serious. Promise.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because…”
She tapped me in the chest. “I know you. You can’t keep it all bottled up in there. Sooner or later, you’ll have to let it out.”
“You sound like Mom.”
“You’re trying to change the subject.”
I packed up the canoe and then scooped my arms beneath her, lifting her. She wrapped her arms around my neck. “Promise?”
I looked her in the eyes, fingers crossed. “I promise.”
“Uncross those fingers and say it.”
“I promise…I will always remember the way you burnt your first pot roast to a crisp.”
“Are you finished?”
“Okay…I promise I’ll always wish I could make the art you’ve always thought that I could.”
She nodded. “Fair enough.”
I looped the harness around me and began my snow-dog pull. She lay in the boat, staring at me. “You can, you know. It’s in you.”
“Can what? What’s in me?”
She pointed her 800 mcg lollipop at me. “Don’t start that crap with me.”
I didn’t have to turn around to see her windshield-wiper finger cutting the air. “Honey…” I stopped pulling, letting the lines fall slack. “Face the music. I fish better than I paint. I even helped your dad catch fish and he sucks. But in terms of art, other than a portrait here and there—which I’ll admit, I do seem to have some talent for—I’m a hack for hire. Just look at our house. Garage to attic, it’s full of stuff we can’t sell.”
“You’re not a reject to me.”
“Well, you’d be alone on that one.”
The Actiq often did this. Made her chatty and defiant. Not that she needed help on the defiance part.
“Band-Aid.”
A deep breath. Her adopted nickname for me. “Yes.”
“Come here.”
I untangled myself and sloshed backward, kneeling beside the gunnel. She rested her head on her palm. “I’ve seen art in Rome, London, New York…even Asia.” She touched my nose. “No one moves me the way you do.”
Despite my dashed hopes and her continued embarrassment, that right there is the singular reason I’ve not burned everything I’ve ever painted and continued to keep my studio. Because she believed long after I’d quit.
“I love you Abigail Coleman Michaels.”
“Good. Glad we settled that. Now,
mush!
It’s hot in here with no breeze.” I turned, lifted the straps across my shoulders and began pulling. As the tension pulled back, she said, “You know you might also consider Wendy Maxwell, her family’s got that place—”
“Would you shut up and go to sleep?”
She paused and her tone changed. “Not until you set my feet on Cedar Point.”
Her voice echoed with a sense of finality. I leaned into the harness, dug my feet into the sand, and the ropes cut into my shoulders.
9
T he driver of the car was wearing a black hat and white gloves. I walked out wearing faded jeans—a hole in the right knee—a black T-shirt and my only sport coat—which was blue and missing a button on the right sleeve. “You think she’ll notice?” I asked. The driver stared at my sleeve and shook his head but said nothing. “Great,” I said, stepping into the backseat, “’cause I’d hate to overdress.”
Pushing the door closed he said, “I doubt that will be a problem.”
He drove me down King Street to South Battery and stopped before an imposing three-story crowded with people. Classic Charleston. All the women wore pumps and pearls while all the men were wearing the same brand of four-eye, lace-up leather shoes, the same shade of khakis, same style of blue button-down and slightly varied versions of striped ties.
I stepped out of the car and nearly choked on my own tongue. To my left, the sidewalk looked dark, desolate and inviting. I stared up at the porch, which held up the four huge columns in front of the house. She stood at the banner, engaged in conversation, looking at me.
I straightened my coat and the driver whispered behind me, “Don’t worry, sir. Most of them are just
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because…”
She tapped me in the chest. “I know you. You can’t keep it all bottled up in there. Sooner or later, you’ll have to let it out.”
“You sound like Mom.”
“You’re trying to change the subject.”
I packed up the canoe and then scooped my arms beneath her, lifting her. She wrapped her arms around my neck. “Promise?”
I looked her in the eyes, fingers crossed. “I promise.”
“Uncross those fingers and say it.”
“I promise…I will always remember the way you burnt your first pot roast to a crisp.”
“Are you finished?”
“Okay…I promise I’ll always wish I could make the art you’ve always thought that I could.”
She nodded. “Fair enough.”
I looped the harness around me and began my snow-dog pull. She lay in the boat, staring at me. “You can, you know. It’s in you.”
“Can what? What’s in me?”
She pointed her 800 mcg lollipop at me. “Don’t start that crap with me.”
I didn’t have to turn around to see her windshield-wiper finger cutting the air. “Honey…” I stopped pulling, letting the lines fall slack. “Face the music. I fish better than I paint. I even helped your dad catch fish and he sucks. But in terms of art, other than a portrait here and there—which I’ll admit, I do seem to have some talent for—I’m a hack for hire. Just look at our house. Garage to attic, it’s full of stuff we can’t sell.”
“You’re not a reject to me.”
“Well, you’d be alone on that one.”
The Actiq often did this. Made her chatty and defiant. Not that she needed help on the defiance part.
“Band-Aid.”
A deep breath. Her adopted nickname for me. “Yes.”
“Come here.”
I untangled myself and sloshed backward, kneeling beside the gunnel. She rested her head on her palm. “I’ve seen art in Rome, London, New York…even Asia.” She touched my nose. “No one moves me the way you do.”
Despite my dashed hopes and her continued embarrassment, that right there is the singular reason I’ve not burned everything I’ve ever painted and continued to keep my studio. Because she believed long after I’d quit.
“I love you Abigail Coleman Michaels.”
“Good. Glad we settled that. Now,
mush!
It’s hot in here with no breeze.” I turned, lifted the straps across my shoulders and began pulling. As the tension pulled back, she said, “You know you might also consider Wendy Maxwell, her family’s got that place—”
“Would you shut up and go to sleep?”
She paused and her tone changed. “Not until you set my feet on Cedar Point.”
Her voice echoed with a sense of finality. I leaned into the harness, dug my feet into the sand, and the ropes cut into my shoulders.
9
T he driver of the car was wearing a black hat and white gloves. I walked out wearing faded jeans—a hole in the right knee—a black T-shirt and my only sport coat—which was blue and missing a button on the right sleeve. “You think she’ll notice?” I asked. The driver stared at my sleeve and shook his head but said nothing. “Great,” I said, stepping into the backseat, “’cause I’d hate to overdress.”
Pushing the door closed he said, “I doubt that will be a problem.”
He drove me down King Street to South Battery and stopped before an imposing three-story crowded with people. Classic Charleston. All the women wore pumps and pearls while all the men were wearing the same brand of four-eye, lace-up leather shoes, the same shade of khakis, same style of blue button-down and slightly varied versions of striped ties.
I stepped out of the car and nearly choked on my own tongue. To my left, the sidewalk looked dark, desolate and inviting. I stared up at the porch, which held up the four huge columns in front of the house. She stood at the banner, engaged in conversation, looking at me.
I straightened my coat and the driver whispered behind me, “Don’t worry, sir. Most of them are just
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