Page 15 of Memories of the Lost

“Sorry.” She straightened. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. I’m having trouble with my mom’s death. It broke my heart.”

“I know it did. Have you called your therapist yet?”

She shuddered. “I’m fine. Not everybody needs therapy at every turn.”

“Mm. Not everyone, but you do, girl.”

“Maybe.” She looked toward the window made of tiny squares. “Hey, speaking of your show, do you know who painted the things along the back wall at the gallery?”

“Which ones?”

“They were sort of raw landscapes. Bright colors.”

“No idea. Do you want me to find out?”

“That’s all right. I’m going down there later. I’ll ask myself—and crow over you!”

“Thank you, thank you. Want to go celebrate later?”

“Um. I have to pass. Liam is ... maybe ... coming back?”

“Oh, amaybefrom him butfor surefrom me, and you choose him?” he said with mock affront.

“When you put it like that, it sounds pretty bad, but I want to thank him for taking care of me. He’s only here until the end of the week, and then I’ll be all yours again.”

“Okay, but don’t forget I’m leaving this weekend for Crete.”

“That’s right!” She dabbed her brush in a mix of phthalo green mixed with Hansa yellow, and leaned in to dot it lightly over the edge of a leaf. “I’m glad you’re going.”

“I still can’t convince you to come with?”

They’d traveled a lot together. “You know I can’t.”

He sighed with exaggeration, but she knew he wasn’t really upset. “I’m not giving up.”

“How about this: Want to drive with me upstate to my mom’s place tomorrow? I’m meeting a Realtor about what needs to be done to sell it.”

“Knock it down,” he said dryly. “I can’t do tomorrow, but if you put it off a couple of days, I can make it work.”

“Ugh. No. I have an appointment already.”

“Well, call me if you need an ear.”

“Will do.”

Her coffee had gone cold, and she thought about running downstairs for a latte from the place around the corner, but first, another hour on the painting. She shook out her shoulders and rounded the studio, looking at the others in the series.

She’d sketched out a series of thirteen, a baker’s dozen, a proper fairy-tale number. Four were mostly finished, five more were in various states of almost there, two were sketched and painted a bit, and four more still needed to be done. They portrayed a magical world of humans who looked like animals, or animals with the faces of humans, set in a forest where trees came to life. Wolves prowled the shadows. Mirrors reflected things that were not there.

Despite the fairy-tale spirit, they were not for children. Some of the themes were recognizable from children’s literature—foxes and tortoises and clever talking birds—but there was a sharp undertone, a sexuality in the shapes and themes that would not do for children, a threatening evil that had once graced fairy tales but had been washed into the palest of grays by the misguided modern attempt to protect children from anything upsetting.

From her earliest memory, Tillie had drawn or painted some version of this kind of scene, likely taken from her mother’s folk tales.

It had not made it easy for her to break into the fine-art world. She’d met a lot of resistance, and often despaired that she would be able to paint what she liked. In grad school, she’d caught the eye of a mentor who saw what she was trying to do, and helped her forge the connections where her work and fine art intersected.

Crossing her arms, she narrowed her eyes at a painting of a seagoing being, part owl and fish and mermaid, with streaming white hair, round yellow eyes, and the cheekbones of a girl Tillie had seen on West Twenty-Sixth Street. The creature looked at herself in a mirror, combing her hair. In the mirror, her reflection was a woman with wavy hair and abundant breasts.

A glimmer of the gazelle girl from last night tickled her brain. She sat at a table with a sketchbook to capture the image from memory. Only when she finished did she refer back to the photo she’d shot the night before.