Page 2 of Painted

Rhys shrugged tightly and winced. “The light isn’t right. The colors aren’t what they’re supposed to be. It just doesn’thave the right…feel.” He shrugged again, pinching his face into something tighter than a wince.

His mum dragged her eyes away from the painting to study him, like he was the canvas that just wasn’t right. “It’s beautiful, Rhys. Just like your tender soul,” she said.

“Mum,” Rhys moaned impatiently, rolling his eyes. He grabbed some paper towels to continue cleaning his brush as he walked back over to his nook. “I’m nearly thirty-five years old. I do not need you buttering me up with compliments like I’m one of the primary school students.”

“I will always need to butter you up, love,” his mum said, closing the space between him so that she could throw her arms around him. That was some feat, considering Rhys was well over six feet and his mum was barely five-five.

Rhys set his brush down and hugged his mum right back. It was good to have her home. She’d been off galivanting in Europe with her girlfriend—yes, the Hawthorne parents were involved in every sort of open relationship and polycule pairing imaginable and had been since Rhys and his siblings were kids—for months, but with all the fuss Willoughby Entertainment had kicked up, she’d come home to devote a little needed attention to running and expanding the offerings of the Hawthorne Community Arts Center.

It was good to have her home, to have her there to hug.

He sighed as his gaze settled on his canvas. He might as well have been a primary school kid bringing home an art project to Mum for all the indiscriminate praise she would give his work.

“Enough of that,” his mum said, rocking back and slapping his arm, like she could hear his thoughts. “You are a brilliant artist, Rhys Hawthorne. You always have been.”

“Mum,” Rhys rolled his eyes again.

“Your work is displayed in some of the finest galleries in London. You’ve been featured inArt of Englandon more thanone occasion. I don’t want to hear you disparaging yourself because you think you can’t make very good into perfect.”

“It’s not even very good,” he argued, throwing an arm out toward the painting. “It’s decidedly not right.”

He expected some sort of further argument or undeserved encouragement, but his mum simply shrugged and said, “So? If it’s not what you want it to be, then put it aside and do something else.”

Rhys gave his mum a flat look. “That’s your solution to everything, isn’t it. Do something else.” He arched one eyebrow.

“Don’t you get up on your high horse to judge me, or your father,” she said, pointing a finger at him, a wicked sparkle in her eyes. “Variety is the spice of life. Robert and I have always believed as much. Our scandalous and questionable life choices have always provided us with inspiration and given you lot the freedom to live your lives in whatever way you choose. And you have.”

Rhys couldn’t maintain any appearance of censure for his parents’ choices. He laughed, even though he shook his head while he did.

“Thank you for being the most embarrassing parents in all of Kent and for being the reason Geoffrey George’s mum wouldn’t let him be friends with me in year six,” he said, pulling his mum into another embrace.

“Those Georges were absolute pills,” Rhys’s mum growled. She hugged him tightly, then let him go. “The joke’s on them, though. Little Geoffrey turned out to be quite the queen, didn’t he.”

Rhys laughed. “Yes, in fact, he did.”

Geoffrey was not only the first boy he’d kissed and messed around with, he was the one who had given Raina the best make-up tips whenever they’d had lunch together in the canteen of their secondary school.

Rhys’s smile started to falter as grief seeped back in, like black paint spilled across his lovely, colorful floor. His mum must have felt it. Her arms tightened around him.

It was the bustle of two of his students arriving for class that shook him out of his impending gloom, though.

“I need to get ready for class,” he explained to his mum in a quiet voice.

“Yes, you do,” his mum said, letting go and glancing at the classroom. “This is the new live model class you’re teaching, right?”

“Yep,” Rhys said, his face preemptively flushing.

With the infusion of cash that had suddenly arrived at Hawthorne House, thanks to certain members of a centuries-old group in London called The Brotherhood, the arts center had expanded its catalog of offerings for the fall session. On the one hand, that involved hiring new artists and teachers to develop programs in disciplines that none of the members of the Hawthorne family were experienced in, like photography, woodworking, and watercolors. On the other, it meant that family members like Rhys could teach classes that they’d never dared to consider before.

“Where’s your model?” his mum asked, looking around eagerly, like someone had told her there were donuts to be had. “I hope you hired a looker.”

Rhys laughed. “Mum. Stop being so embarrassing.” He shook his head and walked his mum away from his nook and through the wide circle of easels that had been set up around a big, black-painted block in the center of the room. “And for the record, Gary Fisher offered to be the model for the class.”

His mum pinched her face and made a sour noise. “Gary Fisher? He’s ancient, darling. Nobody wants to look at, much less paint, those saggy old balls.”

Rhys laughed even louder. “Painting from life is not porn, Mum,” he argued. “In many ways, it’s better to start with imperfect bodies, because then the students aren’t distracted by being horny.”

His mum chuckled and slapped his arm again as they neared the classroom door.

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