Always Florence (3 page)

“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.

“
I
s 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.”