Page 27 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
She would give it a try.
Chapter Eight
The painting wasn’t her worst.
“I like it,” Ollie said in his faithful way, hefting her stool back to the house as she carried her bag. “The fingers you gave the tree are super creepy, Aunt Angie. I could feel them tearing the earth open like in a slasher movie.”
After she’d stopped painting Carrick, torn the paper from the pad, and folded it up so she wouldn’t be tempted to finish it, she’d looked at the tree again. Carrick’s depiction of how his deceased wife had seen it had risen in her mind. The sound of his voice describing it had moved that wheel inside her.
She’d run with it.
Her imagination had sputtered to life, although with less enthusiasm than it had about Carrick.Not going there.
“If you hung this on the wall, Aunt Angie, I’d be so scared.”
Maybe her nephew was going over the top, but if Ollie was creeped out, at least she’d conveyed some emotion. Maybe she should paint her ex-husband. That composite would be both creepy and enraged—powerful themes for the viewer. Maybe exorcising him in such a way would make her feel a little better too.
But didn’t she want to paint Randall. Or Saul even. She didn’t want to give them the power to touch her.
No, she’d likeCarrickto touch her.Stop it, Angie.
“When did your mom ever let you watch a slasher movie?” she asked, changing the subject.
His gaze lowered. “Dad did when she was visiting you or Grandma and Grandpa. He didn’t want me to be a baby about scary things. Promise you won’t tell Mom. Dad said it was our secret, although he said Grandpa wouldn’t be mad. They’re tough guys.”
Her father had seen Tyson as the son he’d always wanted. Angie had jokingly asked her dad if joining the military and getting a buzz cut would have made him feel like that toward her. He’d only picked up a beer and told her not to sass. Fun days.
Megan didn’t want to admit it, but part of her attraction to Tyson had been a Daddy thing. To be fair, Angie had her own issues—she’d always been drawn to men who supported her art, unlike her father. Too bad their interest, in her artandher, had never lasted.
Last year, Megan had actually admitted to her that she wasn’t exactly happy in her marriage. The tearful call had come after Tyson decided to volunteer for another holiday mission.
Sometimes Angie wondered what might have happened if Tyson hadn’t died. Would her sister have finally admitted the relationship wasn’t fulfilling to her and Ollie? Ollie had certainly told Angie as much, saying it had made him angry that his father kept volunteering to go on tour. Tyson had preferred to hang around with his fellow soldiers and guys he’d grown up with rather than his family, and when he was home, he spent most of his time hunting or at ball games. Angie had disliked him because of it, even though she knew that he probably had trouble relating to homelife after war. But that wasn’t an excuse. Plus, he’d been like that before his first tour. Why did a guy like him get married anyway?
Probably looking for love and security like the rest of the world, herself included. The world was really messed up. Time for it to stop in her.
“You know I won’t tell your mom about the movies,” she told her nephew, reminding herself it was time to forgive and forget her gripes against Tyson now that he was gone. That was going to take a while.
Unfortunately for her sister—and many Angie had taught in art therapy—it was hard to admit, least of all express anger, toward someone who had died. Certainly someone people thought of as a hero.
“You’re the best, Aunt Angie.”
“What do you think about the sheep?” she asked.
Ollie had stood near the fence for a while to watch them before sitting by her side and drawing on the small pad she’d given him.
“They eat a lot, don’t they?” Ollie looked over his shoulder. “And they’re pretty loud. I like the smaller ones, but they don’t have any words on them. The big ones are like walking vocabulary cards.”
“That’s one way of describing them.” They neared the house, and she smelled bacon. Had Megan actuallycooked? “I used to hate vocabulary in school.”
“Me too,” Ollie said, setting the stool down and opening the door. “Do you think the new school will give me a lot of homework?”
“I hope not,” she said, tapping him on the nose. “We’re here to play and have fun.”
“Speaking of… Liam brought a bicycle for you, Ollie,” her sister said, standing in the kitchen with a hand towel tied around her waist.
She had cooked! That alone felt like a miracle.
Ollie jumped in the air. “Cool! Wait! Are you actually going to let me ride it?”
