Always Florence

She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together to prevent anything he wouldn’t want to hear from coming out. Through Christmas? He’d done that deliberately. He’d been a very astute father and he’d always read her like a book. He knew she wanted to be on her own to prepare herself for Florence. Leaving family and friends behind was difficult, but she was desperate to do this, so she’d started with the move to Astoria. And now he was doing his best to foil her plans.

He didn’t want her to go. He’d been clear about that more than once. He considered her still too delicate to be on her own in a foreign country with what some considered less sophisticated medical options. Or—she had to face this—he was afraid she’d die there and he’d never see her again.

But she felt sure she had time. She didn’t have forever, but she wanted to spend all the time she did have stretching the artist in her to the furthest reaches of her talent. And she couldn’t do that with her father’s arms around her. Or a husband’s.

She ramped up the cheer in her voice. “That’ll be fun, Dad. I’ll love showing you around. This is the most beautiful place, everywhere you look.”

He expelled a breath. Relief, she guessed. “Good. Good, Bobbie. I’ll see you in about a month.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Okay. I love you, baby.”

“Love you, too, Dad. See you soon.”

“Bye.”

She turned off the phone and growled and stamped her foot. Monet jumped down and meowed in protest. Bobbie stroked him with the sole of her shoe. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t let herself do that anymore. It was a waste of energy and she had too much to do.

She could do this. She could walk into her father’s embrace one more time and be able to let him go at the end of it. She just hoped he could do the same.

She sipped at her tea and carried the cup to the second bedroom, where she had a drafting table and her paints and inks. She put her cup safely out of the way and leaned over the piece she was working on. A quote from Oliver Wendell Holmes about dying with one’s music unsung was partially complete. It was going well. She wouldn’t say that aloud, of course, because it had a way of jinxing a project, but she could admit to being happy with her progress.

She had just pulled her stool into position when there was a rhythmic knock on the front door. Sandy. “Come in!” Bobbie shouted.

Tall and red-haired and just a little plump, Sandy Evans breezed into the room in jeans and a short, pumpkin-colored jacket. Her two little girls, Adalyn—Addie—and Zoey, were with her. Three and four respectively, they were fair-haired like the father, who’d walked away after Addie was born, claiming to be overwhelmed.

Sandy didn’t know what the word meant. She worked full-time as an office manager, was completely devoted to her daughters and still found time for community involvement. She made Bobbie feel like a slug.

She dropped a white paper bag on Bobbie’s table, then came around to look over her shoulder at the artwork. She was distracted for an instant when Zoey reached out to touch a jar of paintbrushes. “Hands in your pockets, girls,” she said. “No touching. This is all important stuff to Aunt Bobbie, and we don’t want to break anything.”

Leaning over Bobbie’s shoulder, she breathed an “Oh!” of approval. “That’s going to be gorgeous!” She pointed a pumpkin-painted fingernail at a pale blue flower petal in the paper. “What is that?”

“I dried hydrangea, and took one of the petals.” She indicated another spot. “That’s a hawthorn leaf. And that longer yellow petal is from a forsythia I saved from the spring.”

Sandy gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You are so clever. And that’s what I came to talk to you about.”

Bobbie opened the white bag. Sandy had brought a berry scone from the Astoria Coffee House downtown, one of Bobbie’s favorite indulgences.

She looked up at her friend suspiciously. “Thank you, but what do you want from me that requires a bribe?” The girls came closer at the possibility of treats. “Can I give them a bite?”

“Just a little one.”

Bobbie broke off two chunks and offered them to the girls, who accepted greedily. Then she tore one off for herself.

“Astor School needs someone to help with a couple of art classes for the lower grades. The budget for that kind of thing is gone this year. Would you do it?” Sandy waited expectantly.

“How do you know they need someone? Your kids aren’t even in school yet.”

“My boss is on the school board, and our office is donating supplies if we can find a teacher.”

“But I’m here only until January.”

“Holidays are when the kids get restless, and art gives them something fun to focus on. What do you think?”

“Sure. I guess.” She wanted to help, but wasn’t certain she was qualified. “I don’t know a lot about teaching children. I suppose I can find projects on the internet.”

Sandy opened the big tote she carried as a purse. A sock monkey wearing a tutu and ballet shoes tumbled out as she withdrew a large paperback. She held it up. The title was Holiday Art Projects for Elementary Grades. She handed it to Bobbie, while Zoey rushed to rescue her ballerina monkey.

“Thank you.” Bobbie flipped through the book. The projects were simple and she’d seen them before, but that was probably good for children. Maybe she could handle this.

“So, you’ll do it?”

“What’s the schedule?”

“Once a week, Friday mornings, ten to eleven-thirty—until the kids get out for Christmas break.”

“I’m still working on the pieces for your office, remember.”

A wave of Sandy’s hand dismissed that as a problem. “I know you to be brilliant. You’ll get it all done. And what’s an hour and a half a week?”

Bobbie hadn’t intended to get this involved in her temporary residence, but she remembered how exciting her art periods had been in grade school. She liked the thought of providing that sense of fun and discovery to kids. And her father would love knowing she was spending time away from her studio.

“Okay, I’ll do it. Should I call the teacher?”

“I put her name, number and email on the bookmark.” Sandy indicated where it protruded from the book. “She’ll be thrilled. Great! Okay, girls.” Bobbie’s friend shepherded her daughters toward the door. “Can we come by and trick-or-treat?”

She got up to walk them out. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. In fact, I made you something to put on your front porch.”

The three followed her into the kitchen, where she retrieved a medium-size pumpkin sporting a cat face. She’d cut off the top and cleaned out the seeds, then carved part of the eyes and nose. With a special tool, she’d removed only the orange skin and thinned out the pumpkin flesh in a few places, defining the cat’s features so that a candle would shine through. The cat had a whimsical expression, wide eyes, whiskers, and a tongue protruding from his scalloped mouth. She’d placed a flameless candle inside and turned it on to demonstrate.

The girls giggled and squealed. Bobbie felt as fulfilled as if she’d sold a 24” x 36” oil on canvas.

She pointed to two smaller pumpkins she’d made with less interesting faces, but that she’d drilled to hold a wire loop. She held one up in each hand. “Or do you like these better? You can hang them in the tree in the front yard.”

The girls both voted on the cat pumpkin.

“Okay. I’ll carry it out to the car for you.”

Sandy strapped the girls into their car seats, but there was great protest when she tried to put the pumpkin in the trunk.

“If I set it on the seat between you,” Sandy explained, “it might fall over when we go down the hill.”

Logic didn’t sway them. Bobbie ran into the open garage, found a box the right size and placed the pumpkin in it, then set the box between the girls. Each rested a hand on the pumpkin, delighted.

“There!” Bobbie exclaimed, hugging Sandy. “Peace reestablished.”

“You’re really very good at this, Bobbie. You sure you want to devote your life to art rather than children?”