Twelve Days of Stella (3 page)

Scowling, she snatched it up and read the messily scribbled note inside.

teralynnchilds.com

© Tera Lynn Childs

The Twelve Days of Stella

10

You’ll find it, you know. Your passion.

You just have to keep an open mind.

—T

Stella blinked rapidly at the note until the words started to blur. It took a moment to

realize there were tears in her eyes. Why was she being so emotional today? It wasn’t

just Troy’s sweet note—Phoebe did have good taste in friends—because she’d felt this

way all day. Crying over the thought of leaving for college, over her mother’s paintings

—

Her gaze fell on the paintings and she instantly knew.

How could she have forgotten? She was a truly horrible daughter. Today was the

anniversary of her mother’s death. And she hadn’t remembered.

Before she could blink Stella was standing in the little cemetery on the east edge of the

island, in front of her mother’s grave. She was only more surprised to find her father

already standing there.

***

Without saying a word, Stella stepped over to her father and

slipped her arms around his waist. His arms came around her

shoulders, wrapping her in a warm, safe place.

“I’m so sorry, Daddy,” she said, ignoring her tears. “I can’t believe I

forgot what today was.”

“It’s all right,” he replied, hugging her tight before leaning back.

“Your mother would not want us spending our days, our years

mourning her. She was too much of a vibrant, vivacious woman to

wish us anchored to the past.”

Stella forced a watery smile. “I know.” An awkward laugh bubbled out. “She would

probably want us to forget the date altogether.”

“Doubtless,” he agreed. “But she would appreciate the fact that we will not.”

For several long moments, they stood there—hand-in-hand—gazing at the simple white

headstone and lost in their own memories. Stella’s focused on painting the mural. If she

closed her eyes, she could imagine herself sitting on the floor of her room, surrounded

by pots of paint laid out on a spatter-covered drop cloth. Her mother would paint the

basic shape and then let Stella paint in the details.

teralynnchilds.com

© Tera Lynn Childs

The Twelve Days of Stella

11

Even when it looked wretched, she never went back and corrected Stella’s work.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said before she realized what she was going to say. “I’d like to

start painting again.”

His hand squeezed hers tighter. “I think that is a marvelous idea.”

She swallowed over the tightness in her throat. “Are her art supplies still—“

“In a box in the basement. Yes, of course.” He gave her one of his knowing smiles. “I

always hoped you would resume painting one day. You loved it so much.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

Finally, she felt the melancholy that had plagued her all day begin to lift. It should feel

odd that her mood would lighten while she attended her mother’s grave, but it didn’t.

Not when it would make her mother smile.

Stella smiled, too.

***

After searching the basement for twenty minutes, Stella

finally found the boxes labeled MAYA. As she brushed off

the layer of dust that had accumulated in the last nine

years she wondered what treasures her father had packed

away. The label on the first box read: MAYA—DRESSER.

Her mom’s clothes and jewelry.

Stella started to drift into memories of playing dress-up in

brightly colored dresses and costume jewelry, but pulled herself back into the moment.

She was here with a purpose.

After setting aside the first three boxes, she found the one she wanted. MAYA—ART.

Hefting the box off the floor, Stella autoported upstairs into the dining room. She could

hear Troy and Phoebe in the living room. Rather than venture into the kitchen for a

knife, she neofactured one and sliced open the box.

She found a wealth of art supplies. Brushes tied up in a canvas pouch. Rags and

sponges for texturing. A tackle box full of half-squeezed paint tubes, sketching pencils,

gum erasers, and dozens of other tools.

It smelled like her mom.

The only thing not in the box was a blank canvas. Since she was not about to paint over

teralynnchilds.com

© Tera Lynn Childs

The Twelve Days of Stella

12

one of her mom’s works, she neofactured one of those, as well.

Though it had been years since she attempted anything more artistic than an intricate

hairstyle, as Stella laid the contents of the box across the table it felt like yesterday her

mom had first taught her how to mix her own colors. Pulling the tubes of acrylic paint

from the bottom of the tackle box, she paused when her hands brushed over a scrap of

parchment.

Stella knew what it would say before she read it.

What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?

—Vincent van Gogh

Her mother’s favorite quote.

She placed it next to the blank canvas, where it could inspire her as she sought the

courage to attempt her first painting without her mother’s guidance.

***

“Hey Stella, are you—?” Phoebe burst into the dining room.

“Whoa.”

Stella didn’t look up from her canvas. Dipping her brush into the

bright red paint on her palette, she lifted it to the painting and

made a swirling motion with her wrist. An imperfect oval formed

among the dozens she had already painted.

“Did you want something, Phoebe?”

“Yeah, I—“ Phoebe shook her head. “I thought you said you didn’t

paint.”

Stella added another red oval.

“Oh yeah,” Phoebe said. “Hesper wanted me to ask you to clear the table for dinner. I

don’t know how she knew you were in here, though,” she continued. “I was sitting

right there in the living room the whole time and never heard you.”

Stella shrugged. “Hesper has the sixth sense.”

“Duh.”

“Tell her I’ll be done in a few minutes.” Swishing her brush in the jar of murky water,

she washed off the red and then took a swipe of yellow. “I’ll set the table when I’m

teralynnchilds.com

© Tera Lynn Childs

The Twelve Days of Stella

13

finished.”

“Okay,” Phoebe said, stepping closer to get a better look at the painting. “This is

beautiful, Stella. Really.”

She pretended the compliment didn’t matter—just continued making brightly colored

ovals on the canvas—but deep down it felt good. Her stomach had been a flutter of

nerves since she laid the first brushstroke. No artist can truly judge her own work, so

what she thought was a lovely composition might look horrendous to the rest of the

world.

Not that the rest of the world mattered to her—this was purely personal—but it was

still nice to hear the praise.

After Phoebe left the room to deliver her message to Hesper, Stella whispered, “Thank

you.”

***

“What did you girls do today?” Stella’s stepmom, Valerie, asked

as she passed the bowl of tzatziki.

Stella stifled a laugh when Phoebe’s cheeks turned bright pink.

Though she usually took every opportunity to find pleasure in

her stepsister’s embarrassing powers mishaps, tonight she was in

a generous mood. Rather than sit back and let Phoebe flounder,

Stella spoke up.

“I started painting again,” she said as she spooned a helping of

the tangy yogurt sauce onto her plate. “Until this afternoon I

hadn’t painted since my mother passed.”

A look of sympathy passed over Valerie’s face, indicating that she knew the significance

of today’s date. For a moment Stella was afraid she would offer some apology or

empathy or something equally pity-induced, but then her gaze shift over Stella’s

shoulder and her face lit up.

“Did you paint that?” she asked, her voice full of awe.

Dipping a small piece of bread into the tzatziki, Stella nodded.

When she’d finally declared the work finished and started clearing off the table for

dinner, she’d set her painting on the buffet behind her chair. She was pleased with the

result—a shower of bright colors against a plaster white background. It captured the

moment perfectly.

teralynnchilds.com

© Tera Lynn Childs

The Twelve Days of Stella

14

“It’s marvelous,” Daddy declared. “Such vibrant colors.”

“Very abstract,” Valerie added. “What is it?”

Stella smiled. “A rainbow of fruit flavors.”

Daddy and Valerie frowned in confusion. Phoebe sucked in a quick breath. And,

because she was feeling particularly cheeky, Stella made Skittles rain down from above.

(After she drew a protective shield over their heads and their dinner, of course—she did

not want a repeat of her earlier scalp wound.)

“What on earth?” Daddy scowled at the candy downpour.

Valerie gasped. “Phoebe!”

“It wasn’t me this time,” she insisted. “I swear.”

“This time?” Valerie echoed.

When Daddy raised his hands to stop the cascade, nothing happened. He might be a

very powerful hematheos, but Stella knew a few tricks. With one swipe of her hand she

froze every Skittle where it hung.

“I did it,” she announced. Then, with a glance at Phoebe, added, “This time.”

Stella popped the tzatziki-covered bread into her mouth and made the hovering Skittles

disappear.

Nine years ago, she would never have guessed that she could be happy on this date,

this anniversary. She would never have guessed that she would find herself painting

again. And, most of all, she would never have guessed that she would find contentment

in a collaged family. But somehow all of those things had happened. Her mother would