herself in the side door. The kitchen was chaotic. Pete didn't believe in washing dishes until there was nothing clean left in the cupboard. He didn't believe in putting away staples only to have to take them back out for the next meal. He didn't believe in throwing junk mail into the trash when it could be used for drawing on. Ahhhh, but what drawings he made. Annie might fault him for the littered countertops, but never for his drawings.
Pastel Pete, they called him for his artistic preference. He supported himself by selling watercolors in local galleries, but he was best known for the seasonal murals he drew on the south wall of the bank in the center of town, and for his eccentricity. He rarely obeyed rules, yet he was so sweet, with his pink cheeks and his blond-white hair and beard,
that no one minded. It was generally accepted that he was an endangered species, to be protected by an indulgence of his need for space.
Annie left the kitchen. Originally there had been three other rooms in the cottage, a living room and two bedrooms. Soon after Annie had married, though, Pete had taken a sledgehammer to the walls, and the end result was a single large studio with jagged edges where walls had once been. One coat of thick white paint--deemed a suitable canvas by Pete--on everything in sight, and the redecorating was done. Eighteen years later the walls were a treasure of drawings, of landscapes, seascapes, and portraits, running the gamut from whimsy to realism. Annie shuddered to think of the time when her father would be gone and those walls might come down.
"Pop?" she called when she didn't see him.
Seconds later his head appeared around one of the jagged-edged walls. He smiled and waved her close with a hand. He was sitting on the floor working on yet another section of wall. Though the colors were characteristic of his style, Annie couldn't make out what he was drawing. She saw sparkles-pale yellow, green, pink ones on a field of blue--but the sparkles weren't Fourth of July-type sparkles. They had life to them somehow.
"They're from another world," he said in a voice that got softer and more gravelly with each year that passed. He was seventy, making his voice soft and gravelly indeed.
"Ahhhh." She squatted beside him to better study the patch of wall.
"They wilted a little during the trip to earth. Thirteen hundred light-years is a long time. But they're reviving."
"Why are they here?"
"Just visiting."
"That's a long trip for just a visit."
"They need comfort. Their home planet is shaky. They're wanting to know that life exists somewhere else, just in case." Annie smiled. She leaned toward her father and let him fold her in his arms. He wasn't a large man-five nine, tops--but he was solid. That solidity was familiar and sure.
"Something shaky with you?" he asked.
She made a sound that said yes.
"Need a little comfort?"
She made another sound like the first.
"Want a brandy?"
She smiled. Brandy was her father's weakness. "You swore you never touched the stuff until dinnertime."
"I swore I never drank alone. Dinnertime's when I'm with Peter Jennings. Now I'm with you. Want one?"
She shook her head against his shoulder.
"Tea?"
She shook her head again.
"Cocoa?"
She sighed. When she'd been a child, cocoa had been a panacea. Somehow she didn't think it would do the trick now. "I'll just sit a while, I think," she said, but she didn't move from his arms.
"Jock-o'-my-Jon okay?" he asked cautiously.
She smiled at the nickname, which he'd been using since Jon had been six and a T-Ball star, and nodded.
"Pretty little Zoe?"
She nodded again.
"Big bad Sam?"
Her smile faded.
When she didn't answer Pete said, "Uh-oh." He paused. "What'd he do?"
She sighed. "Something that upset me."
"He doesn't often."
"No."
"I like Sam."
"So do I."
"Then it'll get better," he said in a soothing way. Annie took full measure of the soothing, but it was an ephemeral thing. When it was gone, she eased herself from
Pastel Pete, they called him for his artistic preference. He supported himself by selling watercolors in local galleries, but he was best known for the seasonal murals he drew on the south wall of the bank in the center of town, and for his eccentricity. He rarely obeyed rules, yet he was so sweet, with his pink cheeks and his blond-white hair and beard,
that no one minded. It was generally accepted that he was an endangered species, to be protected by an indulgence of his need for space.
Annie left the kitchen. Originally there had been three other rooms in the cottage, a living room and two bedrooms. Soon after Annie had married, though, Pete had taken a sledgehammer to the walls, and the end result was a single large studio with jagged edges where walls had once been. One coat of thick white paint--deemed a suitable canvas by Pete--on everything in sight, and the redecorating was done. Eighteen years later the walls were a treasure of drawings, of landscapes, seascapes, and portraits, running the gamut from whimsy to realism. Annie shuddered to think of the time when her father would be gone and those walls might come down.
"Pop?" she called when she didn't see him.
Seconds later his head appeared around one of the jagged-edged walls. He smiled and waved her close with a hand. He was sitting on the floor working on yet another section of wall. Though the colors were characteristic of his style, Annie couldn't make out what he was drawing. She saw sparkles-pale yellow, green, pink ones on a field of blue--but the sparkles weren't Fourth of July-type sparkles. They had life to them somehow.
"They're from another world," he said in a voice that got softer and more gravelly with each year that passed. He was seventy, making his voice soft and gravelly indeed.
"Ahhhh." She squatted beside him to better study the patch of wall.
"They wilted a little during the trip to earth. Thirteen hundred light-years is a long time. But they're reviving."
"Why are they here?"
"Just visiting."
"That's a long trip for just a visit."
"They need comfort. Their home planet is shaky. They're wanting to know that life exists somewhere else, just in case." Annie smiled. She leaned toward her father and let him fold her in his arms. He wasn't a large man-five nine, tops--but he was solid. That solidity was familiar and sure.
"Something shaky with you?" he asked.
She made a sound that said yes.
"Need a little comfort?"
She made another sound like the first.
"Want a brandy?"
She smiled. Brandy was her father's weakness. "You swore you never touched the stuff until dinnertime."
"I swore I never drank alone. Dinnertime's when I'm with Peter Jennings. Now I'm with you. Want one?"
She shook her head against his shoulder.
"Tea?"
She shook her head again.
"Cocoa?"
She sighed. When she'd been a child, cocoa had been a panacea. Somehow she didn't think it would do the trick now. "I'll just sit a while, I think," she said, but she didn't move from his arms.
"Jock-o'-my-Jon okay?" he asked cautiously.
She smiled at the nickname, which he'd been using since Jon had been six and a T-Ball star, and nodded.
"Pretty little Zoe?"
She nodded again.
"Big bad Sam?"
Her smile faded.
When she didn't answer Pete said, "Uh-oh." He paused. "What'd he do?"
She sighed. "Something that upset me."
"He doesn't often."
"No."
"I like Sam."
"So do I."
"Then it'll get better," he said in a soothing way. Annie took full measure of the soothing, but it was an ephemeral thing. When it was gone, she eased herself from
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