shots. Kayla at twelve. She would always be twelve, an unfinished story, always a girl with secrets.
The painting! I hadn’t thought about it since I’d left school, but now it called to me. I wanted it. I wanted my
Girl with Secrets
here, at home with me. Now where had I put Colombo’s contact card? I riffled through my purse, my wallet...found it. And punched in his office number.
“Clara! Wonderful, wonderful. How good to hear from you. You have caught your breath, no? And now you will return. To study. To paint. To do what you are meant to do.”
As ebullient as ever. But clueless. I could never study with him again. So why did I feel like crying?
“I’m sorry, Professor. But no, I’m not coming back. I just want to pick up my work. You remember...it’s that portrait o-of my daughter.” I’d started out strong, but now I could hear my voice tremble, matching the tremble in my body. “So, when should I stop by?”
Silence. Then, “Clara, think again. Come back to class. Your easel is waiting. I am waiting to see more of you and how your work develops.”
“You don’t know how it is...I’m sorry. I just can’t. So, about the painting. When can—”
He cut me off. “Then I’m sorry, too, Clara. It isn’t here. It was a beautiful portrait, and it now has a new home. I knew it would sell. Others see what I see on the canvas.”
My brain froze. Fortunately my tongue still worked. “Wait, wait. Let me understand. You sold it? You sold
Girl with Secrets?
But I never said you could. It can’t be legal. Get it back!”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. It’s paid for. I left it showcased in the
galleria
and last week, gone! Thirty-eight hundred dollars. You’re an unknown artist, Clara. A sale should make you proud. Your commission is being mailed from the college, all but ten percent.”
I tasted vomit. “You had no right. I don’t care about the money. The portrait was mine!”
“Was. Was. Was. In the past tense, no? So you will paint another. Future tense, yes?”
I wasn’t born yesterday. The guy was a conniver, a manipulator. “If this is some kind of joke...a scheme to get me...”
“Thirty-eight hundred dollars is not a joke.” Click.
He’d hung up. On me! The man had gall. Nerve. I wanted to kill him. Jack—I had to tell Jack. He’d been annoyed at me this morning, but so what? I called him and exploded into the phone.
“Want me to get our lawyer in on this?” he asked.
“Definitely. A lawyer will scare them into retrieving the picture.”
“Not if it’s been sold on the up-and-up. University policy or something. And not unless the buyer is willing to return it.”
“And do you know what else that man said to me at the end?”
“What?”
“‘Paint another one.’ As if I could just whip up a piece. Whip up another portrait of...of Kayla.”
I heard him breathing, felt him thinking.
“You and I finally agree on something,” said Jack. “It’s a lousy idea. Don’t do it.”
I disconnected and slowly replaced the phone in its cradle. The photo albums remained arrayed on the table, the last one still open to shots of Kayla. My fingers brushed across the pages with reverence.
Accept it, Claire. Keep her in your heart and find peace.
But when I finally closed the back cover, my hand lingered.
No goodbyes! I couldn’t let her go. Not yet, not yet.
I grasped the book tightly then abruptly opened it again, this time scanning every photo of Kayla with a critical eye. I pulled the best pictures from their sleeves.
Why must Kayla’s story end? Why must she always be twelve? The hell with Colombo! The hell with Jack....
I grabbed a pen, a bunch of colored pencils, and reached for a pad of paper. I didn’t pause, think, or worry. My body tingled at the possibilities. Colombo thought I had talent, so who better to capture my young daughter as she matured? Police artists did it all the time. I could bring Kayla to life—for the second time.
Sketches.
The painting! I hadn’t thought about it since I’d left school, but now it called to me. I wanted it. I wanted my
Girl with Secrets
here, at home with me. Now where had I put Colombo’s contact card? I riffled through my purse, my wallet...found it. And punched in his office number.
“Clara! Wonderful, wonderful. How good to hear from you. You have caught your breath, no? And now you will return. To study. To paint. To do what you are meant to do.”
As ebullient as ever. But clueless. I could never study with him again. So why did I feel like crying?
“I’m sorry, Professor. But no, I’m not coming back. I just want to pick up my work. You remember...it’s that portrait o-of my daughter.” I’d started out strong, but now I could hear my voice tremble, matching the tremble in my body. “So, when should I stop by?”
Silence. Then, “Clara, think again. Come back to class. Your easel is waiting. I am waiting to see more of you and how your work develops.”
“You don’t know how it is...I’m sorry. I just can’t. So, about the painting. When can—”
He cut me off. “Then I’m sorry, too, Clara. It isn’t here. It was a beautiful portrait, and it now has a new home. I knew it would sell. Others see what I see on the canvas.”
My brain froze. Fortunately my tongue still worked. “Wait, wait. Let me understand. You sold it? You sold
Girl with Secrets?
But I never said you could. It can’t be legal. Get it back!”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. It’s paid for. I left it showcased in the
galleria
and last week, gone! Thirty-eight hundred dollars. You’re an unknown artist, Clara. A sale should make you proud. Your commission is being mailed from the college, all but ten percent.”
I tasted vomit. “You had no right. I don’t care about the money. The portrait was mine!”
“Was. Was. Was. In the past tense, no? So you will paint another. Future tense, yes?”
I wasn’t born yesterday. The guy was a conniver, a manipulator. “If this is some kind of joke...a scheme to get me...”
“Thirty-eight hundred dollars is not a joke.” Click.
He’d hung up. On me! The man had gall. Nerve. I wanted to kill him. Jack—I had to tell Jack. He’d been annoyed at me this morning, but so what? I called him and exploded into the phone.
“Want me to get our lawyer in on this?” he asked.
“Definitely. A lawyer will scare them into retrieving the picture.”
“Not if it’s been sold on the up-and-up. University policy or something. And not unless the buyer is willing to return it.”
“And do you know what else that man said to me at the end?”
“What?”
“‘Paint another one.’ As if I could just whip up a piece. Whip up another portrait of...of Kayla.”
I heard him breathing, felt him thinking.
“You and I finally agree on something,” said Jack. “It’s a lousy idea. Don’t do it.”
I disconnected and slowly replaced the phone in its cradle. The photo albums remained arrayed on the table, the last one still open to shots of Kayla. My fingers brushed across the pages with reverence.
Accept it, Claire. Keep her in your heart and find peace.
But when I finally closed the back cover, my hand lingered.
No goodbyes! I couldn’t let her go. Not yet, not yet.
I grasped the book tightly then abruptly opened it again, this time scanning every photo of Kayla with a critical eye. I pulled the best pictures from their sleeves.
Why must Kayla’s story end? Why must she always be twelve? The hell with Colombo! The hell with Jack....
I grabbed a pen, a bunch of colored pencils, and reached for a pad of paper. I didn’t pause, think, or worry. My body tingled at the possibilities. Colombo thought I had talent, so who better to capture my young daughter as she matured? Police artists did it all the time. I could bring Kayla to life—for the second time.
Sketches.
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