pale shafts of light through the tall windows, illuminating the canvas that stood before Phil. He mixed some pale blues on his palette and carefully applied the color to the painting with his brush. He had spent much of his later life in this studio and found it the most comfortable room in the entire mansion. He had been reluctant at first to buy such a large place, but once he saw the studio, and then saw that the rest of the house pleased Cara and the children so much, he had no doubt that this was to be their home. He took a break from his painting and gazed around at his studio. The ceilings in the twenty by thirty room were over fourteen feet high, giving it an air of spaciousness. He’d had bookcases built in to one wall, and the other three walls were lined with the paintings of various artists he admired. The room was not neat, for old canvases were piled up on each other in two corners. A small table and two chairs stood near the easel.
He rolled his shoulders back and scrutinized his painting. With a fine brush, he applied a tiny bit of color with a steady hand and was pleased with the results. “I still don’t know how long my hands will be this steady,” he murmured, “but I hope for a long time.”
He had hardly moved from this spot since before dawn. He found that the early morning hours were the best time to work undisturbed. He meticulously cleaned his brush, put it in a large Ming vase along with several other brushes ofassorted sizes, then walked over to the mullioned window. He arched his back, for he had worked hard. If anybody had ever told me, when I was punching cattle back on the range, that painting would be such hard work, he thought, I would have told him he was crazy. He thought briefly of his youth, and a smile touched his broad lips as he considered how far he had come from those days. He remembered the struggle that had gone on in his mind and emotions when he had first felt the urge to become a painter. Nobody in the family had ever done anything like this, and when he finally told his father and mother his desires, he had fully expected them to laugh him out of it. They had taken him seriously, however, as had the rest of the family.
As he looked out the window, a flash of movement caught his eye, and he leaned forward to watch Kevin digging industriously in a flower bed. A pang seized him as he thought about his younger son. He loved the boy with all of his heart, but tragedy had marked Kevin’s life, and it seemed nothing could be done to set his feet aright.
Even at this distance he could see the scars on the left side of Kevin’s face, and he vividly remembered the explosion, the doctors, the many surgeries. Phil watched for a while as Kevin made the dirt fly. He’s become a wonderful landscape artist. I believe he knows every blade of grass and every tree and every flower on this place. I guess he planted most of them. I just wish he weren’t so afraid to let people see him.
Turning his head the other way, he saw another figure emerge from the house and walk along one of the brick walkways that wound through the grounds. He fastened his attention on his newly found daughter as she bent over to smell a flower. She was wearing the same dress she had worn when she arrived yesterday, and an impulse suddenly took Phil. He left the room, going down two flights of stairs to the first floor and exiting. He quickened his pace, and when he was within twenty feet of her, he called out, “Good morning, Grace.”
She stopped and faced him, and he could see a look ofresistance on her face, but he showed no reaction to it and just smiled. “I missed you at breakfast. It was a good one. Cara made her world-famous pancakes.”
“I slept late, but she heated up some that were left. She’s a good cook.”
“Your mother could always cook. Her own mother taught her.” He felt ill at ease trying to talk to this daughter he didn’t even know. What’s going on in her heart? he wondered.
He rolled his shoulders back and scrutinized his painting. With a fine brush, he applied a tiny bit of color with a steady hand and was pleased with the results. “I still don’t know how long my hands will be this steady,” he murmured, “but I hope for a long time.”
He had hardly moved from this spot since before dawn. He found that the early morning hours were the best time to work undisturbed. He meticulously cleaned his brush, put it in a large Ming vase along with several other brushes ofassorted sizes, then walked over to the mullioned window. He arched his back, for he had worked hard. If anybody had ever told me, when I was punching cattle back on the range, that painting would be such hard work, he thought, I would have told him he was crazy. He thought briefly of his youth, and a smile touched his broad lips as he considered how far he had come from those days. He remembered the struggle that had gone on in his mind and emotions when he had first felt the urge to become a painter. Nobody in the family had ever done anything like this, and when he finally told his father and mother his desires, he had fully expected them to laugh him out of it. They had taken him seriously, however, as had the rest of the family.
As he looked out the window, a flash of movement caught his eye, and he leaned forward to watch Kevin digging industriously in a flower bed. A pang seized him as he thought about his younger son. He loved the boy with all of his heart, but tragedy had marked Kevin’s life, and it seemed nothing could be done to set his feet aright.
Even at this distance he could see the scars on the left side of Kevin’s face, and he vividly remembered the explosion, the doctors, the many surgeries. Phil watched for a while as Kevin made the dirt fly. He’s become a wonderful landscape artist. I believe he knows every blade of grass and every tree and every flower on this place. I guess he planted most of them. I just wish he weren’t so afraid to let people see him.
Turning his head the other way, he saw another figure emerge from the house and walk along one of the brick walkways that wound through the grounds. He fastened his attention on his newly found daughter as she bent over to smell a flower. She was wearing the same dress she had worn when she arrived yesterday, and an impulse suddenly took Phil. He left the room, going down two flights of stairs to the first floor and exiting. He quickened his pace, and when he was within twenty feet of her, he called out, “Good morning, Grace.”
She stopped and faced him, and he could see a look ofresistance on her face, but he showed no reaction to it and just smiled. “I missed you at breakfast. It was a good one. Cara made her world-famous pancakes.”
“I slept late, but she heated up some that were left. She’s a good cook.”
“Your mother could always cook. Her own mother taught her.” He felt ill at ease trying to talk to this daughter he didn’t even know. What’s going on in her heart? he wondered.
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