“June second.” Sam pushed her glasses up into her hair. “Tell me about the paintings.”
“They’re—I’ve been working on light. How light moves through a space. How it changes a room. I’m trying to figure out how to get paint to do what light does, which is basically impossible, but that’s the project.”
“That’s always the project,” Sam said, and something in her voice shifted. “That’s the only project that matters. Who are you studying?”
“Carmen Sandoval, mostly. And Diebenkorn.”
“You know Carmen’s work?” Sam sat up straighter and set her glass down. “The glazes on the red rock series?”
“I’ve only seen reproductions. I’ve never seen one in person.”
Sam looked at her for a long second. “Carmen lives about twenty minutes from here.”
Bea’s hand went to her mouth.
“I might be able to make a phone call,” Sam said, and reached for the wine.
“What about you, Stella?” Sam said, turning to her. “What are you working on?”
Stella reached for the berries. “Photography. Documentary stuff, mostly. The Shack. People around town.”
“Black and white?”
“Mostly.”
Sam nodded once, took a sip, and looked at the canyon, which had gone the color of a bruise. “And how’s your father? Is he still doing the photography thing?”
“He’s a working photographer,” Stella said. “He has clients.”
The words sat there on the patio between the salad bag and the candle Sam had lit when the light went.
Sam took another sip, set the glass down, and turned back to Bea. “Tell me more about this show. June second? Where is it?”
And Bea told her—about the Laguna Art Center, about Mr. Reeves, about the series she couldn’t decide on—and Sam listened and asked questions and poured more wine and the evening went on. Stella ate her berries and watched her grandmother light up for Bea and step back for everything else.
After dinner Sam refused help with cleanup. “You traveled. You just sit. I do this with music on and it’s the best part of my day.” She carried the soup pot and the pan inside and put on something that sounded like Cuban guitar from a speaker on the kitchen counter.
Then she came back out with three bowls and a bag from the freezer.
“I also have ice cream,” Sam said. “And I have—” She went back inside and returned with a jar of hot fudge, a can of whipped cream, and a bag of sprinkles in a container that looked like it had crossed state lines more than once. She seteverything on the patio table. “Dessert. Which is also an apology for dinner.”
“Dinner was fine,” Bea said.
“Dinner was Campbell’s. This is the real course.” Sam scooped ice cream into bowls and pushed the toppings toward them. “Help yourselves. Don’t be polite about it.”
Sam’s bowl ended up with hot fudge and whipped cream in a pile that collapsed sideways. Bea had hot fudge and the last of the sprinkles. Stella had mint chocolate chip, plain, no toppings.
Stella looked at the spread on the table—the ice cream, the toppings, the grandmother she’d never met handing out bowls on a patio—and something clicked.
“So, this is where it comes from,” she said quietly.
“Where what comes from?” Sam asked, licking hot fudge off her thumb.
“Nothing.” Stella took a bite of her ice cream. “Family thing.”
Bea caught Stella’s eye across the table. The look that meant I caught that too. Stella looked away first.
“She’s amazing,” Bea said after Sam had taken the bowls inside.
