single thing. There’s a practical reason why I don’t rob 7-Elevens.
Now I had an image of staying up all night trying to copy illustrations from obscure children’s books. But I discarded that quickly. Why should I be lured into something dishonest? Then I remembered my tinted photographs from England. They were old, they weren’t drawings, but at least they were mine. “I’ll bring some tomorrow.”
“See that you do. If you’re doing something as important as illustrating my daughter’s book, your work has to be top tier.”
At this point it was barely bottom drawer. I felt Bianca shift anxiously beside me.
“How soon do you think Gretchen will be back?” Claude broke in.
“As soon as she remembers she’s lucky to have a roof over her head,” Bianca snapped.
I blinked, shocked. She was talking about Gretchen, the woman who had raised her. Then I realized how hurt she must feel that Gretchen had gone over to the enemy without even leaving a note. She hadn’t said good-bye or told them when she would be back.
“She still has to take care of her garden.” Rosa spoke up unexpectedly. “And I have her things.”
“What ‘things’?” Claude demanded.
Instead of answering, she reached for more macaroni salad.
“Maybe Gretchen just needed a rest,” Lynn said. “Cooking for seven people every day is hard work.”
“What seven people? There are only six of us.” Bianca was still ready for a fight.
“Yes, but she had this annoying habit of wanting to eat sometimes herself,” Puck said.
Bianca glared at her brother. “You’re such a smart ass.”
“At least I don’t write people off.”
“That’s right, you’re Mother Teresa. I never saw you offering to give her a hand.”
“Regan just wanted her own cook,” Claude grumbled. “She didn’t have to steal ours.”
Lynn turned on her husband, appalled, her fair cheeks flushed. Martha Stewart about to confront a cheeky audience member. “For God’s sake, we’re talking about someone in your family, not some indentured servant you inherited along with the manor. The trouble is, none of you think about anyone else’s feelings.”
Eating cold food was making people testy. After that the conversation withered and died.
W ALKING BACK TO the studio with Bianca, I asked, “Gretchen didn’t tell you anything?”
“If she had, we’d know where she was, wouldn’t we?”
I noticed that more trees were starting to turn color.
“You think we’re heartless. But there’s a lot of history here you don’t understand. You have something more important to worry about anyway. What kind of pictures are you going to show my mother?”
As if claiming to be an illustrator had been my idea. I had a friend like Bianca in fifth grade, a fat girl with freckles who blamed me for everything in her life that went wrong. A bad geography grade, a spilled juice box, her dog dying. We weren’t friends by sixth grade.
“I have some photographs of children I hand-tinted.”
“Don’t you know any artists?” She turned it into one more failing.
What had happened to our closeness on Friday? Did she think she had said too much, been too vulnerable, and was pulling back now to reestablish a proper distance?
“I don’t know anyone who illustrates children’s books. It’s a niche market.” Sorry, Maurice Sendak.
“My fault, I guess. I thought I’d have time to get a real illustrator. I should have said you were here to make curtains and slipcovers for the cottage.”
Oh, wonderful . “And you’d invite your seamstress to have lunch with you every day?” I didn’t bother to hide what I was feeling.
“Only if she was good enough.” Bianca started laughing at her own absurdity and reached out and patted my arm. Then I was laughing too.
I T TOOK ME two hours to locate my photographs stored in the basement. There were not many that would work for a children’s book. Most of them were shots of the English countryside, marshy riverbanks
Now I had an image of staying up all night trying to copy illustrations from obscure children’s books. But I discarded that quickly. Why should I be lured into something dishonest? Then I remembered my tinted photographs from England. They were old, they weren’t drawings, but at least they were mine. “I’ll bring some tomorrow.”
“See that you do. If you’re doing something as important as illustrating my daughter’s book, your work has to be top tier.”
At this point it was barely bottom drawer. I felt Bianca shift anxiously beside me.
“How soon do you think Gretchen will be back?” Claude broke in.
“As soon as she remembers she’s lucky to have a roof over her head,” Bianca snapped.
I blinked, shocked. She was talking about Gretchen, the woman who had raised her. Then I realized how hurt she must feel that Gretchen had gone over to the enemy without even leaving a note. She hadn’t said good-bye or told them when she would be back.
“She still has to take care of her garden.” Rosa spoke up unexpectedly. “And I have her things.”
“What ‘things’?” Claude demanded.
Instead of answering, she reached for more macaroni salad.
“Maybe Gretchen just needed a rest,” Lynn said. “Cooking for seven people every day is hard work.”
“What seven people? There are only six of us.” Bianca was still ready for a fight.
“Yes, but she had this annoying habit of wanting to eat sometimes herself,” Puck said.
Bianca glared at her brother. “You’re such a smart ass.”
“At least I don’t write people off.”
“That’s right, you’re Mother Teresa. I never saw you offering to give her a hand.”
“Regan just wanted her own cook,” Claude grumbled. “She didn’t have to steal ours.”
Lynn turned on her husband, appalled, her fair cheeks flushed. Martha Stewart about to confront a cheeky audience member. “For God’s sake, we’re talking about someone in your family, not some indentured servant you inherited along with the manor. The trouble is, none of you think about anyone else’s feelings.”
Eating cold food was making people testy. After that the conversation withered and died.
W ALKING BACK TO the studio with Bianca, I asked, “Gretchen didn’t tell you anything?”
“If she had, we’d know where she was, wouldn’t we?”
I noticed that more trees were starting to turn color.
“You think we’re heartless. But there’s a lot of history here you don’t understand. You have something more important to worry about anyway. What kind of pictures are you going to show my mother?”
As if claiming to be an illustrator had been my idea. I had a friend like Bianca in fifth grade, a fat girl with freckles who blamed me for everything in her life that went wrong. A bad geography grade, a spilled juice box, her dog dying. We weren’t friends by sixth grade.
“I have some photographs of children I hand-tinted.”
“Don’t you know any artists?” She turned it into one more failing.
What had happened to our closeness on Friday? Did she think she had said too much, been too vulnerable, and was pulling back now to reestablish a proper distance?
“I don’t know anyone who illustrates children’s books. It’s a niche market.” Sorry, Maurice Sendak.
“My fault, I guess. I thought I’d have time to get a real illustrator. I should have said you were here to make curtains and slipcovers for the cottage.”
Oh, wonderful . “And you’d invite your seamstress to have lunch with you every day?” I didn’t bother to hide what I was feeling.
“Only if she was good enough.” Bianca started laughing at her own absurdity and reached out and patted my arm. Then I was laughing too.
I T TOOK ME two hours to locate my photographs stored in the basement. There were not many that would work for a children’s book. Most of them were shots of the English countryside, marshy riverbanks
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