“We do offer three scholarships for children in need,” she said, but when she saw the sudden hope I didn’t even try to keep off my face, she shook her head. “The waiting list for those is even longer. And we offset their cost with a higher tuition for our other students. Bethwell is expensive.”
“I couldn’t find your rates on the website. What does it cost?”
“Twelve hundred dollars a month.”
I flinched, and she saw it. Her eyes softened. “There are plenty of good programs around if Bethwell Academy doesn’t work for you. Please try not to stress. Chloe is clearly a bright girl, and she’ll be fine in any program.”
She might as well have punched me in the heart. I could only offer a silent prayer of thanks that I hadn’t told Dani I was coming here today. I was living her worst nightmare of watching Chloe lose out on something amazing because even if there were space for her, there was no money for it. She shouldn’t have to settle for any old program and hope her natural intelligence offset any lack in the school.
I managed a nod. Words would have choked me. All that would have come out was “It’s not fair,” but I hated stating the obvious.
Dr. Bray glanced at the clock. “I’d be glad to put Chloe on our waiting list, but you should keep all your options open. Creative play is winding up. Let me walk you over to her.”
I followed her down a bright blue hallway with framed prints of Dr. Seuss pictures. I stopped and studied one more closely. “This is a signed lithograph,” I said. Those were expensive. Owned-by-people-in-mansions expensive.
“Yes,” she said. “We’re fortunate to have generous parents supporting Bethwell. Here’s the center.”
Maybe . . . maybe there was a chance after all. I’d have to think hard before I took the risk.
She opened the door to a spacious room we’d breezed past earlier. Kids were putting away their supplies, removing smocks, or organizing paints while they chattered. Chloe sat by herself at a table in the corner, her tongue poking out as she colored. The chest fist squeezed. I hated seeing her isolated from the other kids. It reminded me too much of the many recesses and lunches I’d spent alone with my sketchpad. Most of the time I’d liked the quiet to work, but every now and then I’d realized that when I didn’t want to draw, there wasn’t anyone to play or eat with. And that was sad.
“Chloe?” I said. Her head shot up, and a huge grin broke over her face.
“Wia!” She snatched up her paper and raced toward me.
I crouched down to gather her into a hug, resolved to stop projecting my sense of childhood alienation onto her. “Did you have fun?”
Her head bounced like the rubber ball on a paddleball board. I hugged her again. “Good.”
“We’re glad you came to see us today, Chloe,” Dr. Bray said with a gentle stroke of Chloe’s hair.
“I made you this,” Chloe said, holding out her drawing. “Tank you for wetting me play.” She slipped behind me and held onto my leg, peeking out at Dr. Bray.
Dr. Bray’s eyes widened in surprise, and she crouched down to Chloe’s level and accepted the drawing. “You’re so thoughtful,” she said, studying the picture, her eyes widening even further.
Chloe had drawn herself next to a fairy in a blue dress with a sparkly crown.
“Dat’s you,” she said. “I love your school.” She let go of me and scurried over to give the still-crouching director a hug. Dr. Bray smiled at me and patted Chloe’s back.
“I didn’t tell her to do that,” I said.
“I know. I can always tell when kids are coached. This one’s pure sweetness, isn’t she?” Dr. Bray held Chloe by the shoulders and gave her a serious look. “This is a wonderful drawing, sweetie. Did you do that all by yourself?”
Chloe nodded.
“Did you know you draw as well as many five-year-olds and maybe even better than some of them? How do you do that?”
Chloe looked confused. “I know zactly how it look, and I color it.”
“You worked hard on it, and it shows.”
Chloe gave her a shy smile and retreated behind me to hide again. “We’d better go,” I said. “Unfortunately, I have to look into back-up plans.” I smiled to soften the words, but Dr. Bray’s return smile still held a tinge of apology. “I’m wondering if special circumstances can move a child up on the waiting list.”
Dr. Bray’s forehead crinkled. “What do you mean?”
I took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to push out the anxiety holding me hostage from making the play that might change things for Chloe. “I mean this.” I stooped down and scribbled something on a piece of construction paper before tearing it off and handing it to her. “If you’d be willing to let Chloe in as a full-tuition student, I’d be willing to teach here, as a volunteer, even. I’m good. Google that,” I said, nodding at the ragged paper she held.
Her expression changed to one of curiosity, but she asked no further questions and escorted us to the door with a pleasant good-bye.
“What you gave her?” Chloe asked in the car.
“My name,” I said. My old name, the one signed on several dozen extremely expensive canvases sprinkled throughout the world, paintings like the ones Daddy Warbucks had bought and that he wanted to buy again. And now I had to consider his commission. My name might be enough to get Chloe into the school, but it would take my art to pay for it.
I shifted in the driver’s seat, trying to find a way to get comfortable with the idea of producing work for Daddy Warbucks. I’d once stood next to a man studying my work at a gallery opening, and he didn’t know I was the artist. The painting showed a mountain merged with a skyscraper on a scale that would dwarf even the Empire State Building. It was the idea of roots and the idea that we come from earth, all of it carved out by an unseen hand, and then we build these amazing buildings, and yet none of them can touch what God made billions of years before. In a way, it was a more spiritual meditation than anything I’d done before as I’d tried to capture what would happen if humans tried to merge with a greater creative power than themselves.
The man had said, “I guess I’ll take this one. Should fit in the study at the beach house.”
I’d gotten used to the wealth that came with the circles people like the Beckmans moved in, but that had shocked me. “It’s thirty-five thousand dollars,” I said.
He’d grunted. “Wife’s been bugging me to get something from this artist. Says all her friends have her stuff. So as long as it fits over the fireplace where I need it, might as well be this picture.”
That was probably the point at which the successful artist daydream for me began to unravel. I’d had visions of people connecting to my work in a way that I hadn’t been able to connect to them in real life. Someone buying my stuff to keep up with their neighbors and fill in wall space at their spare home—that had been a slap. A sharp, stinging slap.
At least Daddy Warbucks had loved what I did just because. That was what his purchases hinted at, anyway. The pieces I’d loved the best were always the ones he ended up buying. But the new commission still didn’t sit well with me. At all. My annoyance made no sense, and I knew it: I only wanted to sell to someone who loved my work, which Daddy Warbucks did, but this was a Beckman-style move, to buy something that wasn’t for sale just because he could. I resented the fact that he could write a check to get whatever he wanted, that he thought he could summon me out of anonymity with cold, hard cash.
But he very well may have.
I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. He was the face of so much of what I’d turned my back on. Except that he actually liked my work.
But I hated his assumption that my talent was his for cash.
Gah, this was stupid. Chloe had to go to Bethwell. Had to. I couldn’t be bought, but I’d sell my work to help her.
Once we were on the road, Chloe talked about nothing but Bethwell for ten minutes straight before she interrupted herself. “Dis is not how you go home.”
“I know.
We’re going to look at another preschool. Does that sound fun?”
She nodded and went back to narrating our visit. I hoped it wasn’t a tactical error to take her somewhere else on the same day. There was a danger that anywhere else might suffer by comparison for Chloe, but the days I could do this without Dani knowing what I was up to were few and far between. Besides, Chloe was bound to tell her mom all about our visit to Bethwell this afternoon, and Dani would place an explicit ban on my doing any more school research. Better to get it all in today.
Two hours later, I pulled into my own driveway, shell-shocked and wishing I could fall into sleep like Chloe, who was cashed out in her car seat. I’d taken her to the two schools nearest Dani’s work, the ones she could get some subsidies to help pay for. At the first one, the kids had all been sitting in front of a TV watching Sesame Street. I hadn’t even seen a TV screen in Bethwell Academy. This other school had kid art on its walls too, but it had looked old and faded, like the same pictures had occupied those spaces for far longer than the current students had even been alive.
The second school had been both better and worse. Each of the four classrooms we’d visited had been loud and busy—so busy that I could see Chloe shutting down as she peeked out from around me. It was clear from the decorated walls that they had lots of projects and activities like Bethwell, but it lacked the serenity we’d felt the second we’d walked into the private preschool. The exhausted-looking director had offered a weak smile and explained that the group was unusually high-spirited. A dinginess had clung to the other three rooms, one I couldn’t put my finger on. It wasn’t only that everything had been old—it was that none of it had looked cared for.
I’d hustled Chloe out of both places, not wanting her to spend an extra second in either preschool. I’d homeschool her before I’d abandon her to that, and Dani would have to deal with it. I’d find other ways for Chloe to socialize with kids.
I settled Chloe into her own bed to finish her nap and sat on the sofa to Google homeschool curriculum. I’d been at it an hour when my phone rang with the Bethwell number in the ID, and I snatched it up so it wouldn’t wake Chloe.
“This is Dr. Bray. I was thinking about your visit. Chloe is . . . special.”
“Thank you. We think so.”
“May I ask why her mother didn’t bring her?”
“She’s finishing a nursing degree and working full-time. She’s done a lot of her own research, but I think she knew Bethwell was so far out of reach for her that she didn’t want to torture herself with a tour.”
“About that. Forgive me for prying, but if finances are so tight, why did you come look?”
“Because I thought I had a way to make it work,” I said. I must have been right, or else why would she call? “Did you get a chance to look me up?”
“I did.” She was quiet, and I didn’t want to risk breaking the mood by talking. “You have an impressive background.”
“Thank you. Do you think it could benefit the Bethwell program?”
“Of course it would. More importantly, I think it would encourage some of our donors to give generously enough for us to add another staff member and justify even more scholarships.”
“So you’re telling me there’s an opening for Chloe?” My pulse accelerated at the possibility. Please let her say yes.
“Not exactly. We’re strict about our student-to-teacher ratio, and I can’t displace someone who’s already been accepted. But . . . I believe I mentioned a waiting list for fall?”
“Of next year. Don’t get me wrong, if space opens up even next year, we’ll take it, but I still have to figure something out for this one.”
“We don’t tell people their exact placement on the waiting lists for a reason. It gives me latitude in making some executive decisions. I’m willing to put Chloe at the top of the list for this fall. It improves her odds greatly of getting in. Almost every year we have a last-minute dropout, usually because the family moves. I haven’t received official word yet, but I believe one of our four-year-old’s fathers, who has a second child slated to start this fall, is being transferred to Houston. I’m almost positive Chloe has a lock on the spot. Especially if you teach a weekly enrichment for us.”
I couldn’t answer for a minute, my brain too busy trying to wrap around her words to form a response of my own.
“Miss Carswell? Are you there?”
“Yes,” I said. “Sorry. I’m in shock, I think. Yes. Yes, I’ll do it.”
“We’ll need to talk first about your teaching experience. Watching you with Chloe gives me a fair sense of your demeanor with little ones, but I’ll need to dig deeper, if you don’t mind. Your talent isn’t the question. It’s a matter of how you’ll use it with the children.”
“I totally understand,” I said, feeling subdued again.
She must have heard it in my voice, because I heard reassurance in hers when she responded. “We have a wonderful school community here, but there’s no question that you would bring an incredible amount of prestige with you even if you only came to teach them how to mix colors or draw stick people. There’s value in that for me too, so don’t think of it as an interview you need to pass. It’s more making sure you and the kids will have a good experience together. And remember, as much as I wish it were, this is not a guarantee you’ll get in, but I’m optimistic.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much!”
I could sense the warmth in her laugh, even over the phone. “Let’s save that until there’s a reason for it. Besides, part of my motivation is selfish.”
“I’ll make the art lessons worth it, I promise.”
She laughed again. “I was referring to Chloe. I want her here. She has an exceptional gift with visual art. I could see it in that one picture. My entire professional life is about early childhood development, and I worry about how Chloe would be nurtured in another preschool center. If we can get her in here, I’d love to have her.” She hesitated. “It’s not only that. She’s from a single-parent home, and I think your sister is at a place in her life where she could use some village help in raising Chloe. I’d like to offer that. I have some sense of how we can help your niece break through the anxiety she exhibits.”
I pressed my fingers to my eyes to keep any tears from leaking out. It was relief coming on the heels of massive stress, I knew, but I didn’t want Dr. Bray to hear me and think she was taking on Chloe and an emotionally unstable aunt. “Thank you so much,” I repeated, keeping my voice as even as I could.
“Don’t thank me yet. I can only offer you the opportunity. I can’t offer you the funding. As tight as your finances might be, the scholarships we give out go to kids in far more dire circumstances than Chloe’s. You’ll still have the full tuition to handle. And this may be worse news: we do require a thousand-dollar deposit. I’ll let you know as soon as a spot officially opens, but we’ll need the money shortly after that. I’m so sorry I can’t do more to ease the financial burden.”
“Don’t apologize. We’ll make it happen,” I said.
Dr. Bray hung up after promising to be in touch as soon as she had news, and I sat back against the sofa and tilted my head to stare up at the ceiling. It was white, devoid of texture, and utterly blank. Like a canvas. I picked up my phone again and retrieved a number.
“Victoria? Yeah, it’s Lia. I want to talk about the Daddy Warbucks job again.”
Chapter 7
Victoria’s sigh of relief made me smile. “I almost believed you weren’t going to do it.”
“I wasn’t until five minutes ago. Things change. Nice try with the bribe though.”
“Which bribe?”
“The flower book. So thoughtful. I would have expected a pashmina or something from you.”
“I didn’t send you a book.”
Her confusion sounded genuine, but I would have believed her anyway. Victoria never let a chance to take credit for something pass her by. Who had sent it, then? Griff came to mind, but I had enough humility
to realize that was me projecting what I wished onto him rather than reality.
It would be great to think he’d sent me an anonymous gift because he’d seen my daffodil painting, but we’d lived next door to each other for over a year, and he’d never made a move. Then again, that might be exactly why he’d sent it anonymously. He had some serious shyness happening. It had taken months for us to have a conversation, and it wasn’t until he saw my painting that I could say we’d had more than a chat.
The more I thought about it, the more sense it made that the book had come from him. It wouldn’t have been Tom. Or Dani. The only other possibility was Aidan, but he lacked subtlety, and this was a subtle gift. And for another thing, if he’d managed to think of something so nuanced, he would for sure take credit for it. All part of his charm offensive. Or his offensive charm.
“So you’ll do the paintings?” Victoria broke in. “When can you start?”
“I’ll do a painting—singular—to see how it goes. And we need to go over the details again. What does he want? My stuff but different from my stuff?”
Victoria’s warm laugh bubbled out. “Yes, exactly. He wants mountainscapes but not as they look. He wants them as you experience them, with your unique flavor and point of view. Does that make sense to you?”
“Yes. I don’t know what I have to offer this time around though, Victoria. I might not come up with anything good.”
“What you have to offer is what any artist has: yourself. And that’s invaluable. Whatever you produce will be impossibly good. I’ll be in touch when I have the money for you.”
We hung up, and I got up to pace. I didn’t want to be here, standing at the edge of an insane cliff, wondering if I should jump. And that was what delving back into huge oils would mean: a head-first plunge into a part of my brain I’d ignored for three years now.
Painting Kisses Page 6
