“I would love to see some of your work. Do you have any pieces here?”
Peyton’s cheeks turned pink. “No. There isn’t much room to store them here. The neighbor I was telling you about who gave me her recipe passed away three years ago. She had no family, so she left her trailer to me. I’ve been using it as a studio. I make a mess when I’m working, and it gives me a place to store the finished items until I’m ready to sell. Killyama, hand me my album, and I’ll show him—”
“Mama, Train wouldn’t be interested—”
“I would really like to see your pictures.” He couldn’t understand why Killyama didn’t want him to see her mother’s work. Maybe she was embarrassed Peyton’s work wasn’t any good. Jamestown wasn’t exactly New York, where exclusive shops exhibited artists’ pieces.
Killyama rose to her knees to open a drawer in the side table, pulling out a thick photo album. Instead of immediately giving it to him, she opened the book toward the back before leaning forward to give it to him.
Train straightened on the couch, staring at the beautiful picture of a bridge. Unlike most pictures that focused on the idyllic beauty of a summer day, the sky in Peyton’s painting was grey and gloomy. The bridge was old, and part of it was broken. The water below seemed to toss with dark undercurrents. It was striking and thought provoking that the bridge had stood the passage of time, still standing, though withered with age.
He turned to see picture after picture, each brought to life by Peyton’s brush. Train turned one page, taking in the intricate beauty of a sculpture of a mother and child. The woman’s face was lined with age and worry as she kneeled at the child’s feet. The little girl was wearing a dress that was too big for her, slipping off her shoulders. She was crying while the mother wiped her tears away. Train had never been affected by art in his life, but the statue touched a part of him that he had never known existed.
“Have you sold this one yet?” Train asked gruffly.
“Which one?” Peyton looked as he lifted the book to show her. “I’m sorry. That one isn’t for sale. That is in my private collection.”
“If you ever think of selling, I would love to buy it,” he said sincerely, staring down at the talent that showed an almost tangible bond between the mother and child.
Train flipped another page, his heart stopping. It was another statue, except this one was in bronze. It had the same features of the little girl from the previous page, but this one was an older girl. Her features were partially obscured by windblown hair curling tumultuously around her. Behind her stood a man with his hand on her shoulder. The man’s features were hidden, his head turned to the side, showing only a profile that was also obscured by the girl’s hair that had blown upward, seeming to strike him in the face. It was as beautiful as the other one, maybe even more so. The pain in the girl’s face struck a chord in him, which the artist had intended.
“Is this one for sale?” Even as he started to lift the album, Peyton was already shaking her head. “You’re very gifted. If you take commission, I would be willing to have both of those pieces redone.”
“I don’t do duplicates. Even if I tried, I don’t think they would come out the same,” she said apologetically. “When I finish the current painting I’ve already sold, I have another piece I’m looking forward to starting. When I finish that, I’ll give you first choice before I sell it.”
“I would appreciate it. Your talent is remarkable.”
“Thank you. I started a class when Killyama went to kindergarten. Since then, I’ve been fortunate to make a living off what I had only expected to be a hobby.”
“I can see why. It’s a shame that collectors haven’t seen your work. I wish I knew someone …”
Peyton shook her head. “I’m happy just piddling around in my studio, making the pieces I want at my own speed.”
Train flipped through the rest of the pages, deciding to go to the beginning of the portfolio where he saw snapshots of Killyama.
She tried to take it away from him.
“Uh-uh. Let me look.” He snatched it out of her reach.
“Dude, if I wanted you to see them, I would have shown you.”
“Behave, Killyama,” Peyton reproved her daughter.
Train intently stared down at the pictures of Killyama from birth through her high school years.
“I see why you don’t want to sell your sculptures; you used Killyama as your model.”
Peyton nodded, leaning back to avoid Killyama’s glare. “I hid them at first. She hated having her pictures taken. She was always running away from the camera, and she hated sitting still long enough for me to sculpt her. I hate to have to tell you this, Train, but my daughter can be a little difficult.”