Always Florence. Muriel Jensen

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СКАЧАТЬ not getting married, Dad,” she stated quickly, firmly. “I explained it all to you. A couple of times, as I recall. I’m going to Florence in January.”

      “Did I say anything?” He sounded innocent and a little injured.

      “You didn’t have to. I can read it in your voice.”

      “Hmm. New skills acquired through chemotherapy, no doubt. Because in the past, you’ve always heard my voice, but I’ve never noticed that you listened to it.”

      “Ha, ha. Very cute. I’ll be thirty in February. It’s time I did what I was born to do.”

      “We’re born to love and be loved,” he said gently.

      She agreed. “We are, but I love Michelangelo, Tintoretto, Monet, Renoir, Giacometti.... And when I see their work, it’s as though they love me back.”

      She heard her dad draw a breath, and knew he wanted to take issue with that, but he changed the subject instead.

      “I’m coming to see you,” he announced abruptly.

      Oh, God, no. It had been hard enough to pull away from him once—for him and for her. It would be awful to have to do it again.

      “I thought you were going to come and visit when I get to Florence.” Her voice sounded high and a little strained. At least that way she’d have made it to Italy.

      “Well, I want to visit you there, too. But I thought we should spend Thanksgiving together. I know it’d be too hard for you to come here, so I’ll come up there. I got a new van, did I tell you that? Actually, it’s new to me but a couple of years old. I can throw all my stuff in the back, a sleeping bag, and be gone at a moment’s notice.”

      “No, you didn’t tell me. And...wow.” Her attempt at excitement fell a little short.

      “You don’t mind, do you?”

      “Of course not.” She answered quickly, decisively. She couldn’t hurt his feelings. The cat looked up at her, as though sensing her ambivalence. “It’ll be fun. When will you be here?”

      “How about the Monday or Tuesday before Thanksgiving?”

      “Perfect.” She just had to make sure her commission was completed so she could show him around. She could do this.

      “Great.” She could hear the smile in his voice and was glad she’d made him happy. Then he added with a sudden burst of speed, “I’ll stay through Christmas, then we can say goodbye.”

      She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together to prevent anything he wouldn’t want to hear from coming out. Through Christmas? He’d done that deliberately. He’d been a very astute father and he’d always read her like a book. He knew she wanted to be on her own to prepare herself for Florence. Leaving family and friends behind was difficult, but she was desperate to do this, so she’d started with the move to Astoria. And now he was doing his best to foil her plans.

      He didn’t want her to go. He’d been clear about that more than once. He considered her still too delicate to be on her own in a foreign country with what some considered less sophisticated medical options. Or—she had to face this—he was afraid she’d die there and he’d never see her again.

      But she felt sure she had time. She didn’t have forever, but she wanted to spend all the time she did have stretching the artist in her to the furthest reaches of her talent. And she couldn’t do that with her father’s arms around her. Or a husband’s.

      She ramped up the cheer in her voice. “That’ll be fun, Dad. I’ll love showing you around. This is the most beautiful place, everywhere you look.”

      He expelled a breath. Relief, she guessed. “Good. Good, Bobbie. I’ll see you in about a month.”

      “Okay, Dad.”

      “Okay. I love you, baby.”

      “Love you, too, Dad. See you soon.”

      “Bye.”

      She turned off the phone and growled and stamped her foot. Monet jumped down and meowed in protest. Bobbie stroked him with the sole of her shoe. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t let herself do that anymore. It was a waste of energy and she had too much to do.

      She could do this. She could walk into her father’s embrace one more time and be able to let him go at the end of it. She just hoped he could do the same.

      She sipped at her tea and carried the cup to the second bedroom, where she had a drafting table and her paints and inks. She put her cup safely out of the way and leaned over the piece she was working on. A quote from Oliver Wendell Holmes about dying with one’s music unsung was partially complete. It was going well. She wouldn’t say that aloud, of course, because it had a way of jinxing a project, but she could admit to being happy with her progress.

      She had just pulled her stool into position when there was a rhythmic knock on the front door. Sandy. “Come in!” Bobbie shouted.

      Tall and red-haired and just a little plump, Sandy Evans breezed into the room in jeans and a short, pumpkin-colored jacket. Her two little girls, Adalyn—Addie—and Zoey, were with her. Three and four respectively, they were fair-haired like the father, who’d walked away after Addie was born, claiming to be overwhelmed.

      Sandy didn’t know what the word meant. She worked full-time as an office manager, was completely devoted to her daughters and still found time for community involvement. She made Bobbie feel like a slug.

      She dropped a white paper bag on Bobbie’s table, then came around to look over her shoulder at the artwork. She was distracted for an instant when Zoey reached out to touch a jar of paintbrushes. “Hands in your pockets, girls,” she said. “No touching. This is all important stuff to Aunt Bobbie, and we don’t want to break anything.”

      Leaning over Bobbie’s shoulder, she breathed an “Oh!” of approval. “That’s going to be gorgeous!” She pointed a pumpkin-painted fingernail at a pale blue flower petal in the paper. “What is that?”

      “I dried hydrangea, and took one of the petals.” She indicated another spot. “That’s a hawthorn leaf. And that longer yellow petal is from a forsythia I saved from the spring.”

      Sandy gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You are so clever. And that’s what I came to talk to you about.”

      Bobbie opened the white bag. Sandy had brought a berry scone from the Astoria Coffee House downtown, one of Bobbie’s favorite indulgences.

      She looked up at her friend suspiciously. “Thank you, but what do you want from me that requires a bribe?” The girls came closer at the possibility of treats. “Can I give them a bite?”

      “Just a little one.”

      Bobbie broke off two chunks and offered them to the girls, who accepted greedily. Then she tore one off for herself.

      “Astor School needs someone to help with a couple of art classes for the lower grades. The budget for that kind of thing is gone this year. Would you do it?” Sandy waited expectantly.

      “How СКАЧАТЬ