“After what my father did, you mean,” she corrected him. Her father and her brother, if John believed Jackson had set the fire.
“What your father did was an accident. What my son did was deliberate.” John’s nostrils flared.
She looked away, at the photograph of Sam and John. “It was a shock to see that here. A shock, but a nice one.”
“It’s yours.”
“What?” She turned back to John.
“It’s yours. I have another copy. I kept this for you and Jackson. That’s part of your heritage. You should have it.”
Her first instinct was to take it, but then reason prevailed. “I travel a lot. I—I have no home or anything to put it in.”
John frowned. “Why do you travel?”
Because I keep trying to find what I lost.“I love seeing the country,” she said brightly.
“Hmph.” John didn’t look convinced by that explanation. “Is Jackson here?”
She glanced at the doorway, which remained empty. If she could keep Nicholas from discovering Jackson was back, that would be good. No need to rile him up. “He was here briefly.”
“I’d like to see him,” John said, surprising her. “If you would tell him that.”
“I can’t guarantee he’ll come.”
Sadness came and went in the older man’s gaze. “Tell him... the past is dead and buried for me. In case he fears anything.”
“I will.”
John stroked her hair again, as if he couldn’t stop himself from touching her, and she leaned into the paternal gesture, so hungry for familial affection. It was all she could do not to demand more hugs.
“Now, tell me everything about you. You travel. Where have you been? What have you been doing?”
“I’m a tattoo artist.”
“I know that much. I may be old as dirt, but I can google.”
She smiled. “You’re not old at all.”
His lips quirked. “Keep lying to me, sweetheart. I knew you’d be an artist. Always doodling and coloring. Like your mama, when she was young.”
Livvy wondered anew if her distant mother had ached after losing John in her life. “Mom never considered me an artist. I just—”
“Just permanently put your art on people’s skin? Don’t let your clients hear how little confidence you have in your work.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Right. Reflex.”
“Your mother is a good woman. If she puts pressure on you over your chosen profession, don’t hold it against her—she probably sees too much of herself in you. I was always saddened that your father discouraged her from having a career as an artist.”
“No, you’re mistaken,” Livvy said slowly. “My father didn’t have a problem with my being an artist. He even convinced my mom to let me go to art school.”
“Sometimes men have different goals for their wives and daughters. I say this with no animosity toward your father, Livvy, over what happened, but it was pretty obvious when Robert married your mother that part of her appeal was her wealth and social status. Her working as an artist didn’t quite mesh with that.”
The mural.
She remembered suddenly, her father’s deep voice, sweet as always, as her mother put the finishing touches on the fairy tale mural in her and Jackson’s bedroom.Really, Tani, does this match the rest of the house? It seems a bit tacky to have this in our children’s bedroom, no?They’d painted over it not long after.
“I’m sorry. Forget I said anything. I didn’t mean to speak ill of the dead.”
