And my mother’s before it was his. Every story he tells me about her, she was sitting in the sun’s rays or the moon’s beams, painting or sculpting. The great Leticia Black. Her work still hangs around town; at least it did last time I was home. I guess I took after my mother with the artist gene. But the fact thatI haven’t sold a single painting worth enough to keep my bills paid and my career afloat tells me the genetics I received are somewhat watered down.
I find Dad in the chair by the southern windows.
Rounding the chair, I touch his shoulder before sitting on the ottoman in front of him. “Hey, Daddy.”
His face lights up with delight. A beat passes and his brows frown. “Tisha, you’re supposed to be at the studio. Did something happen?”
I’ve been assumed to be worse people than my own mother, and in his defense, I am her spitting image. Dark hair, brown eyes, wide smile, small nose, and petite frame. Not-so-petite personality.
“It’s me, CC, Daddy.”
His face curls with confusion, then morphs to embarrassment. “I’m sorry, honey?—”
“No, don’t be. I’ve been honing my Leticia Black style for a while now.”
He chuckles, but the frown doesn’t ease. “You do look so much like your mother, sweetheart. Sorry, I got confused.”
“I’ll take the mistaken identity as a compliment. Anyway, how have you been? Marie looks great, she’s keeping you on your toes, hey?”
“Your mother is always busy organizing my days.” He leans forward, hands gripping my knees. “All this old man wants to do is read and nap. She won’t hear of it.” The smile that widens his face is spectacular. And I put my mother’s inability to resist my father down to that one feature alone.
“I bet she does, Daddy.”
He’s mixing up the two most significant women in our family. But he’s not wrong. Marie was pretty much my mother figure. She took care of us. In return, she had a home and afamily that would always do anything for her. But nobody could ever confuse the two...
“Can you do this old man a favor?” he asks.
“Anything.” I squeeze his hands, now back on his lap.
“I’m parched. Bring my tea, will you?”
I stand and dot a kiss to his forehead. “Of course, be back in a sec.”
He smiles before picking up his book.
Mark Twain.
Again.
I guess there are perks of not remembering things, after all. What I wouldn’t give to read my favorite books for the first time over.
I wander through the house and into the long galley kitchen. The black-and-white tiled floor has seen better days, as have the countertops and cupboards. Marie stands at the counter, preparing the tray loaded with a tea pot, two cups, and the sugar pot with two teaspoons.
“How did it go?” she asks.
“Okay. He mistook me for my mother for a second there. Not a big deal.”
“Lots of people do, until they remember...” The cheeky expression that sprung over her face fades with the last few words, and she gives me an empathetic expression, plucking up the tray.
“What’s going on next door?”
“Ah, that would be your new neighbor.”
“What? What happened to Mrs. MacKelvie?” My face is widened, hands gripping the counter. Surely, she just moved into the nursing home or something. Marie would have told me.
“I was trying to find the best time to tell you, without your father overhearing and?—”
“Tell me what?”
