He’d been kicked out.
“Good as new,” she said, patting the glass. “And good riddance.” She stood and straightened her straw hat. She looked like a strawberry, in pink cropped pants and a patterned shirt. Well, a skinny strawberry. Her veined ankles stood out above her black Crocs. She had to be seventy.
I laughed. “He was a cliché, wasn’t he? The brooding, unpredictable artiste.”
“A menace, that’s what he was. And a mess.” She rubbed her foot on an oil-paint stain that hadn’t come off the concrete floor when she cleared out his stuff.
“But now you’re out the rent.” I stuck my watercolor brush in a glass of water.
“I’ll get by,” she said. “How’s the work coming?”
“Been inspired by the flowers,” I said. “I’ve never really done landscapes.”
She peered over my shoulder and nodded. “Awful cheerful for you. Must be the baby.”
My hand flew to my belly. I wasn’t even close to showing. It had only been three weeks since Stella figured it out. “How?”
“We old women know a thing or two,” she said. “Besides, you threw up in the sunflower bed two days ago.”
I had. Stella and I had gone for pasta, which had seemed safe enough until I got out of her car.
“I thought it was just a patch of weeds,” I said ruefully.
“A common mistake,” Sarah said. “The stalks and leaves aren’t much without the blooms. Sort of like the azaleas.” She walked over to the glass wall and looked out on the riot of color outside. “So dead looking other than these few glorious weeks. But worth it.” She turned back to my easel. “Especially when someone with talent makes them immortal.”
I fiddled with the brushes, hoping she wouldn’t go back to the topic of the baby. Other than picking up a bottle of prenatal vitamins, I hadn’t thought much about the pregnancy. I had no doubt the condition was temporary. Twenty weeks, early labor, and another set of ashes.
Pessimism was my muse.
Except maybe today. The pinks and purples called to me. Colorful. Happy. Something lovely blossoming from nothing but sticks.
Sarah perched on the other stool. “I couldn’t help but notice that the checks you write have a California address. Is that home?”
My cheeks burned. “I’m living with my parents right now here in Houston.” I didn’t care what she thought of that, if I was unable to make it on my own.
I guessed my tone told her I didn’t want to discuss it, because she stood up and straightened her hat. “I’m sure they are happy to have you around again. I haven’t seen my daughter in three years. Busy life she has.”
My heart squeezed. Sarah was just lonely. “You should call her. Don’t wait for her to call you. She probably remembers, but never at a time when she can do it.”
“Wise words,” Sarah said. “You keep on with those azaleas. That will be a lovely painting to hang somewhere that needs a bit of cheer.” She hesitated. “And about the baby — bearing a child is the ultimate expression of hope. You may think you are filled with despair, but your flowers give you away.”
She headed out of the greenhouse. I stared at the canvas. It was so unlike anything I’d ever done, even when doing paintings in college. I had always managed to twist the assignment into something dark. Floral arrangement? Black roses. Portrayal of the divinity? Crucifixion. Still life of food? Rotten fish.
But not today.
I picked up the brush. Sarah had forced me to think about the baby. Stella had kept her word and told no one. Corabelle hadn’t guessed. But if two women had figured it out, no doubt my mother would soon.
Damn.
I mingled more magenta into the shadow side of the flowers, but my head was elsewhere. I stuck the brush back in the water. On an impulse, I picked up my phone. I sent Darion one text message a day, something easy, about the paintings or my mother or a complaint about traffic or weather.
But today, I said, “Might be time for us to talk.”
I waited a minute or two, worried that he might have given up on me. I was difficult and moody and sad. I’d left him.
As the minutes stretched on, I tried to reassure myself. He was on rounds. He couldn’t check his phone. He’d text me back.
But anxiety prickled. I’d blown it. He was done. I’d gone too far, leaving like this and not wanting to talk to him.
Then a message beeped. I scrambled to pull it up, my heart in my throat.
Just bought a plane ticket. Arrive in four hours.
I almost dropped the phone. So, he wanted to talk in person. For the first time in the six weeks I had been gone, I felt a soaring sensation inside. Darion was coming.
Chapter 24: Corabelle
Tina’s text was simple.
Thanks for coming to Houston. Darion headed here. Be home soon.