thinking that she could alter herself so that her mother would love her like Rebel loved Sophie. Yet, somewhere deep in her heart, she wished that Victoria would change.
“I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to make a breakfast burrito,” Sophie said. “Want me to make you one?”
“Love one.” Emma started to move the paints.
“We can eat on the sofa and open the door a crack so we can smell the rain,” Sophie told her.
Emma slid off the barstool and opened the glass door a little. “I love the sound and the smell of rain.”
“Me too,” Sophie said. “I wish we could paint the smell of a good rainstorm.”
Emma carried her coffee to the living room and sat down on the sofa. “As real as your pictures are, I can feel the warmth of the sun coming off that one, so I bet I could smell rain if you work on one like that today.”
“You give me way too much credit. I see you’re doing a cardinal, but not a male one.” Sophie tilted her head toward the small canvas on the bar.
“The female needs to be recognized,” Emma said. “She lays the eggs, sits on them, takes care of the babies. She should be recognized, and besides, I found a tiny feather on the porch yesterday from the lady bird to work into my picture. It was an omen for sure. I’m painting it with a very faint rainbow in the background to show that we have to endure the rain if we want to have the rainbow.”
Sophie handed her a paper towel and a burrito. “You are a walking example of that.”
“Do you really think I’ll ever get to see the rainbow?” Emma sighed and dabbed at the single tear finding its way down her cheek.
“Yes, you will.” Sophie sat down on the end of the sofa. “You are going to have lots of rainbows in your future, and many pots of gold at the end of them.”
“I don’t even care about the gold. I just want the rainbow, because to me that will mean that all this rape stuff is finally over. But I don’t want to talk about that today. What are you going to paint?” Emma asked.
“I’ve decided to do a long, thin picture today—just a slice of the mountain and maybe a yucca plant in the foreground with rain falling on the bloom.”
A rap on the door startled Emma so badly that she almost dropped her burrito. Then the door opened and Filly dashed in without an invitation. She had cut a hole in a black garbage bag for her head and one in each side for her arms. She carried a pan across the living room and set it on the cabinet, and then she removed the garbage bag and tossed it in the trash can.
“I brought cinnamon rolls for y’all’s breakfast. I need some inspiration for my jewelry this morning. Nothing seems to appeal to me. What are y’all working on?” She poured herself a cup of coffee and carried it to the rocking chair that had been shoved back in the corner so Sophie could set her painting up to dry.
“Emma is going to paint a mama cardinal in the rain, and I’m thinking about doing one of the mountain that’s in that picture”—she pointed to the one that was finished and drying—“but mine will have a big yucca in the foreground in this one, and where that one has the sun peeking over the mountain, this one will have rain.”
“I knew I could find something to kick me in the butt and get me going if I came over here. I never thought of painting rain on my rocks. Maybe three rocks on one necklace,” Filly said. “Dark clouds, rain, and then a rainbow.”
“Sounds beautiful. Those cinnamon rolls smell wonderful,” Emma said. “Have one with us.”
“I plan on it,” Filly said. “I’ve got a question for you, Em. What made you decide to be a flower child like me?”
“Remember what you said about cracking the eggs so we can get to the heart of things?” Emma asked.
Filly sipped her coffee and nodded.
“This has always been the real me.” Emma shrugged. “I was closed up in a shell until Sophie rescued me, and now I’m coming out, kind of like that little yellow peep I painted on one of my eggs.”
“Or like a caterpillar in a cocoon?” Filly asked.
“That’s right. Now one for you. What made you a hippie child?” Sophie asked.