Across the pink swirly tapestry rug, he bucked and played a stallion until he approached her table. When he stepped over her collection of wooden toy ponies and saddles, he dropped to his knees, then lowered Hope. “Show me what you have created.”
“Look, Pa-Papa.”
Centered on the small ivory table was a piece of paper, glossy and wet.
He took out his spectacles again. “A seascape? But it’s mostly pink?”
“It’s better. Pink is better. See, Pa-Papa.”
Her little eyes, brown glassy gems quivered.
“Oh, yes, I see that now. Striations of rose and blues and jade, jade green and pink. Yes, it is lovely.”
“Yeah, Pa-Papa.”
Pushing aside her two carved horses with rockers under their feet and shaggy string for tails, he squatted on the carpet. Hope sat on his thigh as he carefully picked up the art.
“See, like yours but more colors. The good ones.”
“You are an incredible artist.” He set the paper back on the table catching a drip of pink into his hand. “So talented. My little girl the painter. We will let this dry, and I will have it framed and hung. Next to mine.”
“No. Next to Mama. Then, she can see it.”
“You mean the sketch I have in my bedchamber?”
“Yes.”
Guilt churned. “Next to the sketch of your mother? You remember her?”
“Next to Mama’s picture. You said that was Mama.”
He kissed her brow. “Yes, it will go in my bedchamber.”
“And it will keep Mama company when you work or when you read to me.”
Speechless and guilty. He looked for something to wipe the paint from his fingers.
Hope must have taken his palm as an invitation. She poked her pinkie into the paint. Then painted lines on each side of his mouth.
“Am I your next work of art?”
“Now, you always smile.”
Paint stains, inky fingers, he didn’t care, he pulled Hope into a tight embrace. “I’m happy because you’re happy. I’m always happy when I’m with you.”
“What about when you work? I’m not there.”
“Work makes me happy.”
“Mrs. Gallick says you used to ride real horses.”
“She did, did she?” He sighed. Paint smears were on her pink pinafore and on his formerly white shirt. “There will be time for all of that . . . when you are older. But maybe we should try a nanny again.”
“Don’t like nanny.”
“Not the last one, Hope. A good one, who will be your friend.”
“Smile more? I like Pa-Papa smiling.” Her little arms ensconcing his neck felt wonderful.
