Cassie looks at me, then at Nathan. “I am,” she says. Just that. But it rings out like a bell.
I want to hug her, but I know better. Instead, I sidle next to Nathan, whose eyes are suspiciously shiny. “You did good,” I whisper, and he squeezes my hand beneath the catalog.
The afternoon slides into evening, and the gallery never quite empties. People linger, hungry for beauty or maybe just company. Cassie and Amaya play docent, explaining the significance of each painting to anyone who asks. Sometimes they embellish, inventing stories about what inspired a particular piece. “This one is about the time Nathan accidentally set his sleeve on fire,” Amaya tells a couple from out of town, gesturing at an abstract wash of reds and oranges. Cassie nods solemnly, and the tourists buy it completely.
By seven, Nathan calls for everyone’s attention, tapping his glass with a butter knife. “Thank you, everyone, for coming out this evening. I want to remind everyone that I am available for commissions, and several pieces have already found homes tonight.” He looks at me, a smile ghosting his lips. “Let’s keep the creative spirit alive in Kitty Hawk!”
I catch the flash of pride on Nathan’s face, but also the disbelief, as if he’s still not convinced any of this is real. I get it. Sometimes I feel like I’m living someone else’s story, too.
After the crowd thins, Cassie and Amaya join us by the refreshment table, plates heaped with cheese cubes and strawberries. Amaya asks, “Do we get to do this again? Or was this a one-time thing?”
Nathan laughs. “There’s another show in the spring. Different paintings, but same circus.”
Amaya looks at Cassie, who for once doesn’t deflect. “Yeah. I’d go again.”
I reach for a strawberry, surprised at how ordinary this moment feels, and how much I want to keep it. “Next time, maybe you can curate,” I suggest.
“Only if Amaya helps,” says Cassie.
Amaya pumps her fist. “Dream team!”
The girls drift off, orbiting each other with a gravity I envy. Nathan and I lean against the wall, watching them move through the space. Two smart, stubborn kids in a sea of adults, perfectly themselves.
He nudges my shoulder. “You doing okay?”
“I think so.”
Nathan’s voice goes soft. “She’s really proud of you, you know. Even if she doesn’t always say it.”
I swallow, suddenly aware of how long it’s been since anyone’s told me that. “You, too. I mean, she’s proud of you, too.”
He smiles. “It’s mutual.”
We stand, surrounded by the hush that follows applause. The last of the sunlight slants through the gallery windows, illuminating the portrait of Cassie. It’s not how I would have painted her, but I think maybe that’s the point. Sometimes you need someone else to show you what you look like when you’re brave.
When it’stime to go, I gather the girls and herd them into the cold. Cassie is quiet, but not in a bad way. She lets me put an armaround her shoulder, just this once. Nathan follows, hands deep in his pockets, face lit from within.
On the walk home, Amaya asks if she can sleep over, and Cassie doesn’t even pretend to mind. I say yes, and Nathan offers to bring ice cream. The girls race ahead, their laughter bouncing off the empty sidewalks.
I watch them, and I don’t feel like I’m chasing after my own life anymore. I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
45
Diane
The morning after the show, the house is quiet, except for Cassie and Amaya, who sit cross-legged in the living room, heads bent together over a faded photograph album. Nathan is in the next room, whistling off-key. There’s a kind of aftermath glow in the house, a pause before the world starts up again.
The phone rings. I answer on autopilot, expecting a telemarketer or, worse, one of the school’s robo-calls about midterm testing. Instead, it’s my literary agent, her voice infused with West Coast vowels and caffeine.
“Diane! Got a second?”
“Sure.” I step into the halo of sunlight from the front window, where the portrait of Cassie, Rolo, and me hangs. We look nothing and everything like ourselves.
My agent is all business, which is how I know it’s good news. She launches right in. “You remember that publisher we sent the first fifty pages to? They’re obsessed. They want to see the rest. Yesterday if possible.”
My knees threaten to give out. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. They asked if you could hop on a call next week. I said you were booked solid, but you could probably make time.”