Always Florence. Muriel Jensen

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      “But I’m here only until January.”

      “Holidays are when the kids get restless, and art gives them something fun to focus on. What do you think?”

      “Sure. I guess.” She wanted to help, but wasn’t certain she was qualified. “I don’t know a lot about teaching children. I suppose I can find projects on the internet.”

      Sandy opened the big tote she carried as a purse. A sock monkey wearing a tutu and ballet shoes tumbled out as she withdrew a large paperback. She held it up. The title was Holiday Art Projects for Elementary Grades. She handed it to Bobbie, while Zoey rushed to rescue her ballerina monkey.

      “Thank you.” Bobbie flipped through the book. The projects were simple and she’d seen them before, but that was probably good for children. Maybe she could handle this.

      “So, you’ll do it?”

      “What’s the schedule?”

      “Once a week, Friday mornings, ten to eleven-thirty—until the kids get out for Christmas break.”

      “I’m still working on the pieces for your office, remember.”

      A wave of Sandy’s hand dismissed that as a problem. “I know you to be brilliant. You’ll get it all done. And what’s an hour and a half a week?”

      Bobbie hadn’t intended to get this involved in her temporary residence, but she remembered how exciting her art periods had been in grade school. She liked the thought of providing that sense of fun and discovery to kids. And her father would love knowing she was spending time away from her studio.

      “Okay, I’ll do it. Should I call the teacher?”

      “I put her name, number and email on the bookmark.” Sandy indicated where it protruded from the book. “She’ll be thrilled. Great! Okay, girls.” Bobbie’s friend shepherded her daughters toward the door. “Can we come by and trick-or-treat?”

      She got up to walk them out. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. In fact, I made you something to put on your front porch.”

      The three followed her into the kitchen, where she retrieved a medium-size pumpkin sporting a cat face. She’d cut off the top and cleaned out the seeds, then carved part of the eyes and nose. With a special tool, she’d removed only the orange skin and thinned out the pumpkin flesh in a few places, defining the cat’s features so that a candle would shine through. The cat had a whimsical expression, wide eyes, whiskers, and a tongue protruding from his scalloped mouth. She’d placed a flameless candle inside and turned it on to demonstrate.

      The girls giggled and squealed. Bobbie felt as fulfilled as if she’d sold a 24” x 36” oil on canvas.

      She pointed to two smaller pumpkins she’d made with less interesting faces, but that she’d drilled to hold a wire loop. She held one up in each hand. “Or do you like these better? You can hang them in the tree in the front yard.”

      The girls both voted on the cat pumpkin.

      “Okay. I’ll carry it out to the car for you.”

      Sandy strapped the girls into their car seats, but there was great protest when she tried to put the pumpkin in the trunk.

      “If I set it on the seat between you,” Sandy explained, “it might fall over when we go down the hill.”

      Logic didn’t sway them. Bobbie ran into the open garage, found a box the right size and placed the pumpkin in it, then set the box between the girls. Each rested a hand on the pumpkin, delighted.

      “There!” Bobbie exclaimed, hugging Sandy. “Peace reestablished.”

      “You’re really very good at this, Bobbie. You sure you want to devote your life to art rather than children?”

      There was no question. “I’m sure. Now, get out of here so I can get back to work.”

      “Incidentally...” Sandy opened the driver’s door, then stopped. “What do you hear from Laura?”

      Laura Kirby had been having chemotherapy at the same time that Bobbie had her first infusion. Sandy managed time away from work and her mother was able to babysit so that she could provide moral support. Bobbie and Laura had become fast friends, bonding over their mutual need to accomplish pressing goals. Laura’s was to have a baby—something she and her husband, a law student, had put off until his graduation. Fortunately for Laura, she’d been given none of the drugs that played havoc with a woman’s fertility.

      Laura and Bobbie had lunch occasionally, and since Bobbie had moved to Astoria, kept in touch through email. Sandy had seen Laura just that one time, but had liked her and was happy that she and Bobbie had forged such a strong friendship.

      “Is she pregnant yet?”

      “Latest report, not yet,” Bobbie replied. “But they’re having fun trying.”

      “Great! Next time you email, tell her I said hi.”

      “I will.

      Bobbie waved off Sandy and her girls and went back inside. Monet wandered out from behind the sofa—his usual hiding place when children visited—and followed her into the kitchen to a favorite spot on a sunny windowsill.

      Before going back to work, Bobbie went out to the garage to get the hat and jacket she’d left there. They’d been soaked with tea and should be thrown into the laundry.

      She stopped in surprise at the sight of three pristine shelves leaning up against the inside wall. She slipped one onto a surviving bracket and found it a perfect fit.

      Feeling guilty that the boys had probably gotten into trouble for the morning’s escapade, she picked up the two small pumpkins Addie and Zoey had rejected in favor of the cat-faced one, and headed next door.

      The Raleighs had left earlier, but she’d noticed the car was back. She walked around to the front. The tall mountain ash on the deep lawn was covered in red berries. Birds chirped and fluttered, so that the tree seemed alive. Bobbie stopped to take in the pleasure of the moment. There was such richness in nature for her now. She’d always been aware of it, but since she’d been ill, she felt more a part of it—as though everything in the universe was connected, herself included.

      She stepped over a toy truck and climbed the steps to the wide front porch of the yellow house. A seasonal figure made of straw and wearing overalls and a baseball hat sat on a wooden bench. Two pumpkins, obviously carved by children, sat beside him.

      She knocked on the front door with its classic Craftsman leaded window, and heard Arnold’s deep bark, followed by the sound of running feet.

      The door was yanked open and she was greeted by...well, she wasn’t sure who. She’d apparently walked into a comic book.

      “Hi, Spidey!” she said, recognizing the blue-and-red costume worn by the smaller boy. But she wasn’t sure which character the red-gold-and-black costume represented. “Who’s your friend?”

      “I’m Iron Man,” Dylan replied, striking a pose.

      “Ah. СКАЧАТЬ