I snap my gaze up, and finally I see the tiny scrawl of mom’s signature in the bottom right corner. A Tisha Black original, by the looks of it. Mrs. MacKelvie must have bought it from her all those years ago.
“So it is.” I stand and come to stare up at the painting as my father is doing.
Dad gives me a curious look, as if I’m the one who’s lost their mind, not recognizing my own work. Except it’s not my work. My art pales in comparison to my mother’s. Always has. Her oil paintings were incredible, with depth and detail I’ve never been able to achieve.
And that is the sole reason I haven’t stepped foot in her art studio at the back of our yard since the day she died. Twenty-three years. And I’ve not seen a single work of hers apart from the few in our house and now this one.
“How long ago was it when you did this one?” Dad asks before turning to Quinton. “You’ve got good taste, man.”
It’s been so long since I’ve thought about my mother’s work in any practical sense. Her style and talent were her gift, and she was happy to share it with the world. Much like Maisey has, apparently, shared her love of Christmas with the world. This house is absolutely dripping with green and red festivities. It’s hard to find a surface not decorated.
The grinch in me wants to cringe at the vibrant display of happiness.
“CC! Are you coming back?” an impatient voice drifts down the stairwell.
Speak of the?—
“Manners, Maise!” Quinton calls up the staircase.
I tamp back the grin that wants out over my face. He’s just like every other parent I’ve met—overprotective, trying his best to install manners into his daughter despite her rebellious streak.
“It’s fine, I should get up there.” I glance between Dad and Quinton.
“Yeah, sure, we could use a whiskey in the cigar room, couldn’t we, Hank?” Quinton chuckles.
Ah, secret men’s business.
I know my cue . . .
I take the stairs two at a time back up to the bedroom Maisey has decorated with her own touch, including an overload of Christmas cheer. I knock softly on the wall by her doorframe. She jumps off the bed, scooting my way. Grabbing my hand, she tugs me inside and swings the door closed.
“What took you so long? I thought my dad stole you away from me.”
She’s frowning, all pouty and cute.
“No, he didn’t. But I did help a little. It’s the right thing to do when you’re a guest.”
“Sure. But he can do it, you know. He just likes the company.”
I bet he does.
It must be lonely raising a kid on your own.
Much like caring for an ailing parent on your own, I guess.
“Want to play hairdressers and do our makeup? I made Daddy buy me a makeup kit. It’s really cool.”
She rushes to her dresser and returns with a pink plastic makeup case. Through the clear lid, I see bright pinks, outrageous blue eye shadow, sparkly lip gloss, and something that looks like neon-pink blush.
Dear Lord.
“Sure, you want me to do yours first?”
“Nah, Daddy will make me wash it off for bedtime. But I can do yours!”
“Oh, I?—”
She makes something that looks like puppy dog eyes at me and pleads with her small hands pressed together.
