Always Florence. Muriel Jensen
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.”
Bobbie was aghast. She hadn’t spent that much time with children, except for the few she’d met when she had her treatments, and they were, sadly, very adult. She was startled by what went on in the minds of little boys.
“I promise I’m not a witch,” she told Sheamus seriously. “That was probably pretty scary for you to think that.”
He shrugged a small shoulder. “Dylan said you wouldn’t take me, because only brave kids would work.”
She saw his uncle straighten up from the trash can and frown. “You ran to get help when you thought your brother was in trouble,” he said, patting the little boy’s head. “That was brave. Come on and help me clean off this table. Grab that brush and dustpan.” He pointed to the ancient set propped in a corner that had been in the garage when she moved in.
After salvaging what she could, Bobbie went inside and put half the brownies she’d made that morning into a freezer bag, and took it out to Nate and Sheamus. They were placing the lid on the trash can. The garage floor was remarkably clean. Nate carried the can back to where he’d found it.
“What do you want to do with the ruined pulp?” he asked, peering into the pot. All kinds of dust, shavings and debris were now mixed in its murky contents.
“I’ve got an old plastic bucket with a lid.” She pointed to a shelf above the oil tank. Nate reached up to bring it down. “If you can pour it into that and put the lid on, I’ll keep it for later. It might still be useful for something.”
Sheamus helped him replace the lid, then he put it in a corner, out of the way.
“Thank you for cleaning up,” she said, handing Sheamus the bag.
The boy looked thrilled. “Brownies!” Arnold sniffed interestedly.
Nate dusted his hands on his jeans and thanked her. “Brownies are something all of us agree on. But I’m not sure you should be giving gifts to the kids who caused the damage.”
He’s gorgeous, she thought with the comfortable distance of a woman who didn’t really care. Now that much of the mess was cleaned up and she felt calmer, she could observe him with detached interest. Tall, lean, hazel eyes with stubby lashes, nice nose, Saturday morning stubble around a straight mouth that was a little tight. He didn’t smile much. She was willing to bet he had a dynamite smile when he used it.
She wondered what had happened that his nephews were living with him. He seemed to be good with them, though she sensed an undercurrent of antagonism with the older boy.
She could list Nate Raleigh’s qualities without a stirring of feminine interest because she had a life plan that didn’t involve a husband and children. She was going to Florence, Italy, to study art. It had been a dream since she was sixteen, and the last year had made it an obsession. She was in remission, but she didn’t have forever. Follicular non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma was less aggressive than the B-cell form, but it was a lifelong disease. She had to go now. The need to make art lived inside her like the creature in Alien, and was always trying to break out. She had to go to the birthplace of classical European art. She wanted to study and learn, to find the depths of her talent.
She offered her hand again. “I’m happy to share. It was nice to