Come What May - L.K. Farlow Page 0,58
full body shiver runs through me— “saved me, in more ways than one.”
Desi’s eyes slide around the coffee shop before returning to me. “I could tell you weren’t you. I couldn’t leave you with them.” She spits her last word with such acid, I can almost feel the burn.
“I mean it, Des. You and your dad saved me. I’ll be grateful forever.”
“There’s a way you could repay me,” she hedges.
“How’s that?” I’m almost scared to hear her answer.
“You can love my dad. Treat him right; make him happy.”
Tears cloud my vision. “I…I can definitely do that, Desi.”
Her solemn face transforms to one of pure happiness. “Good. Now, let’s go make some ugly vases.”
Side-eyeing her, I say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about; my vase will be gorgeous.”
I lied.
My vase looks more like an ashtray…that was left out in the sun and hit by a car…twice.
Desi’s on the other hand is perfectly formed and she’s not being a bit humble as she gloats.
“Look, don’t feel bad, Spaz”—yes, the nickname stuck— “you did your best.” She holds her department-store-worthy creation up like a trophy. “We can’t all be artists.”
“Yeah, yeah. Brag a little more.”
“Um, hello? Of course, I’m gonna brag.” She thrusts her vase toward me. “Look!”
“For real though, you’re really talented, Des.”
She beams. “Thanks. My mom was an artist, too. And Silvi! So, I guess it runs in the family, because what Dad does is art, too—just a different medium.”
“Do you want to pursue art as a career?”
“Maybe. Big goals, I wanna play for the WNBA. But if that doesn’t happen, I’d like to teach art or something. Or maybe run a place like this.”
We hand our pieces over to the employee on duty so they can be fired in the kiln, with instructions to pick them on Friday.
As we walk back to the truck, my mind wanders to Desi’s mom. She must have been a wonderful woman and while I’m not trying to replace her—not ever—I can’t help but feel I have big shoes to fill.
“What kind of art do you like the most?” I ask as we approach the truck.
Desi answers once we’re both buckled into our seats. “Well, before today, I would have said mixed media, but I think I really like sculpting, too.”
“I don’t know much about art, but I bet you could combine them.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Maybe so.”
“What kind of art did your mom do?”
“Oh, man, she was a painter—watercolor. Dad says her work was mostly abstract, but whenever I look at the pieces Dad saved, I always feel like there’s something more to them. Does that make sense?”
“I think so. What about Silvi?”
“She paints too, but she prefers oil.”
“That’s really cool. I don’t think I have an artistic bone in my body.”
“Clearly.” Desi snorts out a laugh, no doubt recalling my pathetic sculpting attempt. “But you know cars and you’re really good at makeup.”
“I’ll give you the makeup thing; but trust me when I say, I know about cars. I get how they work and how to make them work. I do not know how to make them pretty.”
“Whatever. Dad showed me pictures of Willow’s Jeep. He said you helped paint it.”
My cheeks heat recalling the other things we did in the paint booth. “Oh, um, yeah. Beginner’s luck.”
“Whatever. You gotta love yourself a little more, Spaz.”
I pull the truck into the garage. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
Desi hops out before I’m fully into park. “Duh. I’m always right.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Mateo
I lean against the doorjamb to the bathroom, watching as Seraphine twists her hair around some kind of curling iron. “You almost ready?” I ask, loving the way she’s so at ease in my space.
Over the last month, she’s spent more time here than at her place. Hell, she’s one drawer away from being moved in. Which, if I’m being honest, I wouldn’t mind.
“Almost.” She wrinkles her nose and presses a hand to her belly. “Just gotta spray my hair and change.”
“Estás preciosa—you look beautiful.” I mean it, too. She’s had this glow about her recently and it looks damn good on her.
“Thank you.” She stands from the vanity stool and unplugs her iron. “Let me get dressed and we can go.”
“Perfect. Let me go check on Desi.”
Sure enough, my daughter is laid back on the couch, playing on her phone while she waits on us. “Time to go?” she asks.
“Just about.”
“Cool. Can I drive?”
“Feels good outside; I figured we could walk.”
Desi lifts one shoulder and then the other. “Yeah, a walk sounds nice.”
I kick back