The Preacher's Daughter by Beverly Lewis

the lawn. Daed had been as agreeable as she’d ever known him to be, which seemed to delight Mamm no end.
    â€˜â€˜That’s good . . . keep everybody happy,’’ Annie said, pulling up the little red flag on the hefty mailbox. ‘‘Not the easiest thing in the world.’’
    By the following Tuesday, on her early morning walk to Cousin Julia’s, Annie had what she guessed might be a brain wave, as Yonie liked to say of a sudden—and terrific—idea. And when Julia agreed that she most definitely could eat her lunch in the attic, Annie took advantage of her time to paint.
    Studying the canvas, which was still resting on the easel, she knew exactly what she must add to the picture. The final touch . . .
    The account of the small boy’s disappearance was quite clear in her mind, and she was convinced the tale was incomplete without the peach stone. A boyish token, of sorts. As a young girl, she’d heard other children talk of squeezing a peach pit hard enough and long enough, till it would eventually sprout. A made-up story, most likely. But little Isaac, long presumed dead, had carried the stone with him everywhere, as she recalled from hearing the details of his kidnapping time and again. She’d known this firsthand, as well, from having spent many happy hours in the company of the imaginative boy.
    Isaac, my little friend . . . lost forever . The thought never ceased to put a grind in her teeth, this fiery anger she’d never voiced.
    So solemnly, even crossly, she painted a tiny oval-shaped peach pit on the board of the long tree swing. Hard as it was to spot in the picture, she impulsively brush-stroked a pale yellow ray of sunshine falling on it.
    Now the painting’s complete, she thought.
    Minutes later when Julia brought up a big slice of apple pie, she was so taken by the image on the canvas, she stood there and stared.
    â€˜â€˜Is something the matter?’’ Annie asked.
    â€˜â€˜My word, no . . . this is beautiful. I never would’ve guessed you could paint such splendor.’’ Julia’s smile was as radiant as the sunbeams shining on the locust trees and the stream. ‘‘Wait here just a minute . . . I have an idea.’’ With that, she turned and hurried back down the stairs.
    Where’s she going?
    But Annie wasn’t worried what Julia was up to, for the woman was as keyed up as anyone she knew. She could burst out laughing at the most unpredictable thing, and Annie believed because of this, young James and Molly were the most contented and carefree children. Even more so than her own nieces and nephews. No, there was truly something remarkable about spontaneous laughter in the home, and Julia had a corner on that happiness, for sure. She was also quite eager to extend herself to others—taking meals to sick neighbors and driving elderly folk to doctor appointments. A true friend, indeed.
    In no time, Julia was back and waving a paper that looked to be clipped out of a magazine. ‘‘Here now, and don’t say no till you hear me out,’’ she said. ‘‘In fact, why don’t you sit right down a minute and I’ll read it to you.’’
    Annie did so, listening as Julia read about an ‘‘artistic opportunity,’’ where the first-place winner would receive some classes with an experienced artist.
    â€˜â€˜Now what do you think of that?’’
    Annie had no idea what she was getting at. ‘‘I just don’t know. . . .’’
    â€˜â€˜I’ll take a digital picture of your painting and submit it for the contest.’’
    She could see Julia was convinced. ‘‘Then what? If I should win—which I know I won’t—what then?’’
    â€˜â€˜Well, it says here the first-place winner will be featured on the January cover of Farm and Home Journal and will receive three art lessons by a master artist. Oh, Annie,