flowers in the less trafficked rooms, but decorative vases of twigs and straw, bowls of pinecones, things to bring the outside in, just like she’s suggested.
Keeping fresh flowers alive is a feat for most people. For me, it’s simple when Tobin won’t let a single ant invade the house, but I appreciate the fact that she kept her plan relatively low-maintenance.
I like it a hell of a lot.
“Supposedly, spring’s right around the corner,” she reminds me.
I snort. “Tell it to my buddy, Faulk. He warned me winters in these parts linger sometimes until damn near early May. It’s about as bad as Alaska.”
“It’s warmer today. I heard something dripping out there earlier. Seems like the sun is already doing a good job on the snow. Maybe we’ll have a thaw after all.”
Hmm, she’s right. I’d noticed the melt earlier, falling off the roofs and widening the areas I shoveled.
“Which brings us to the next issue,” I say. “Mud.”
Her oval face scrunches in.
“That’s the downfall of spring,” she says. Somehow, she still sounds cheerful about frigging mud, which makes me want to laugh. “What’s that smile for? The earth needs the water. Mother Nature has her way of balancing things out.”
“You like nature, don’t you?” I ask, fully aware of the smirk I’m wearing. “It’s evident in all these drawings.”
Her cheeks flush slightly.
“Yes, I do. I prefer to decorate with organic things.”
“Bringing the outside in,” I say, recalling how she’d said that earlier while we were walking the horses and knocking around ideas.
“That’s right. I’m glad you were listening,” she says, returning my smile.
I’ve never really had that.
L.A. is full of manufactured things in all aspects, right down to the manicured palm trees and picture-perfect lawns. Even the organic trends end in plants on leashes. They don’t call Southern California la la land for nothing when you find a scene out of a too-perfect dream just by turning your head.
Flipping to another page, I see faint lines where she’s erased some sketches. She’s across the desk from me, so I spin the book around and push it at her.
“What’d you erase here? In the front entryway?”
She doesn’t look at the page, but flicks her eyes away from me. “I, well...I considered adding a few antiques to that area, an old mirror or clock, but I changed my mind. I was afraid it might take away from...”
I see her throat moving as she swallows.
“You can say it. My mother’s picture. The memorial.” My fingers rap the desk softly.
I see her nod, slowly and carefully.
The painting is huge, rather imposing with the marble half table and a huge vase of yellow roses. It probably does look like some sort of freaky shrine, a mini funeral parlor.
I’d meant to honor her memory, not relive her interment every damn day.
Now I’m wondering if that’s necessary.
That little setup isn’t making me remember things any differently. It’s not preserving happier times, when she’d pull me onto her sets and laugh with the camera crews while they pretended to film me as a boy, chasing other actors around.
Nor is it paying homage to her as I hoped it might.
My mother was more than a world-famous actress and a perfect pair of bright-blue eyes preserved in a camera flash and artist’s eye. She was the living, beating heart of my life.
I lose myself in the mental tug of war for a minute, idly thumbing at a couple more pages.
Grace remains silent, and oddly, it’s not awkward.
Not even when I flip back to the image of the front entryway, pursing my lips.
I stare at it, noting she really isn’t changing much there except for a rug and a few antiques. She’s not touching the portrait itself, and honestly, I wish she had. Maybe then it’d be easier to decide what the hell to do.
“You know, out there in the building where I parked your truck, there’s a large storage area. I’ve never really explored it much, but they left some old antiques behind. Stuff from the original farm that the previous owners saved and said I could keep.”
“Wow, really?” Her long lashes flutter, excitement flickering in her eyes.
I grin at the way they shine. “You’re welcome to explore. See if there’s something you want to use while sprucing up this place.” I close the sketchbook. “Just make it more lively, less sterile.”
“Um, I never said it was sterile.”
“No, but you thought it, and your instincts are right. I just said it for you.” I’ve known it since moving in, but