I laugh, genuine and startled, and I feel something old and heavy in my chest start to dissolve. “And how are we fairing?”
She chuckles. “Remarkably well it seems,” she replies, offering a small nod toward Nathan. “Enjoy yourself tonight,” Barbara says, glancing meaningfully at the painting behind me. “You deserve it.”
She moves on, collecting a petit four from the tray at the bar, and I watch her disappear into the crowd.
The next hour unfolds in a sequence of tiny revelations. People approach with stories about Sara, about the house, about the way Nathan’s brushwork reminds them of the dunes at their own childhood cottage. The bartender pours with a generous hand, and soon the room is thick with laughter and the low hum of good gossip.
When Cassie and Amaya finally reach the family portrait, they stop dead, mouths in a perfect O.
“Mom,” Cassie whispers, “is that—did Nathan?—?”
“He did.”
She leans in close. “It looks like it’s still moving.”
I want to say,You look like you’re still moving, but I bite my tongue. Instead, I ask, “What do you think, Amaya?”
Amaya shrugs, but in the way that means she loves it and doesn’t know how to say so. “It’s like, really alive, you know?”
Cassie cackles. “You’re such a nerd.”
Amaya nudges her. “Says the girl who memorized the whole periodic table for fun.”
“Not for fun,” Cassie huffs, “for science club.” But she’s blushing, and I recognize the species of pride that blooms from genuine affection.
Nathan makes his way to us, catching the last of the exchange. He gestures to the catalog Amaya is still gripping. “Want to see the secret message?”
Amaya’s eyes go wide. “There’s a secret?”
He flips to the back, points to his artist statement:In loving memory of Sara H.—and to Diane and Cassie, who kept thelights on even in the dark. The air thins around us, then grows thick again, and suddenly I’m glad for the noise of the crowd.
“Whoa,” Amaya says. “That’s, like, really sweet.”
Cassie doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me, then at Nathan, and then away, as if embarrassed to have been the subject of a dedication. Or maybe just trying not to feel too much at once.
“You like it?” he asks Cassie, his voice almost timid.
Cassie doesn’t answer, just lunges forward to wrap him in a hug, the kind that would have made me jealous a month ago but now feels like the exact right thing.
Eventually, the gallery fills up, then overflows. Guests swirl between the installations, clutching wine and cheese, making the rounds in sensible shoes.
Cassie and Amaya plant themselves in front of a smaller painting, one I hadn’t seen before. It’s Cassie, unmistakably, but softer around the edges, her hair loose and wild, a spiral of notes and equations scribbled in the negative space behind her head. She looks older in the painting. Or maybe just more certain.
“Dude, you look so cool,” Amaya says, almost enviously.
Cassie shrugs. “He made up half the math in the background.”
“Artistic license,” Nathan interjects, but he’s watching Cassie for her reaction.
“I like it,” she says, quiet but clear. “You made me look like I’m thinking of something important.”
“You are always thinking of something important,” I say, and Cassie rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.
A pair of older women shuffle closer, peering at the portrait over their glasses. One of them whispers, “Is that you, dear?” to Cassie.
Cassie straightens, shoulders back the way she does at debate tournaments. “Yeah. That’s us—me, my mom, our dog, and Nathan painted it. He’s really good, isn’t he?”
The woman beams, her earrings bobbing. “You must be so proud.”