbie broke off two chunks and offered them to the girls, who accepted greedily. Then she tore one off for herself.
“Astor School needs someone to help with a couple of art classes for the lower grades. The budget for that kind of thing is gone this year. Would you do it?” Sandy waited expectantly.
“How do you know they need someone? Your kids aren’t even in school yet.”
“My boss is on the school board, and our office is donating supplies if we can find a teacher.”
“But I’m here only until January.”
“Holidays are when the kids get restless, and art gives them something fun to focus on. What do you think?”
“Sure. I guess.” She wanted to help, but wasn’t certain she was qualified. “I don’t know a lot about teaching children. I suppose I can find projects on the internet.”
Sandy opened the big tote she carried as a purse. A sock monkey wearing a tutu and ballet shoes tumbled out as she withdrew a large paperback. She held it up. The title was Holiday Art Projects for Elementary Grades. She handed it to Bobbie, while Zoey rushed to rescue her ballerina monkey.
“Thank you.” Bobbie flipped through the book. The projects were simple and she’d seen them before, but that was probably good for children. Maybe she could handle this.
“So, you’ll do it?”
“What’s the schedule?”
“Once a week, Friday mornings, ten to eleven-thirty—until the kids get out for Christmas break.”
“I’m still working on the pieces for your office, remember.”
A wave of Sandy’s hand dismissed that as a problem. “I know you to be brilliant. You’ll get it all done. And what’s an hour and a half a week?”
Bobbie hadn’t intended to get this involved in her temporary residence, but she remembered how exciting her art periods had been in grade school. She liked the thought of providing that sense of fun and discovery to kids. And her father would love knowing she was spending time away from her studio.
“Okay, I’ll do it. Should I call the teacher?”
“I put her name, number and email on the bookmark.” Sandy indicated where it protruded from the book. “She’ll be thrilled. Great! Okay, girls.” Bobbie’s friend shepherded her daughters toward the door. “Can we come by and trick-or-treat?”
She got up to walk them out. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. In fact, I made you something to put on your front porch.”
The three followed her into the kitchen, where she retrieved a medium-size pumpkin sporting a cat face. She’d cut off the top and cleaned out the seeds, then carved part of the eyes and nose. With a special tool, she’d removed only the orange skin and thinned out the pumpkin flesh in a few places, defining the cat’s features so that a candle would shine through. The cat had a whimsical expression, wide eyes, whiskers, and a tongue protruding from his scalloped mouth. She’d placed a flameless candle inside and turned it on to demonstrate.
The girls giggled and squealed. Bobbie felt as fulfilled as if she’d sold a 24” x 36” oil on canvas.
She pointed to two smaller pumpkins she’d made with less interesting faces, but that she’d drilled to hold a wire loop. She held one up in each hand. “Or do you like these better? You can hang them in the tree in the front yard.”
The girls both voted on the cat pumpkin.
“Okay. I’ll carry it out to the car for you.”
Sandy strapped the girls into their car seats, but there was great protest when she tried to put the pumpkin in the trunk.
“If I set it on the seat between you,” Sandy explained, “it might fall over when we go down the hill.”
Logic didn’t sway them. Bobbie ran into the open garage, found a box the right size and placed the pumpkin in it, then set the box between the girls. Each rested a hand on the pumpkin, delighted.
“There!” Bobbie exclaimed, hugging Sandy. “Peace reestablished.”
“You’re really very good at this, Bobbie. You sure you want to devote your life to art rather than children?”
There was no question. “I’m sure. Now, get out of here so I can get back to work.”
“Incidentally...” Sandy opened the driver’s door, then stopped. “What do you hear from Laura?”
Laura Kirby had been having chemotherapy at the same time that Bobbie had her first infusion. Sandy managed time away from work and her mother was able to babysit so that she could provide moral support. Bobbie and Laura had become fast friends, bonding over their mutual need to accomplish pressing goals. Laura’s was to have a baby—something she and her husband, a law student, had put off until his graduation. Fortunately for Laura, she’d been given none of the drugs that played havoc with a woman’s fertility.
Laura and Bobbie had lunch occasionally, and since Bobbie had moved to Astoria, kept in touch through email. Sandy had seen Laura just that one time, but had liked her and was happy that she and Bobbie had forged such a strong friendship.
“Is she pregnant yet?”
“Latest report, not yet,” Bobbie replied. “But they’re having fun trying.”
“Great! Next time you email, tell her I said hi.”
“I will.
Bobbie waved off Sandy and her girls and went back inside. Monet wandered out from behind the sofa—his usual hiding place when children visited—and followed her into the kitchen to a favorite spot on a sunny windowsill.
Before going back to work, Bobbie went out to the garage to get the hat and jacket she’d left there. They’d been soaked with tea and should be thrown into the laundry.
She stopped in surprise at the sight of three pristine shelves leaning up against the inside wall. She slipped one onto a surviving bracket and found it a perfect fit.
Feeling guilty that the boys had probably gotten into trouble for the morning’s escapade, she picked up the two small pumpkins Addie and Zoey had rejected in favor of the cat-faced one, and headed next door.
The Raleighs had left earlier, but she’d noticed the car was back. She walked around to the front. The tall mountain ash on the deep lawn was covered in red berries. Birds chirped and fluttered, so that the tree seemed alive. Bobbie stopped to take in the pleasure of the moment. There was such richness in nature for her now. She’d always been aware of it, but since she’d been ill, she felt more a part of it—as though everything in the universe was connected, herself included.
She stepped over a toy truck and climbed the steps to the wide front porch of the yellow house. A seasonal figure made of straw and wearing overalls and a baseball hat sat on a wooden bench. Two pumpkins, obviously carved by children, sat beside him.
She knocked on the front door with its classic Craftsman leaded window, and heard Arnold’s deep bark, followed by the sound of running feet.
The door was yanked open and she was greeted by...well, she wasn’t sure who. She’d apparently walked into a comic book.
“Hi, Spidey!” she said, recognizing the blue-and-red costume worn by the smaller boy. But she wasn’t sure which character the red-gold-and-black costume represented. “Who’s your friend?”
“I’m Iron Man,” Dylan replied, striking a pose.
“Ah. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”
Arnold, standing between the boys, wagged his tail and reached up to lick her hand when she patted his giant head.
Dylan did a turn. “Iron Man is really Tony Stark. He made armor to escape terrorists in Afghanistan.”
“Iron Man can fly,” Sheamus said, “but I can shoot spiderwebs.”
“Iron Man can fly without having to hold on to spiderwebs or anything else.”
Sheamus shrugged off the implied criticism of his powers and pointed to the pumpkins in Bobbie’s hands. “What are those?”
“Miss Molloy.” Nate appeared behind his nephews and opened the door wider. He now wore a dark blue sweater and had shaved. She couldn’t help staring a little. He looked fresh and crisp, but he still wasn’t smiling. The “what are you doing here?” look in his eyes seemed to mirror his polite but cool greeting.
Still, he was handsome. She felt the smallest flutter behind her breastbone. Of course, she’d had radiation there, and a burn remained as a result. There was a little bit of a laserlike quality to his expression.
“The shelves fit okay?” he asked.
“They’re perfect. Thank you.” She remained on the porch, but held out the pumpkins. “I have only a minute. I made a few pumpkins for myself and a friend’s children, and had these left over. I thought the boys might like them. But I see they already have some really cool ones on the front porch.”
The boys pulled off their headpieces and each reached excitedly for one of her pumpkins before she could withdraw them.
“Whoa!” Sheamus held his up, then turned to study Dylan’s. “I like mine better. It has a smiley face.”
Dylan’s had a saw-toothed mouth to indicate distress or fear. He seemed to like that. “Who wants to smile on Halloween? It’s supposed to be scary. This one’s the best!”
“You can hang them on the plant hooks on the porch,” Bobbie said, “or in the tree in the yard.” She reached into Dylan’s to show Nate the flameless candle. “No fire, so you don’t have to worry about where they put them.”
“Good idea.” Nate duly admired each one. “We do have our share of disasters around here. I’m happy not to have to deal with fire. Thank you. That was very thoughtful.” He said it in the same tone one might use to say, “And don’t let the door hit you on your way out!”
She ignored him and smiled at the boys. “I have to get back to my work. Be sure to come by trick-or-treating. I’m making something special.”
Sheamus jumped up and down. “We’ll come to your house first!”
“Thanks, Bobbie.” Dylan’s smile was wide. “I’m going to put my pumpkin in my room.”
“Me, too!” Sheamus ran off toward the stairs. Dylan followed more slowly, holding his up to study it as he walked, Arnold at his heels.
“You made them very happy.” Nate stepped out onto the porch, the statement sounding a little like an accusation. She frowned up at him, wondering what his problem was. “Thank you,” he added grudgingly. “I sometimes have trouble doing that.”
Ah. She’d overstepped somehow. But she’d be darned if she’d apologize for having pleased his nephews.
“Gotta go,” she said with a pretense of a smile. “Thank you for the shelves.”
She was halfway down the stairs when he ordered, “Wait!”
She stopped in her tracks, holding on to the railing to get her balance. She turned to ask what he wanted, and found him right beside her. He caught her arm. “Sheamus left one of his trucks at the bottom of the steps.” He tightened his grip and led her around it. “I’ve told him a million times about leaving his toys out, but he never remembers.”
Nate’s eyes were turbulent suddenly, that remote, unsettling quality gone. It made it somehow easier to talk to him.
“How did you become a parenting uncle?” she asked. She thought the answer to the question might help her understand him. Not that she had to make a connection here. By all indications, he didn’t want one, either. “On second thought,” she said quickly, turning to start across the lawn, “it’s none of my business. I apologize for invading your space.”
“No.” Again he stopped her with a single word. “You did no such thing. And there’s nothing secret about it. Their father was my brother. He and my sister-in-law died in a boating accident six months ago.”
“Oh.” The small sound expressed her horror at that information. She felt sudden sympathy for him. “I’m so sorry. How awful for all of you.”
He made a one-handed gesture of helplessness. “It is what it is—at least that’s what everyone says about things they can’t explain or do anything about.” He stopped on the lawn, his expression grim. “I guess the suggestion is that since you can’t change it, you have to accept it. I’m having a little trouble with that.”
She nodded in understanding, his admission forcing her to reassess her opinion of him. “I get that. I tore my curtains off my bedroom window when my mother died. I was in my teens. Then I had to replace a window in my kitchen door after my teacup went through it when I got my cancer diagnosis.” She smiled in self-deprecation. “Sometimes it’s just too hard to pretend that we’re adult and in control.”
He frowned as his eyes went to her hair. “I wondered if that was the case. Not that it’s any of my business.”
“It’s all right. Nothing secret with me, either. Millions of people deal with cancer every day, and my prognosis is better than many.” She ran a hand self-consciously over her head. “And my hair’s back. Well, mostly. So, all in all, things aren’t too bad.”
His eyes roved her hair, then slowly and with an interest that pinned her in place, moved over her face, feature by feature. He lingered for the barest moment on her mouth, then went back to her eyes.
“So, the cancer is gone?” he asked.
“Ah...” She had to pull her thoughts away from his close scrutiny. She swore she could feel fingertips everywhere his gaze had touched. “No. But I can live with it for a long time. It doesn’t go away, but it’s not as aggressive as other types.”
“You seem to have adjusted,” he said. “Or maybe the better word is accepted. How did you reach that point?”
She didn’t have to think. It was the decision to move to Florence that had finally put her on her feet. “You’re right. It is what it is. Nothing says it quite so well. I couldn’t change it, and I was tired of pouting and being scared, so I started to make plans.”
She began to walk across the yard. She was surprised when he kept pace with her.
“What kind of plans?”
“I’m moving to Italy after the holidays to pursue an art career.”
“I thought you had an art career.”
“What I do now is commercial. I want to go where the masters worked, to study their genius and try to learn and absorb. I want to see if there’s fine art in me. You know, art that changes the world.”
“That’s a big dream.”
“Well, when you flirt with death, you tend to think big. I mean—I think I have time, but I don’t have forever. So, if I’m going to get to it, it’s now or never.”
He took her hand as they reached the row of chrysanthemums that bordered his side of their adjoining driveways. She talked to cover a little nervousness. His grip was strong, the skin on his hands smooth. “And I feel really good. My father is a doctor and moved in with me during my treatments. He cooked all the right things for me, and when I came here, made up a diet that I try to follow. If he hears I’m eating badly he’ll come and take over my kitchen again.”
“Ah. The hovering parent.” Nate freed her hand and they walked side by side around his car, then her truck. “I know something about that. My mother died of cancer when Ben and I were in high school, but my friend’s mother is my housekeeper and she’s a dragon where the boys’ and my health are concerned. When she thought I wasn’t getting enough sleep, she bought me bed pillows made of Hungarian goose down mingled with herbs that are supposed to help with stress relief.”
“I’m sorry about your mother,” Bobbie said gravely. Then she smiled. “Buying you goose down pillows is just caring and concern. My father cooked every meal for me with fresh organic produce and grains, and hid all my chocolate.”
Nate questioned her with a look. “Isn’t that just love and concern?”
“I guess it is,” she conceded, stopping to study her dormant rhododendron. “He taught me to fend for myself, and now wishes he hadn’t. And separating me from my chocolate is a suicidal move.” She plucked at a dead flower in the middle of the bush.
“Stella—that’s my housekeeper—says it’s as important to accept help as it is to give it. Maybe you should give your dad a break. He sounds like a great father. And I’m just learning how hard it is to be a good parent.”
“He’s wonderful. But healing the body is simpler than healing the soul and the emotions.” She frowned sympathetically. “And you’re in pain, too. If you don’t feel like the perfect stand-in father, I think you should give yourself a break.”
She reached farther in for another dead flower. “My dad’s coming for Thanksgiving. He called me today to make sure I was getting out and meeting people and not spending every waking moment in my studio. I guess you have to be an artist to understand another artist.”
“Have you met people?”
“I’ve been here just a month. And I’m working on the commission, so there hasn’t been a lot of free time. But the friend who got me the commission just talked me into teaching art classes at the school once a week.” She laughed softly. “At least I’ll be able to tell Dad I know a lot of children.”
“Astor School?” he asked. When she nodded, he said, “The boys go to Astor. What grades?”
“It sounds like they’ll be combining a few of the lower grades for my class.”
“Sheamus is in second grade. Dylan, though, is a fifth grader, so he probably won’t have access to the class. And he’s the one who shows definite artistic abilities. He’s really smart all around. He’s crazy about the MythBusters. Do you ever watch that?”
“No. Not much time for TV. Except Dancing with the Stars.”
Her neighbor closed his eyes. “Saints preserve me. Anyway, when I was just his uncle, we used to watch it together, and I used to think his love of exploring and experimenting was fun. The two hosts take accepted myths and action scenes from movies to see whether they could really happen. Even the president and his daughters watch it, and asked the show to prove an old myth about Archimedes’s death ray.”
“Archimedes...” Bobbie repeated the name, trying desperately to remember who he was.
“Among other things, he was a physicist and an astronomer. He’s supposed to have set fire to an invading Roman fleet by positioning his army to direct mirrors that reflected the rays of the sun. The hosts of the show used five hundred students with mirrors, but it didn’t work. Anyway—now that it’s my job to keep Dylan from killing himself, I don’t enjoy the show as much anymore.”
“You mentioned the power saw this morning. What was he doing when that happened?”
“Trying to build a bike ramp. We got off lucky. I hate to think what he could have done to himself with the saw or the ramp if he’d finished it. I locked up my power tools and asked Stella to be extra vigilant. Meanwhile, I’ve got to get him busy with something.”
“I have a thought.” Suddenly inspired with a positive solution for Dylan, Bobbie withdrew her hand from the bush and started off toward the house.
At the sight of a large spider on the back of her hand, she stopped in her tracks and shook her arm frantically. The spider held on. She screamed.
Nate caught her wrist in one hand and swatted the spider away with the other. “You confront a major disease with heroic resolve and freak out over a spider?” He almost smiled, but not quite. “It is Halloween, after all. They’re supposed to be here.”
She did a sort of all-body shudder and brushed both arms. “Okay,” she allowed. “But not on me.”
“I guess Nature doesn’t know that.” The remark was teasing, but he still didn’t smile. “You said you had a thought,” he prompted.
“Right.” She gave up trying to figure him out and ran lightly up the back porch steps. “If Dylan’s interested in art, I can give you a sketchbook and some pencils.”
Nate hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. If you can spare them.”
“Come with me.” She pushed open the back door. “I’ve got pastels I never use, too. But that can get messy.”
He followed her inside. “I don’t care about the mess, if he’ll be occupied with something that carries low injury potential.”
“Great. Wait here for a minute. I’ll find some things for him.”
* * *
NATE WALKED INTO her small living room while she disappeared into the back of the house. He was curiously uncomfortable in her presence, though he wasn’t sure why. Possibly because there was such brightness about her and it seemed intrusive in his dark, angry world. But if she had something that would interest Dylan, Nate would be happy to have it.
The walls in her living room were a go-with-everything off-white that would have seemed dull but for the berry-colored sofa and chair, the coffee table painted with stylized flowers and vines trailing down the legs, and all the unrelated but individually striking paintings on the walls. There was a seascape, a still life, a wild pattern of some sort, a languorous nude in the grass and a large canvas covered with what looked like a conveyor belt with rabbits on wheels careening off it. A bright sun shone, smiling birds flew around the rabbits and in the background ducks on a pond bathed happily. He stepped forward for a closer look.
The painting defied explanation. He’d always thought he preferred representational art—a pot of flowers, a portrait, a familiar scene—but this brought a smile and seemed to inspire in him a sense of good cheer. It was ridiculous, but somehow enjoyable. The signature on the bottom right read “RLM.”
He heard light laughter behind him. “That’s called Hare Raising.” It was Bobbie’s voice.
He continued to study the canvas. “Really. It’s wild. I’m surprised that I like it, but I do. Who’s RLM?”
“I am.”
He turned to her in surprise. She had an armload of books, papers and boxes, and a canvas tote she was trying to put it all in. He took the bag from her and held it open. “So, Bobbie is for, what? Roberta rather than Barbara?”
“Right.” She dropped everything inside, then took the bag from him and gave it an adjusting shake. She handed it back. “Roberta Louise Molloy. That was my one foray into surrealism.”
“I think of myself as a traditionalist, but I really like it.”
“I did, too, when I did it. It was toward the end of my first round of chemo and I had to dig deep for energy and enthusiasm, so I tried something new. I had a dream one night about a similar scene. I added the birds and the ducks just because I like them. But I haven’t been able to find that feeling again.”
He looked at the painting once more, then at her. “The feeling of a frightened rabbit on a wild ride?”
She blinked and stared. He was obviously on target, but he felt sure she didn’t appreciate it. Something shifted in her eyes as she lowered them and closed him out. He could almost hear the sound of a slamming door.
She gave him an artificial smile. “Yes. That was perceptive. I think you probably understand the boys better than you think you do.” She walked ahead of him to the door and opened it for him.
He paused in the entry before she physically pushed him out. Instinct told him that was coming next. “Thank you.” He held up the bag. “Dylan will be very happy.”
“You’re welcome. See you on Halloween.”
He stepped onto the porch as the door began to close.
It was clear that, for whatever reason, she didn’t like being understood. Which was probably best. He didn’t want her to become a chummy neighbor and understand that he was a deeply angry man who wasn’t dealing very well with his life, and had no idea how to raise two lost and frightened little boys.
God, he missed Ben.
