Always Florence

His eyes roved her hair, then slowly and with an interest that pinned her in place, moved over her face, feature by feature. He lingered for the barest moment on her mouth, then went back to her eyes.

“So, the cancer is gone?” he asked.

“Ah...” She had to pull her thoughts away from his close scrutiny. She swore she could feel fingertips everywhere his gaze had touched. “No. But I can live with it for a long time. It doesn’t go away, but it’s not as aggressive as other types.”

“You seem to have adjusted,” he said. “Or maybe the better word is accepted. How did you reach that point?”

She didn’t have to think. It was the decision to move to Florence that had finally put her on her feet. “You’re right. It is what it is. Nothing says it quite so well. I couldn’t change it, and I was tired of pouting and being scared, so I started to make plans.”

She began to walk across the yard. She was surprised when he kept pace with her.

“What kind of plans?”

“I’m moving to Italy after the holidays to pursue an art career.”

“I thought you had an art career.”

“What I do now is commercial. I want to go where the masters worked, to study their genius and try to learn and absorb. I want to see if there’s fine art in me. You know, art that changes the world.”

“That’s a big dream.”

“Well, when you flirt with death, you tend to think big. I mean—I think I have time, but I don’t have forever. So, if I’m going to get to it, it’s now or never.”

He took her hand as they reached the row of chrysanthemums that bordered his side of their adjoining driveways. She talked to cover a little nervousness. His grip was strong, the skin on his hands smooth. “And I feel really good. My father is a doctor and moved in with me during my treatments. He cooked all the right things for me, and when I came here, made up a diet that I try to follow. If he hears I’m eating badly he’ll come and take over my kitchen again.”

“Ah. The hovering parent.” Nate freed her hand and they walked side by side around his car, then her truck. “I know something about that. My mother died of cancer when Ben and I were in high school, but my friend’s mother is my housekeeper and she’s a dragon where the boys’ and my health are concerned. When she thought I wasn’t getting enough sleep, she bought me bed pillows made of Hungarian goose down mingled with herbs that are supposed to help with stress relief.”

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Bobbie said gravely. Then she smiled. “Buying you goose down pillows is just caring and concern. My father cooked every meal for me with fresh organic produce and grains, and hid all my chocolate.”

Nate questioned her with a look. “Isn’t that just love and concern?”

“I guess it is,” she conceded, stopping to study her dormant rhododendron. “He taught me to fend for myself, and now wishes he hadn’t. And separating me from my chocolate is a suicidal move.” She plucked at a dead flower in the middle of the bush.

“Stella—that’s my housekeeper—says it’s as important to accept help as it is to give it. Maybe you should give your dad a break. He sounds like a great father. And I’m just learning how hard it is to be a good parent.”

“He’s wonderful. But healing the body is simpler than healing the soul and the emotions.” She frowned sympathetically. “And you’re in pain, too. If you don’t feel like the perfect stand-in father, I think you should give yourself a break.”

She reached farther in for another dead flower. “My dad’s coming for Thanksgiving. He called me today to make sure I was getting out and meeting people and not spending every waking moment in my studio. I guess you have to be an artist to understand another artist.”

“Have you met people?”

“I’ve been here just a month. And I’m working on the commission, so there hasn’t been a lot of free time. But the friend who got me the commission just talked me into teaching art classes at the school once a week.” She laughed softly. “At least I’ll be able to tell Dad I know a lot of children.”

“Astor School?” he asked. When she nodded, he said, “The boys go to Astor. What grades?”

“It sounds like they’ll be combining a few of the lower grades for my class.”

“Sheamus is in second grade. Dylan, though, is a fifth grader, so he probably won’t have access to the class. And he’s the one who shows definite artistic abilities. He’s really smart all around. He’s crazy about the MythBusters. Do you ever watch that?”

“No. Not much time for TV. Except Dancing with the Stars.”

Her neighbor closed his eyes. “Saints preserve me. Anyway, when I was just his uncle, we used to watch it together, and I used to think his love of exploring and experimenting was fun. The two hosts take accepted myths and action scenes from movies to see whether they could really happen. Even the president and his daughters watch it, and asked the show to prove an old myth about Archimedes’s death ray.”

“Archimedes...” Bobbie repeated the name, trying desperately to remember who he was.

“Among other things, he was a physicist and an astronomer. He’s supposed to have set fire to an invading Roman fleet by positioning his army to direct mirrors that reflected the rays of the sun. The hosts of the show used five hundred students with mirrors, but it didn’t work. Anyway—now that it’s my job to keep Dylan from killing himself, I don’t enjoy the show as much anymore.”

“You mentioned the power saw this morning. What was he doing when that happened?”

“Trying to build a bike ramp. We got off lucky. I hate to think what he could have done to himself with the saw or the ramp if he’d finished it. I locked up my power tools and asked Stella to be extra vigilant. Meanwhile, I’ve got to get him busy with something.”

“I have a thought.” Suddenly inspired with a positive solution for Dylan, Bobbie withdrew her hand from the bush and started off toward the house.

At the sight of a large spider on the back of her hand, she stopped in her tracks and shook her arm frantically. The spider held on. She screamed.

Nate caught her wrist in one hand and swatted the spider away with the other. “You confront a major disease with heroic resolve and freak out over a spider?” He almost smiled, but not quite. “It is Halloween, after all. They’re supposed to be here.”

She did a sort of all-body shudder and brushed both arms. “Okay,” she allowed. “But not on me.”

“I guess Nature doesn’t know that.” The remark was teasing, but he still didn’t smile. “You said you had a thought,” he prompted.

“Right.” She gave up trying to figure him out and ran lightly up the back porch steps. “If Dylan’s interested in art, I can give you a sketchbook and some pencils.”

Nate hesitated, then nodded. “Sure. If you can spare them.”

“Come with me.” She pushed open the back door. “I’ve got pastels I never use, too. But that can get messy.”

He followed her inside. “I don’t care about the mess, if he’ll be occupied with something that carries low injury potential.”

“Great. Wait here for a minute. I’ll find some things for him.”

* * *

NATE WALKED INTO her small living room while she disappeared into the back of the house. He was curiously uncomfortable in her presence, though he wasn’t sure why. Possibly because there was such brightness about her and it seemed intrusive in his dark, angry world. But if she had something that would interest Dylan, Nate would be happy to have it.

The walls in her living room were a go-with-everything off-white that would have seemed dull but for the berry-colored sofa and chair, the coffee table painted with stylized flowers and vines trailing down the legs, and all the unrelated but individually striking paintings on the walls. There was a seascape, a still life, a wild pattern of some sort, a languorous nude in the grass and a large canvas covered with what looked like a conveyor belt with rabbits on wheels careening off it. A bright sun shone, smiling birds flew around the rabbits and in the background ducks on a pond bathed happily. He stepped forward for a closer look.

The painting defied explanation. He’d always thought he preferred representational art—a pot of flowers, a portrait, a familiar scene—but this brought a smile and seemed to inspire in him a sense of good cheer. It was ridiculous, but somehow enjoyable. The signature on the bottom right read “RLM.”

He heard light laughter behind him. “That’s called Hare Raising.” It was Bobbie’s voice.

He continued to study the canvas. “Really. It’s wild. I’m surprised that I like it, but I do. Who’s RLM?”

“I am.”

He turned to her in surprise. She had an armload of books, papers and boxes, and a canvas tote she was trying to put it all in. He took the bag from her and held it open. “So, Bobbie is for, what? Roberta rather than Barbara?”

“Right.” She dropped everything inside, then took the bag from him and gave it an adjusting shake. She handed it back. “Roberta Louise Molloy. That was my one foray into surrealism.”