Claire’s eyes bore into me, but I keep mine locked on the paper. I remain mostly silent while she walks through each step of drawing a bee. She’s so patient when my daughter aggressively scribbles across the paper after she messes up the wings and they’re forced to start from scratch.
In the end, both Claire and Bea have drawn their versions of a daisy and a bumblebee.
“Now we paint them.” My daughter reaches for a paintbrush.
“No, Dolly. I think that’s enough for today. I’m sure Claire would like to rest,” I say.
“Nonsense,” Claire interjects. “We came to paint, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
I shoot her anAre you sure?look, and in return, she dips the bristles of her brush into the water.
Next, she instructs Bea to go easy on the water so she doesn’t saturate her paper and cause the colors to bleed together.
“When they dry,” Claire says, “I’ll help you trace over the lines in marker.”
“Thank you,” I mouth over my daughter’s head.
As they paint side by side, Claire whispering words of encouragement and tiny reminders, my chest tightens. In addition to a doctor, she’d make an excellent art instructor. She’s very talented. Even though she drew a simple flower and an insect, that single piece of paper looks like it should be framed and hung in an art museum. Her steady hand and attention to detail are remarkable.
Eventually, Bea declares that she’s finished, sitting up straight and yawning. “Can we put them on the fridge?”
“Of course,” I tell her. “Why don’t we go home now and hang them up to dry?”
She doesn’t fight me when I say it’s time to leave; with any luck that means she’s tired enough to take a nap.
“Don’t forget to sign your name,” Claire interjects. “An artist always signs their work.”
I observe as Claire quickly scribbles her signature, and my daughter slowly writes out the letters b-e-a in lowercase. I read a parenting book once that said to teach children lowercase first because it’s used most often. My goal is to help her learn how to write all her letters—both upper and lowercase—this summer.
Bea falls asleep in the golf cart and thankfully doesn’t wakeup when I carry her to bed. Now that she’s five, naps are hit or miss. It will be interesting to see how that goes when she attends kindergarten this fall.
After closing her door, I join Claire in the kitchen.
“Oh, you weren’t kidding when you said you were happy to leave the mess for me.” I chuckle, finding the table exactly as I left it this morning.
“A man told me to leave the cleaning to him. You think I’m going to pass up an offer like that?” She smirks, securing Bea’s artwork to the refrigerator with a letterBmagnet, the piece of paper covering up Claire’s work.
I slip around her and slide her drawing out from behind Bea’s, then tack it to the fridge with the letterCmagnet. “Yours deserves a spot too.”
She dips her chin, but I don’t miss the sheepish smile.
We clear the table and wash the dishes together in comfortable silence, though the comfortable part fades when I remember the text situation still looming over us.
“About this morning,” I begin, dropping the towel onto the now clean counter.
She closes the dishwasher and rotates to face me. “Are you talking about the text or the ‘hottest fucking kiss’?” She tosses up air quotes at that last bit.
“Both?” My cheeks heat. It’s pure luck that I didn’t have time to shave this morning, or else she’d notice. “Can we sit?” Without waiting for her to reply, I wander to the couch.
Dressed comfortably in khaki-colored linen pants and a white tank top, Claire settles next to me. Her hair is pulled up in a knot on the top of her head, but she pulls the elastic out and finger-combs the wavy strands that fall onto her shoulders.
I clear my throat and force myself to make eye contact. “Your brother and Ezra were never meant to see that text.”
Her eyes sparkle with curiosity. Or maybe mischief. “Who was?”
With a sigh, I admit, “My grief support group.”
She raises a brow, silently urging me on.
