Emerald

by Elle Casey

  I want to comfort him and apologize a thousand times, but I know that’ll only make things worse. Without another word, I get up from the table as everybody else is finishing their dessert. As soon as I get inside the house, I run up the stairs to my bedroom and scramble through my bag until I find what I’m looking for.

  I shove the two items I located into the pocket of a big jacket that I put over my shoulders. It’s getting cold outside and I’ll soon be freezing my buns off. I grab a sweater and a blanket for Sadie before heading downstairs and out to my painting studio.

  I collect two canvases, a rag, several paintbrushes, two empty plastic cups, and several tubes of paint for me and Sadie. Neither of us is going to create a masterpiece tonight, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we show up. Sam needs us, and we’re not going to let him down. I bring all the stuff out to a clear area next to the picnic tables and set the canvases down, taking my time to balance them on chairs that serve as makeshift easels.

  Sadie comes over, hopping like a bunny, her face glowing with excitement. “Is that for me? Is that for me?” She points at the canvas and squeals.

  “Yep. Here.” I hand her the cups, hoping that giving her a job will help calm her down. “Go fill these halfway with water and then come right back. We need to get started soon before it gets too dark.”

  She races off, yelling at the top of her lungs, “Water, water, water!”

  There are enough adults around that I don’t need to worry about her accomplishing her mission. Instead, I focus on what I need to do, which is getting the acrylics ready for both of us.

  I’m probably going to regret this; there’s going to be paint everywhere. But the important thing is that Sam is able to pull off his thing tonight. Just a few notes performed in public would be better than nothing, especially because the band is here. They need to see that he can deliver. Anything but silence followed by retreat will be a success in my book. I ignore my nerves, which are jangling, and my spiking blood pressure. I’ve been painting all my life. I can do this. I am not afraid. Okay, so I’m terrified. But I’m not going to let my fear stop me. Not this time.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Sam sets a chair down next to me and lowers himself into it, his guitar in his lap. He works on tuning it. Ty comes over and drops a chair next to Sam’s. He also has a guitar. Sam glances up at his brother, and at first he seems angry to see him there, but then his expression smooths out, replaced by a half smile. Sam lifts his beer and the brothers touch bottles, taking long swigs before they settle in with their guitar tuning again.

  There’s electricity in the air, making my skin feel especially sensitive and tingly. I’m nervous both for him and myself. A crowd starts to gather as the guys play a couple chords.

  Sadie arrives with the water, walking very carefully and handing it to me when she gets close. I set the cups down on a tree stump between us, and she sits next to me in her chair. I make sure she has her sweater on and the blanket over her legs before I let her pick up a paintbrush.

  “Imagine what you want to paint before you start,” I say. “Make outlines and then fill them in.”

  She holds her paintbrush out at the canvas and nods sagely. “I know. I did this before, a million and twenty times.”

  I leave Little Picasso to her own devices and focus on the blank canvas in front of me. It suddenly hits me that a couple dozen eyes are staring at me and I’ve never let anyone watch me work before. I think I now know what it feels like to stand at the top of a very high cliff in a bathing suit, preparing to take a fifty-foot dive. I’m panicking. My ears are on fire. I think I’m going to barf. Or pee. Or both.

  And then someone plays something discordant. I glance over and see that it’s Sam. He’s frowning down at his guitar. I think he feels sick like me. When the note finally stops ringing out, his body goes completely tense, and it looks like he’s about to get up and run.

  “Tonight!” I announce loudly to the group. “I am going to paint . . . a tree!” I point with my paintbrush like Babe Ruth did with his bat to signify the home run he was about to hit. “That tree, right over there.” Everyone turns away from Sam to see what I’m gesturing at, leaving him to play without their scrutiny.

  I quickly dig into my jacket pockets and pull out the items I took from the bag in my room. One of them I put on my face, and the other I pop into its full size and use to tap Sam’s arm.

  He looks over at me in confusion, surprise, and then in slow happiness. He takes the Abraham Lincoln hat from me and places it on his head. “Thanks, babe.”

  “I’ve got your back,” I say, pushing the black plastic glasses up on the bridge of my nose. The fake mustache tickles my upper lip, and the rubber nose stinks like something I don’t want to think about, but I’m keeping it on, no matter what. Sam was right . . . it helps to hide behind a mask when fifty people are staring at you and expecting you to perform.

  I go back to my canvas and Sam begins to strum his guitar. Ty joins in, playing backup. I take my paintbrush and pull up some dark paint, brown mixed with black. My plan is to start with the tree’s roots and work my way up. Just like I’m doing with myself. First I learn to harness my fear, and then I alone define who I have become. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

  “I like your new glasses,” Sadie says. “Can I try?”

  I pause to let her wear them. She can’t see her masterpiece through the big, furry eyebrows, though, so she returns them. “Here you go. I have to paint now.”

  I put the disguise back on, ignoring the titters and stares, and continue with my painting. I find courage in Sam sitting next to me battling his demons. More music comes from the guitars, not just chords now but an organized melody. I’ve never heard this tune before, but it instantly catches my attention, making me think of the first time I met Sam and the strange feelings he kindled in me from the moment he walked into my sister’s foyer. My drawing of the tree comes out of nowhere while most of my attention rests on the music. Painting has never come so easy to me before, and here I am doing it in front of people for the first time in my life. I’m participating in what feels like a true miracle.

  The song is beautiful. I’m stunned by how well these two men play together when they haven’t done it in years and Ty’s never heard the song before. Heck, as far as I know, they haven’t even had time to have a meaningful conversation yet, let alone time to heal the wounds between them. It must come from the years of playing together and growing up in the same environment, sharing the same history.

  Sam is angry with his father for how he forced them to play all those years, but there is a bright side to his misery; the magical connection between these brothers is undeniable, and it’s hard to imagine it could have grown from anything other than all those hours they spent practicing and learning together.

  I’m working on the branches of my tree, the bark lumpy and twisted. They reach toward the sky, searching for something. Sustenance. Something they can’t live without. It makes me wonder what sustains me. Is it this place? The love of my family? The feelings I have for Sam and Sadie? It sure feels like it. I use shadows to bring out extra dimension, because nothing can be bright without some darkness to make it stand out in relief. Several people move around behind our chairs to watch over my shoulder, but it doesn’t bother me, because I’m more interested in the music than what they’re thinking about my work. Inspiration has struck; my muse has returned to my life and she’s come in the form of a man and his child and the boundless love they’ve shared with me. My brushstrokes are effortless.

  Sam starts to sing, and my heart stops beating for a few moments. God, his voice is gorgeous. And he can’t perform in public? What a horrible, rotten shame. The world should be able to hear what I’m hearing right now. It’s beautiful. He’s speaking about darkness and pain and then light and hope. In my heart I know he’s remembering Madison. His lyrics say he’s dreaming of the day he’ll feel the warmth of love on his skin again, like the sun on a tree’s l
eaves.

  I look at what I’m painting, and I see both Sam and myself there on the canvas. For us to be like this strong tree, surviving all the seasons year after year, we need to put down strong roots and reach for the sky. We need to stretch out of our comfort zones to find that sustenance, the things that keep us alive. Not just living but really alive. I feel very alive right now . . . probably more than I ever have before. And it’s all because this weirdo beardo guy made me a bet and took a chance on following me out to Glenhollow.

  Ty begins to harmonize, and what was already wonderful becomes unbelievable. Why have these men not been making music together their whole lives? What split them apart and made them live on opposite sides of the country and not speak to each other? What was so awful between them that Sam didn’t tell Ty he was an uncle? They must have some serious regrets right now, hearing the beauty that they’re creating together. They could have just chosen to deal with their problems sooner and avoided all the pain they’ve lived with instead of holding on to it.

  Something tickles the back of my mind. Regrets. Life can be so full of them, but it’s all just a choice. We don’t have to have them; it’s a choice we make. I pause my painting and look up. Four men are staring at me, all of them wearing leather jackets.

  I go back to my canvas, flustered. I need to focus on getting this thing done. There are only a few leaves left on the original tree. The season is almost over, and it’s losing parts of itself as a result. Does this tree regret the changing of the seasons? Does it wish summer would go on forever? Somehow I think the answer is no. I think the tree is smarter than I am. It knows that life must go on and we can’t hold on to the past. We need to move forward into an uncertain future trusting that the seasons will keep cycling through and the leaves will come again. Beauty will reappear in another form.

  I tip the few remaining leaves on my tree’s branches with yellow-gold. The sun is setting around us, making everything seem a little magical. Sam and Ty’s song comes to a close, and the applause it brings is even louder than the music was. People are whistling, and some have lifted their cigarette lighters up to the sky.

  Now I know why the band needed Sam. He’ll bring something to Red Hot’s music that they’ve never had before. And the band will give Sam a creative outlet, a way to contribute and benefit from the fruits of his labor and the gifts God gave him. Amber was right: they need each other. And the only way it’s going to happen is if everybody respects one another and can get along.

  I look over at Sadie’s picture to see what she’s done. A huge lump rises in my throat when I see what’s on the canvas: a little girl in a purple dress holding the hand of a lady with a black dress who’s holding the hand of a man in a suit. There’s a pig on the ground and a unicorn in the sky being ridden by a blond woman with wings and high heels.

  I put my paintbrush down and fold my hands in my lap, doing my best to calm my thoughts and emotions. Sadie leans over and puts her hand on mine. “I like your tree. It’s really pretty.”

  “Thank you. I love your picture too. Is that your mommy flying in the sky?”

  Sadie nods. “And that’s you and me there, with our party dresses on.”

  “I love your picture. I think it’s much better than mine.”

  Sadie squints at my painting and nods. “I think so too. Maybe you should make it with more colors.”

  I smile and lean over so I can hug her. “I think you’re right. What color should I use next?”

  She picks up the purple paint and hands it to me. “Purple is my second favorite. But I think it could look really nice anyway.”

  I hold my paintbrush out and use it to point at the canvas. “Tell me where.”

  She points at the lower corner nearest her. “Right there. You need more flowers.”

  I dab the paint on the canvas as she instructed. “You’re absolutely right. This picture is way too boring. I need more flowers in my life.”

  She giggles. “Not in your life, silly. On your paper.”

  “Oh, yeah. Silly me. On my paper.”

  She stops grinning and looks up at me. “But maybe in your life, too. People can be like flowers, right?”

  I lean over and touch her nose. “Yes. You are a very pretty flower. A pink and purple one.”

  She points at my painting. “Right by your tree.”

  Emotion hits me right in the gut. This dark and twisted tree, sad over losing its leaves, looks so much happier with a pretty little flower under it.

  I can’t paint anymore; it’s just too much for me. But this painting is done enough, so that’s okay. Rome wasn’t built in a day, right? I put my paintbrush down and quickly wipe the tears from under the silly glasses before anyone notices they’re there.

  Sam leans over to look at what I’ve done. “I guess we’ll have to call this a draw.”

  Seized by emotion toward Sam and his daughter, I grab him by the cheeks and kiss him right on the mouth. We get lots of catcalls and whistles. “Yeah, I guess it’s a draw,” I say when we pull apart. I take my disguise off and set it to the side of my makeshift easel.

  We’re suddenly surrounded by everybody exclaiming over the multimedia performance, even the band members. I accept the compliments about my painting but move away as soon as I can. I know they mean well and they’re being very kind, but it’s just too overwhelming for me. I feel like my life is tumbling down a hill, turning into a giant snowball. It’s not that this is a terrible thing, but it’s just a lot to take in, especially for someone whose life—up until she met Sam Stanz anyway—was ever so predictable and unexciting.

  I walk up the front steps to the house, stopping on the porch to look out over the crowd, amazed at what’s happening to my life. My moms are mingling with the men they’ve loved their whole lives, even from afar . . . the ones they kept from being our fathers for twenty-five years. My pregnant sister Amber is hugging her man to her—a guy she met mere months ago—and kissing him right on the mouth in front of everyone, not at all ashamed of her feelings for him. Rose is deep in conversation with Greg Lister—the attorney who arrived in our lives three months ago as the bearer of bad news—neither of them paying attention to the craziness around them. Children are playing tag, Sadie at the center of it. Various other adults are busy eating apple cobbler, drinking coffee, and enjoying the relaxing night together. Someone is strumming a guitar.

  I’m standing off to the side because I’m more comfortable not being the center of attention, but I know I belong here. These are my people. Right now, no one in this crowd is excluded from that group either. When the Universe talks to me, I need to listen, and right now it’s telling me that I am being handed a gift . . . a way to move out from under a pile of regrets . . . if only I will take a risk and let people in. There’s nowhere else in the world that I’d rather be than here. I just hope it doesn’t mean that I have to be without Sam and Sadie, because they are my people too. I want them in my life for more than just a few more days; tonight proved that to me.

  Sam is the golden sun outlining the tips of the leaves on my tree of life, and Sadie is the little purple flower at the base of it. Without them, my life would be boring and lonely, and I’m tired of having that kind of existence. Comfortable and scared is no longer going to cut it for me.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  I’m so mesmerized by the view that I don’t realize there’s a man standing below me until he speaks. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, throw down your long hair.”

  “Go away, Smitty.” I can’t be mad at him; he’s too goofy.

  “What’re you doing up there? How come you’re not down here with your boyfriend?”

  “I’m just taking a break.”

  He walks up a couple of the stairs, stopping at the one just below where I am. It puts us at eye level. “You really like that guy, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.” It feels good to admit that out loud to someone, even if it’s only Smitty.

  “I’m happy for you.”

  �
��Are you?” I look at him, trying to read his thoughts. He sounds genuine, but you never know with him. He likes to tease and mess around.

  “Yeah, sure I am. I mean, if it doesn’t work out, and I’m not seeing anyone, maybe we can go out again; but, hey, if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  I roll my eyes. Typical Smitty.

  Another voice comes from a spot below where Smitty is standing. “Hey, man. You moving in on my woman?” Sam is there, looking flushed from his win.

  I hold out my hand toward him. “Come up here and see what you did.”

  Sam climbs the steps, slapping Smitty on the back pretty hard on his way up. “Sorry, man. Looks like I got the girl.”

  Smitty shrugs him off, smiling good-naturedly. “That’s fine. You two look good together, and everyone knows Em has a soft spot for guitar players. Have a good one.” Smitty wanders back into the crowd and picks up a cup of beer.

  Sam stands next to me, putting his arm around my waist and looking out over the group. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Oh, he’s just being a fool. He used to tease me about going into the bar in town to listen to the music. He tried to learn to play guitar, but he was all thumbs.”

  “You still have feelings for him?”

  I laugh. “No. I never really did. He was just . . . there. Besides, he’s just messing around. He’s dating a girl in town named Tanya.” I point to the crowd below. “Look.”

  “What are we looking at?”

  “We’re looking at your people.” I fold my arms over my waist, feeling very content.

  “My people?”

  “Yes. Every one of them was listening to you play, and they were loving it. They’re your fans. They get you.”

  He looks down at me. “I don’t give a damn what they thought about my song; I only care what you thought.”

  I look at him so he knows I’m being honest. “I loved it. Really, it was amazing. It helped me paint that tree. I thought I was going to have to run, but the music helped me through it. I had no idea you were so talented.” I pause to take his hand. “And I know you’re angry with your father for forcing you to play all those years, but he was right about one thing: you have a gift from the heavens, and it would be a crying shame not to share it with the world. It was really brave of you to stick it out. I know performing in front of them wasn’t easy for you.”