“Scared of what?” He picked up her hand, kissed the back of it, turned it over and kissed the palm.
“I don’t know. Of doing the wrong thing. Of trying and failing. I got fired from my last job, you know. Rationally, I know it wasn’t my fault. But emotionally? It makes you doubt yourself. Your work. Your worth.”
“That’s ridiculous. I’ve seen your drawings. Those dog portraits? The illustrations for Austin’s story? You’re a natural talent.”
Kerry shook her head. “Thanks, but you don’t know what the art world is like. It’s totally subjective, and there are a million people outthere trying to do what I dream of doing. People with more talent, more smarts, more connections.”
She looked away, but then when she turned back to him, her eyes glittered with unshed tears. “But mostly, I’m afraid of failing you, and Austin. I know what it’s like to have your family fall apart. I don’t want that to happen to him, again.”
Patrick guffawed. “You couldn’t fail us, even if you tried. I don’t know what went on in your parents’ marriage, but I do know that we are different. Look. I’m not perfect, but I’d never walk away from you. Even when it was obvious that Gretchen wanted out of our marriage, I tried to make it work. For Austin. We did couples counseling, I went to therapy solo… finally, one night, when I was putting him to bed, he looked up at me and sighed and said, ‘Daddy, I don’t think you and Mommy should be married anymore.’ Talk about ripping your heart out.”
“Oh God,” Kerry whispered.
“Turns out, even a five-year-old could see what I couldn’t,” Patrick said with a shrug.
chapter 49
After she’d sent Patrick away without the answer he wanted but she couldn’t give, Kerry felt at loose ends. She leafed idly through some thirty-year-old magazines, thought about reading one of the dense-looking novels on Heinz’s bookshelves, and finally went to the kitchen and fixed herself a cup of tea from the small stash of groceries Patrick had brought.
She was startled by the doorbell ringing. When she opened it, her brother was standing in the hallway.
He thrust a large white paper sack into her hands. “From Mrs. Lee, at the Red Dragon. Somehow, everybody in the neighborhood heard Heinz is sick, and they’re all worried about the old dude. According to the granddaughter, Mrs. Lee says her soup is Chinese penicillin, and you should make sure he drinks every drop. She put some dumplings and potstickers in there for you, too.”
“Thanks,” Kerry said, holding the door open wider. “Wanna come in? Heinz is sleeping.”
Murphy stuck his head inside the door. “Wow. Cool place. Lotta art, huh?”
“Most of it was done by Heinz,” Kerry told him. “Come on in. He won’t care.”
“Nah. I better go. Still gotta finish breaking down the rest of the stand, then I’m having Dad’s truck towed to a storage facility until you can drive it back home.”
“Was it sad, watching Spammy get hauled away to the junkyard?”
“Sad? It’s a fifty-two-year-old trailer, Kere, not your grandma. With all the trees we sold this year, Dad can afford to buy a new trailer. One with working taillights and plumbing. Mom was pretty pissed at me, but she’ll get over it.”
Kerry nodded. Her brother and father were definitely cut from the same cloth—only sentimental about their dogs and guns. In that order. “Where’s Queenie?”
“Vic’s watching her for now, then I gotta figure out something else until we head home. Claudia’s cat is not a fan.”
“Bring her up here to me,” Kerry said impulsively.
“Really?”
“I don’t think Heinz will mind. I get the impression he likes dogs better than people.”
“Sweet. I’ll bring Queenie tonight when I drop off your clothes.” He hesitated, then leaned in and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks, sis.”
She cracked the door of Heinz’s bedroom and studied the patient. He was snoring softly. His color had improved, and he wasn’t coughing.
Finally, she gave in to the urge she’d been fighting since she’d arrived in the apartment. She took her mug of tea and went into the studio.
Surveying all the colorful art materials, she felt like a kid in a candystore. She found a new oversized sketch pad on a table near the window, opened it, and placed it on the easel. The tubes of oil and acrylic paints were long since dried out, but she reached into a Folger’s coffee can and pulled out some colored pencils.
Humming, she started doodling. Thumbnail sketches of the dogs she’d met in the neighborhood, then sketches of their owners.
She flipped the page and began drawing the Tolliver Family Christmas tree stand, with Spammy in the foreground. She imbued the battered and rusty vintage camper with a charm and personality it didn’t actually possess in real life, round porthole windows that resembled eyes, a trailer hitch that could be interpreted as a button nose, and an oversized bumper that looked like a slightly upturned smile. Maybe Murphy wasn’t sentimental about the old girl, but Kerry discovered that she was already recalling fond memories of the weeks she and her family had spent in the little canned-ham camper of her childhood.
As she colored in the details, adding rows of Fraser firs crisscrossed with colored lights, wreaths hanging on hooks, and customers (and their dogs) browsing for trees, she began thinking of a story of her own.
