Rosie laughed. “You know that can’t be true. Or he’d be controlling all of us, and everything we think and do.”
“He is a crazy man, isn’t he?” Ana asked, laughing with Rosie.
Izzy just continued to stitch a gown for the baby. But she wasn’t as certain as her sisters that her theories were wrong.
*****
THE CANVAS STRETCHEDacross the wooden frame, as blank and barren as Albert’s future seemed to him. Izzy watched her husband from the doorway of their parlor, now repurposed into an impromptu studio with a makeshift easel standing at the center.
“Albert,” she began, her voice steady but soft, carrying the weight of her concern. “You’ve let your talents go dormant, buried under ledgers and deeds that strangle your soul.”
He did not turn to face her, his gaze fixed on the emptiness before him. A sigh shuddered through his frame, betraying the turmoil within.
“Businesses...they are just things,” she continued, stepping forward. “But painting, it’s who you are. It’s your breath, your blood. Your mother made a point of asking me to encourage your art while she was here. She hates that you gave it up to please your father.”
His chuckle was a hollow sound, more bitter than amused. “What is a legacy to a man who feels he has lost his grip on the world?”
“Your art could be your rebellion—your declaration of freedom,” Izzy insisted, closing the space between them. Her hand reached out, fingers brushing the coarse fabric of the unused canvas. “Create something beautiful, something from inside you. Don’t worry if anyone will ever see it or love it. It’s for you, not for them!”
Albert turned slowly, his eyes meeting hers. He thought back to the time when the sun coming up had been something he’d wanted to paint. Now it was simply something that told him it was time to get out of bed and start his day. He needed to get back to the man who wanted to paint.
“Perhaps,” he murmured. He was glad she was encouraging him and not upset that he was changing his entire life.
Time passed—the days stretching into weeks—and the parlor began to fill with the scent of oil paints and turpentine. Albert’s hands, once idle except for the signing away of his empire, moved with purpose across the canvas. Strokes of color bled life into the fibers, each hue a testament to a passion rekindled.
Izzy found herself watching less and participating more, handing him brushes, and mixing colors. Each day, Albert spent more time before his easel, the businessman fading as the artist took form.
As the paintings multiplied, leaning against the walls of the parlor-turned-studio so did a sense of peace that neither had known before. In the quiet moments, they found they genuinely liked each other and the people they were becoming.
“Thank you,” he said one evening.
“For what?” Izzy asked, although she knew.
“For seeing me,” Albert replied.
Every day as they grew closer, Izzy thought about telling him of the child she carried, but she still didn’t know how he felt about her, and she needed to know that he cared for Izzy and not just the mother of his unborn child.
*****
IZZY HESITATED AT THEthreshold of the parlor, her fingers lightly brushing against the frame of a painting that caught the soft, morning light. It depicted a lone tree atop a knoll against the tempestuous sky above it. For some reason it spoke to Izzy in a way that few other paintings did.
“Albert,” she began, her voice carrying a quiet strength that belied the unease churning within her, “might I give this one to Rosie?”
He paused his back to her, a silent figure amidst the chaos of paints and paint-smeared rags. Finally, he turned, his eyes tracing the lines of the painting as if seeing it for the first time. “Yes,” he consented.
“Thank you.” Izzy’s gratitude was genuine but heavy with the weight of unspoken fears for her sister.
Later, as Izzy held the wrapped canvas in her arms, she found Rosie sitting alone on the porch of the house she shared with Charles. The boards creaked underfoot, announcing Izzy’s presence before words could.
“Rosie,” Izzy said softly, extending the package toward her sister.
Rosie looked up, her smile a practiced curve that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She accepted the gift, fingers trembling as they tore through the paper to reveal the image beneath. For a moment, there was only stillness, the kind that comes before the storm.
Then, as if the dam of her composure had been breached by the sight of the solitary tree standing strong against the darkening heavens, Rosie’s smile faltered, gave way to tears that streaked down her cheeks like rain on window glass.
“Isabelle...” Her voice cracked, and she clutched the painting to her chest as though it were a lifeline. “It’s...it’s like he saw right into my soul.”
Izzy reached out, her hand resting on Rosie’s shoulder with a gentle firmness. “You’re not alone in this, Rosie,” she murmured.
