Page 100 of The Singing Trees
“You can’t leave us the building.” A wave of tremendous love came over her as his enormous gesture registered.
“As a point of fact, I can. It’s mine. I won’t have any use of it where I’m going.”
“Oh, don’t go talking about dying.” Annalisa couldn’t stand thinking such terrible thoughts. She’d had enough death poison her life. As strong as she felt lately, losing him shook her foundation.
He breathed in and coughed into his napkin again. “Nothing would make me happier than knowing you three are set up after I go. You can keep running the shop, and you’ll have a free place to stay, and the rent from the other tenants should help too. If you don’t want to keep the shop, fine. Rent it out. If you don’t want to keep the building, sell it. I’m not leaving it as a burden. I’m leaving it to you, because it’s what I want to do. It makes me happy.”
Annalisa wiped the tears of appreciation dripping down her cheeks. “I don’t know what to say.”
He scoffed. “You mean for once I’ve knocked all the words out of you?”
“I don’t want you to leave.” Feeling the burn in her cheeks, she whispered, “I don’t want you to go.”
Annalisa had already known too much death in her life, and she couldn’t imagine saying goodbye to Walt, but as he sat there, coughing and talking of his plans, she felt grateful for the time they’d sharedalready, and she committed to focusing on their time together going forward.
“There’s one more thing,” he said. “I’d like to give you my Plymouth.”
“Oh, stop, Walt. You can still drive.”
He shook his head. “Unless you want me to give it to Mrs.Eleby, it’s yours.”
Another long tear escaped, sneaking down her neck and settling under her blouse. She felt his pain and also Nonna’s, thinking that her grandmother would have to say goodbye to the second love of her life. How awful.
They were interrupted by a new customer, and the two of them went back to work. It was a woman who’d seen one of Annalisa’s pieces at a friend’s house and just had to get something for herself.
She left a while later with two paintings, and Annalisa thought that watching a customer walk out the door happy was as satisfying as dipping her bristles into paint.
When the bell above the door chimed again, Annalisa pulled herself away from the thoughts of losing Walt and readied herself for another sale.
“May I help—” she started and stopped.
Jackie Burton stepped into the shop. Her blackberry hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she wore a black sweater and a red wool skirt. “I thought I’d better come see who was stealing my customers.”
Annalisa smiled and approached the curator, who’d in many ways started her journey. “I’m so happy you’re here.” Then she dipped her chin. “It’s only just a few customers.”
Jackie looked around, and Annalisa proudly admired what she and Walt had created. The right side of the shop was still covered in timepieces. On the walls behind the displays full of world-class watches hung the wall clocks and cuckoo clocks. Walt sat at his bench in the far back behind the cash register, tinkering. The center of the roomstill featured the grandmother and grandfather clocks, each of them exquisite and rare. And then there was Annalisa’s gallery, which was slowly taking over.
Jackie walked that way, crossing onto the Oriental rug that served to establish the gallery as its own room. “I never could have imagined. Everyone keeps telling me about the gallery in the clock shop.” She took her time inspecting—and perhaps admiring—each piece on the wall.
Annalisa told her about each artist, like the incredibly talented Jenan McClain from Burlington, who finger painted landscapes that made Annalisa want to jump into them, and the slightly loopy Mark Salvarino, who had developed an amazingly strong voice as an abstract expressionist under Sharon Maxwell’s tutelage.
Then Jackie set her eyes on Annalisa’s pieces, all variations on the theme of love. People loving people. She stopped on a painting Annalisa had just finished that morning. In fact, the paint was still drying. It featured a line of women and children standing on the tarmac at an airport, holding a giantWELCOMEHOMEbanner.
The news had been covering the return home of soldiers from Vietnam as part of Operation Homecoming, and she’d been enthralled by this sight several days earlier. And, of course, she’d been leveled by all these images, as she had once wished that she would be welcoming her soldier back from the war. It wasn’t hard to slide into the skin of those holding the banner, the minutes ticking toward a reunion; the act of painting them was one of the many steps she still took on the long journey to healing her heart.
Resting her elbow in the opposite palm, Jackie pinched her chin and studied the painting. Annalisa stepped away, letting the curator do her thing.
When Jackie turned, she said, “Annalisa Mancuso. You’ve done it, haven’t you?”
“I’m working at it.”
“You always will be, but you have, no doubt, found your voice. I’m simply stunned.”
A wave of contentment settled over Annalisa as she remembered her seventeen-year-old self walking into this woman’s gallery with her orange tote.
“And I must say,” Jackie added, “your eye as a curator is impressive. A clock shop and gallery. Who would have thought?”
Annalisa beamed. “That means the world to me, Jackie.”
