The memory of Reed sitting there on her back porch in the Falls, Tiger nestled in his arms, was her last thought as she surrendered to blissful sleep.
Chapter 38
“Reed, where do you keep the coffee filters?”
Alissa’s voice drifted down to the studio and Reed huffed out a sigh and tromped to the kitchen where his sister was opening cupboard doors one by one.
“Why are you making coffee at nine o’clock at night?”
“I’m not. I’m making coffee for in the morning…setting the timer. I bet you didn’t even know this fancy machine had a timer, did you? Now where are those filters?” She reached for another cupboard door.
“Alissa, you goose.” He stood with hands on hips. “Think about it. Where would be the logical place to keep coffee filters?”
“Well,” she shot back, “since I just found the dish soap in the refrigerator, I have no clue what you might consider a logical place for coffee filters. The laundry room, maybe?”
He curbed a grin. “All right, sister dear. Move over.” He took her by the shoulders and manhandled her away from the cabinet above the coffeemaker.
“Watch and learn,” he said, opening the cupboard door with a flourish. “Ta-da!” He reached in to grab the box of filters. Unfortunately, they weren’t there. “Wait a minute…” He moved several mugs and a tin of tea bags. He checked the cupboard beside that one.
“Come on, oh great one. I’m waiting.” She tapped her foot, a smug smile painting her face.
“They were here yesterday. You must have lost them already.”
“Oh, no you don’t. I already got blamed for using the last of the toilet paper. I’m not taking the rap for the coffee filters, too.”
“We’ll see about that.” Grinning, he hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Put me down!” She pounded his back. “Reed Vincent! I mean it. Put me down this minute!”
“Make me.” He carted her into the living room where Mason and Ali were watching a VeggieTales Christmas movie.
The kids were lying on their tummies beside Reed’s scrawny Christmas tree, eyes glued to the television screen. At Alissa’s squeals, they turned with gaping mouths as Reed dumped their mother unceremoniously into a chair. The minute he straightened, the two were on him like monkeys on a jungle gym.
“My turn!” they squealed in unison over strains of the singing cucumber and talking tomato.
“Throw me in a chair, Uncle Reed!” Mason hopped up and down on one foot.
He picked up the six-year-old and lifted him to his shoulders.
“Me too! Me too!” Ali held up pudgy arms.
He scooped her up into the crook of his arm and danced them both around the living room.
Alissa watched from the chair, laughing. “You guys are going to wear Uncle Reed out. Besides, it’s bedtime.”
“No! Not yet,” Mason whined. “Our movie isn’t even over.”
“I’ll just take this bus upstairs.” Reed winked at his sister and loped up the stairs, kids in tow. He supervised teeth-brushing, and when they were in their pajamas, he tucked them into the twin beds in the guest room he’d set up just for them.
“Good night, you two,” he said, kneeling on the floor between them.
“G’night,” Mason whispered.
“Aren’t you gonna tell us a thtory?” Ali lisped.
He checked the clock. “It’s pretty late, sweetie. I think those Veggie guys will have to be your story for tonight. But I’ll say prayers with you, okay?”
Mason and Ali sat up in bed and swung their legs around, dangling their toes a few inches off the floor.
These had better be short prayers if his knees were to survive. He put a hand on each of them and they bowed their heads and folded their hands in their laps. His throat knotted unexpectedly. His house was going to be unbearably quiet come Friday.
“You start, Uncky Weed,” Ali whispered.
He winked at his niece. “Okay. Well, Heavenly Father, thank you for a really good day. Thank you that I got to spend time with two of my favorite munchkins in the whole world. Give Mason and Ali a good night’s sleep and bless their mommy and daddy. We especially thank you for giving Mick a safe trip back to Indiana. We love you, Lord, with all our hearts…” He swallowed hard and gave Mason’s head a pat. He didn’t trust his voice with one more word.
Mason peeped at him through hooded eyes. “My turn?”
Reed nodded.
“Dear Jesus, thank you for Uncle Reed and Mommy and Daddy and VeggieTales and for everything in the whole wide world. Amen.”
Ali piped up in a stage whisper. “You forgot to say thank you for all our Cwistmas stuff.”
“Did not.”
“Yeth, you did.”
“Did not. I said ‘everything in the whole wide world.’ That means everything, stupid.”
Okay, this prayer time was deteriorating fast.
Ali pouted. “I’m not thtupid!“
“Hey, hey…” Reed gave each head a squeeze.
“Sorry,” they muttered.
Ali said her prayers and Reed tucked them in and turned out the lights. “I love you guys.”
He went back downstairs to find Alissa stretched out on the sofa.
“Hey, hey… What’s this? I’m the one who should be lying exhausted on the couch.”
She laughed and slung a pillow lazily in his direction. “Give me a break. I do this day in and day out.”
“And you do a great job,” he said, turning serious. “They’re incredible kids, Lissa. I wish Mick could have stayed longer.”
“Yeah, me too, but at least he got to be here for Christmas.”
“You guys doing okay?”
A dreamy glaze came to her eyes. “We’re doing great. We really are. Life is good.”
“I’m glad. He’s a good guy.”
“Yeah, he is.” She stretched her arms over her head and made a pillow of her hands. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”
“I need to get a couple of paintings shipped and go do some work on the rental. But I’ll be free all afternoon. What do you guys want to do?”
“I’d be happy just hanging out here. A girl can only do so much shopping, you know.”
He laughed. “You have done your share of that. You’re just lucky Mick left you the car. You never would have fit all your loot on the plane.”
“Well…” He stretched and feigned a yawn. “I think I’m going to turn in.”
“Not so fast, baby brother.” She patted the couch cushion. “How are you doing? Really?”
He sighed and sat on the arm of the couch at her feet.
He had adored having Alissa and her family here. They’d filled his house with laughter and joy and with noise. Lots of noise.
But he’d been dreading this moment. Alissa was a mother hen. He knew she worried about him, and only asked because she loved him. But he was in no mood to revisit the whole Olivia deal.
“I’m doing fine.” He tried to look cheerful.
“Are you really, Reed?”
He shrugged.
“Do you ever hear from her…from Olivia? Has she had the baby?”
He shook his head. “I don’t hear from her. A friend told me she had her baby. A boy.” An aching sadness came over him as he spoke the words. He’d hoped so badly to be part of her life—and the life of her child.
Alissa’s eyes misted. “There’ll be someone else, Reed.”
He shook his head. “I’m not so sure. I seem to be batting zilch in that department.” Actually, he hadn’t even left the bullpen. And had no desire to at this point.
“Reed—”
“Lissa… It’s okay. I blew it. It was too soon for Olivia. Even if the whole transplant connection hadn’t been a factor… I tried to rush things. I didn’t pay attention to what I know God was trying to tell me. What you and Maggie tried to warn me about…”
She sat up on the couch and put a hand on his knee. “Maybe.
But I was wrong, too. Please forgive me for judging Olivia before I even had a chance to get to know her.”
He bent his head. Now she never would know Olivia.
Oh, for a second chance.
Chapter 39
Strains of Mozart filtered softly through the gallery and a handful of patrons meandered among the display panels in the exhibition hall. Olivia reached into the stroller and unfastened the chinstrap on Jon’s cap. He stirred and stretched. Olivia held her breath, whispering a prayer that he wouldn’t wake up and start squawking again.
She aimed the stroller at the far end of the gallery, where it was quiet and empty. She felt a surge of excitement as she began to walk through the show. She had dug her easel and paints out of storage three weeks ago and had begun to play around with them. It was difficult working around the baby’s schedule—if one could call Jon’s erratic napping and nursing a schedule. But painting had filled the empty hours and given her a certain sense of accomplishment.
She’d quickly realized that she wouldn’t have time to pursue it now that her maternity leave was over, but she’d had fun while it lasted. Maybe she’d pick it up again when Jon went off to college. On a lark, she’d entered one of the first pieces she’d finished in the show. It was a smaller piece, a close-up of Jon. She’d captured him sleeping, his face framed by a soft quilt that had been a hand-me-down from Jayne.
Whether anyone else could see the passion in the piece, she didn’t know. But she would never look at it without remembering how she’d fallen in love with her son as she captured his innocence on canvas, working in the quiet of the tiny bedroom, watching him sleep. God had touched something in her heart that night, and she would never doubt His love or His care for her again.
Claire had been right. And Reed. This baby had been part of her healing.
Olivia rolled the stroller gently back and forth as she stopped in front of each piece to study the artist’s work and make mental notes of techniques she wished to try. There were some exceptional pieces in the show, but most of them were from the professional entrants. She’d been eligible to enter the amateur category, and felt honored that her piece had been accepted. Looking at the competition now, she let herself feel hopeful.
Working her way around the room, she wondered where her painting was and if there might be a ribbon hanging beside it. She came to the first- and second-place awards for watercolor and mixed media, but she hadn’t yet come to the winners of the oil and acrylics category, so there was still a chance.
But that hope was dashed a minute later as she rounded the corner to discover her frame hanging on a pegboard display—right next to the winner. The winning piece was a lovely landscape done in gold and orange tones. She couldn’t fault the juror’s decision, but neither could she help feeling mildly disappointed.
Good grief, Liv, it’s your first show in almost a decade. What did you expect? She brushed aside her disappointment, determined not to let it ruin her day.
They made it halfway through the exhibit hall before the baby started fussing. She wheeled the stroller to a quiet corner and got him settled again with his pacifier. At almost ten weeks, he was starting to go longer between feedings. With luck, she’d get through the whole gallery before he needed to nurse again.
She moved through the aisles formed by the movable display panels, enthralled with some of the art. It always amazed her that a few strokes of paint on canvas could stir such fervor. That was what she longed to do with her own work. Make the observer feel something. Evoke a mood or passion. What a gift creativity was! Being amongst all this art made her eager to get home and set up her easel again.
She moved to the opposite side of a bank of displays and took a few steps back for a better view of a large painting that took up most of one panel. She stopped in her tracks. She’d never seen the piece before, but instantly she knew who the artist was. She searched for the telltale signature, then felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth.
Reed. Her breath caught.
It was a beautiful piece. A stand of dogwoods along a shady country road. He’d captured the mysterious mood of the woods, made her smell the musty earth beneath the trees. She thought she knew where the place was. She and Reed had passed it that day on the way to the county park to shoot photos.
She stood there, paralyzed. As much as she’d tried to shut him out of her life, shut his memory out of her mind, Reed had never been far away. Now, standing in front of this canvas, knowing every nook and corner of the studio where it had been produced, she realized she’d never managed to banish one cell of him from her memory. He had been in her thoughts, in her heart, practically from the day they’d met.
Close to tears, she reached to brush her fingertips across his signature. Oh, Reed. How was he doing? Obviously he was still painting.
Well, sure he was. Had she really thought her absence from his life would render him incapable of working? You have a pretty inflated sense of your own worth, Liv Cline.
“Excuse me? Excuse me… Ma’am?”
She turned to see a stern-faced security guard standing behind her, arms folded across his potbelly. “I’m going to have to ask you not to touch the paintings.”
“Oh!” She looked down and realized that her hand still rested lightly on the corner of Reed’s painting. She jerked her fingers away as if the canvas were afire. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t…”
“No problem, ma’am. We’re just responsible to see that the paintings aren’t damaged.”
What was wrong with her? She knew better. Flustered, she cast about for the nearest exit. She could view the rest of the show when she came to pick up her painting Monday. For now, she just wanted to get out of here.
There was an EXIT sign at the far end of the building, but as she started that direction, she came face-to-face with something that made the surprise of a few moments ago pale in comparison.
Hanging in front of her, gazing at their reflections, as they’d done since she daubed them into life almost a decade ago, were her cows. The painting she’d abandoned at the house. How on earth had it gotten into this show?
She bent to read the label affixed low on the wall to the right of the frame. Cows. Olivia Cline. Chicago. Oil. (Not for sale.) And beside the placard, a yellow ribbon wavered in the draft from the heating vent overhead. HONORABLE MENTION. Her hand went to her throat. Her painting had won an honorable mention and she hadn’t even entered it? What was going on? Who had put her painting in the show?
She whirled around, looking for the security guard. He had his back to her, patrolling the main gallery beyond the exhibition hall.
Pushing the stroller ahead of her, she hurried to catch him. “Sir. Sir!”
The guard turned and looked at her, recognition dawned on his face. “Yes?”
“Can you tell me who entered one of the pieces in the show?”
“It doesn’t say on the placard?”
“No.”
He held up his hands and took a step back. “If it’s not on the card, I can’t help you, but you could ask that lady over there.” He pointed to an elegant gray-haired woman by the water fountain.
“Thank you.” Olivia pushed the stroller over and introduced herself. “I’m wondering if you can tell me who entered one of the pieces in the show.”
The woman’s nametag said she was the assistant gallery director. She peered over small reading glasses at Jonathan in the stroller, smiling that smile people reserved for tiny babies. “Which piece are you interested in?”
“Oh. I…I don’t want to purchase it. I’m just curious who entered it in the show. It’s the large oil over there…with the cows.” She pointed toward the corner where her painting hung.
“Oh, yes. That’s a lovely piece. There wasn’t a placard…a card with it?”
“There, was. But I don’t know who entered it.”
The director looked confused. “I assume it was the artist.”
“Um…I don’t think so. I’m the artist.”
>
She raised a brow. “And you didn’t enter it?”
“No.”
“Well, then I assume whoever owns the piece did so.”
“Do you have a record of who that would be?”
“The name is supposed to be on the placard. Let’s go check.” She led the way to Olivia’s painting. Reading the placard, she shook her head. “Hmm.” She slipped the placard from the holder and turned it over. “Oh, wait. This is an honorable mention awardee.” Let me see who the check was made out to.
Olivia’s pulse sputtered. “There’s prize money for honorable mention?”
“Oh, yes. Three hundred and fifty dollars. Come on back to my office and we’ll see if we can find something.”
The director’s office was on the basement level of the gallery. She riffled through a stack of identical envelopes searching for the entry number. “Here it is. It’s made out to Olivia Cline. Is that your mailing address?”
Olivia read her apartment’s address printed beneath her name. She nodded.
“I can’t give you the check,” the director said. “We have to mail them for security purposes, but they’ll go out in Monday’s mail.”
“And you don’t have any other information? Someone will have to pick up the art. It…it doesn’t belong to me anymore.”
“You don’t have a claim check for it?”
“No. I had no idea it was even entered.”
The woman shook her head. “I really don’t know what to tell you. Everything we have on file is in your name. But the owner evidently retained the claim check.” She shrugged. “I guess if you’re really curious, you could come and stay from three to five-thirty Monday afternoon and see who shows up to claim it.”
Olivia contemplated the idea. Elizabeth wouldn’t be crazy about her taking off work early, but she’d have to come pick up her own painting then anyway.
If she didn’t get some answers before Monday, she just might take the director’s suggestion.
Back at the apartment, Olivia searched for the flier that told about the juried show, but when she finally found it, it gave her no clue as to how her piece could have ended up in the show. Obviously the people who bought her house had sold her painting, but it was odd that someone would have entered it in a competition. Her vanity couldn’t help wonder how much the painting had brought.
Insight Page 25
