Always Florence

And he was looking at her hair. It had grown back to at least cover her scalp in a cap of tight curls, and her eyebrows were back. She looked better than she had a couple months ago, but the glossy, shoulder-length hair in her art school graduation photo was a thing of the past. Worse, she knew her face showed the wear and tear of chemotherapy and radiation.

She hated that she cared. Cancer survival, and life in general, were all about what you had inside, not what adorned you outside. But she’d never get over her love of clothes and makeup and all things girlie. Though she was an artist and wore grubbies when she worked, she loved to dress up. In the past, that had earned her admiring looks, but these days it was easy for others to see what she was dealing with. Most men took an unconscious step back. Cancer was scary stuff. No one wanted to be near it if they could help it.

This man, though, stood his ground. It was entirely possible he hadn’t figured it out yet. Sandy had told her she had a handsome, single neighbor and Bobbie had told her she didn’t want to hear anymore. Sandy had tried to add interesting details but Bobbie had refused to listen. He called the dog to him, told him “sit!” and patted his head.

“I’m sorry. Arnie is very big and can’t help making a mess. But he wouldn’t hurt a flea.” Her neighbor turned slightly to catch the arm of the boy he’d placed protectively behind him and pulled him forward. “This is Dylan. He’s fascinated by everything. I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm.” He gave the boy a firm look. “But it isn’t polite to spy on people. Please apologize.”

Dylan folded his arms. “She was chanting while she was stirring,” he said. “People who aren’t witches don’t usually do that, do they?”

Chanting. Bobbie had to think about that a minute. Then she realized what he must have heard, and had to laugh. “Okay, I don’t have a great voice. But I was singing to ABBA.”

“Who?”

“ABBA,” the man repeated for her. “Remember when Stella made us watch Mamma Mia for her birthday? The movie about the wedding in Greece and all the singing?” When the boy winced and nodded, he explained, “That was music by a group called ABBA. They’re from Sweden.”

“Weird name.”

“Yeah. There are four members and I think it’s their first initials. About the apology...”

Dylan complied. “I’m sorry.” Then he added to Bobbie, as though it was important, “I’m not his son. I’m his nephew.”

“Oh.” She’d been watching them come and go for the past month and assumed they were father and sons. She hadn’t noticed a woman, except for the older housekeeper. “I just assumed...”

The man extended his hand. “I’m Nate Raleigh,” he said.

“Bobbie Molloy,” she replied.

Seeing the handshake, the younger boy apparently felt it was safe to come closer. He hid behind his uncle’s arm and pointed to the garage. “What’s in there?”

“This is Sheamus,” Nate said. “I’m sure he wants to apologize, too.”

She smiled at the boy and made a conscious effort to be understanding. “Hi, Sheamus. That’s my studio. I’m an artist.”

“You paint pictures?” Dylan asked.

“Sometimes. Other times I use clay and sculpt things. Right now I’m making paper.” She pointed ruefully at the mess behind her. “I’d show you, but I think I’m going to have to start over.”

Sheamus looked confused. “You’re supposed to buy paper in the store.”

He had a pinched little face and the most beautiful light blue eyes. His brother was darker featured, like his uncle. And there was nothing pinched about him. He gave an impression of energy and attitude.

She gestured to the boys to follow her to the pot, where she pulled out pieces of shelving that had fallen into her soaking pulp. They dripped with the mucky grayish mixture, and she put them aside on newspaper she’d spread earlier to protect the garage floor.

She took the old oar she used for stirring and swept it through the contents. “This is paper pulp, and I stir it and sort of beat it with this to break it down. It’s made of linter and...” She saw that she was losing them and backed up. “It’s stuff we get from a cotton plant, and when I mix it with water and do a few things to it, it makes beautiful paper. That’s how they used to make it in the old days. When it’s ready, I dry it on a rack.” She moved over to show them a sheet that was already drying. Fortunately, the flying debris had missed it and the precious, specially made frame it was drying on.

“But this isn’t the old days,” Dylan said. “Why do you do it this way?”

“Because I have a commission,” she replied, her spirits buoyed a little as she talked about it. “I make this special paper and paint a saying on it, then put it in a frame.”

Sheamus looked up at his uncle. “What’s a commission?”

“When somebody hires an artist to make a special picture, that’s called a commission. And when the work is done, the artist is paid.”

Dylan asked, “Artists don’t always get paid?”

“Sometimes artists make things they think people will like and put them in a gallery—that’s a place where they sell artwork. The artist only gets paid if somebody buys it. And then he or she shares the money with the gallery.”

“Who hired you?” Dylan asked Bobbie.

“A law office in Astoria. A friend of mine from college works there. She showed them something I made for her birthday, and they hired me to do four pieces for their conference room.”

Dylan looked around at the mess. “So, you won’t get paid until this is finished?”

“Right.” She appreciated the distress on his face and felt herself begin to relax a little. “But I know this was an accident. I have one big piece in the house that’s already dry, and I’ve got one piece drying here that seems okay. I’ll do the calligraphy on those while I’m getting more pulp ready. It’ll work out all right.”

“Calligraphy?”

“It’s like painting words, only you do it with a pen with special tips instead of a brush.”

“Well, we’re going to help you clean this up.” Nate pushed up the sleeves of his plain gray sweatshirt. “Come on, guys.” He pointed the dog to a spot on the lawn. “Stay, Arnold.” He turned to Bobbie, all business. “Where’s your garbage can?”

“You don’t have to clean up. I...”

He wasn’t listening. He went to the side of the garage, then peered inside and saw the can at the back. He stepped carefully over the rubble and carried the can out to the grass. “You separate what has to go from what can be fixed. We can replace that shelving for you.”

She got down on her knees and began to sort through the broken earthenware pots and saucers, the rusty tools, the old army blankets she used for her paper press. “Thanks, but I can put up new shelves. Most artists worth the name are carpenters, too. Otherwise we spend a fortune on stretchers and frames.”

“But you didn’t break it, so you shouldn’t have to fix it. And Dylan’s pretty good.”

As his uncle began tossing into the can the things she put aside, Dylan looked surprised, then pleased by the compliment. But his pleasure showed for only a moment. He bent over the broken shelf. “We have boards left from a bookshelf we made for Uncle Nate’s room.” He turned to him. “Can we use those?”

“Go ahead,” Nate said. He looked Dylan in the eye. “Nothing fancy, okay? No power tools. Those boards should be just the right size, but measure them against the old one. If anything needs cutting, call me.”

Dylan picked up two pieces of a broken shelf and headed off to the basement entrance at the side of their house.

Bobbie wondered if trusting the boy to do as he was told might be a stretch after what she’d experienced, but she was sure his uncle knew the risk. He watched Dylan head off, mild concern pleating the spot between his eyebrows.

“You can go with him,” she suggested as she dropped a rag into the can. “Sheamus and I can take care of this.”

Nate shook his head. “No. Dylan would hate that. I put the power saw away after he cut my workbench in two on his last unapproved project, so he’ll be okay.” He turned his attention to Sheamus and nudged him with his elbow. “I’m not finding any kid feet, are you?”

Bobbie reached for the broom and turned, certain she’d misheard them. “What? Kid feet?”

Sheamus looked into the pot of now brown, mucky pulp, then smiled up at her. “Dylan told me you were a witch and that you were making a... I forgot the word. It’s the stuff that a witch has in her big pot and it makes explosions and lightning and loud noises.”

“A potion?” Bobbie guessed.

“Yeah. And he said you put bats and bugs and parts of little kids in it.”