Chapter 11
Julian came back once.
Not to stay.
He entered the Ashcroft house and stood in the foyer for a long time.
“No one changed that chandelier?”
“No.”
“Ugly then. Ugly now.”
Brother.
We visited the gallery.
Mavis was there.
He recognized her immediately from Eleanor’s face.
“Your mother used to hate my posture.”
Mavis smiled through tears.
“She hated everyone’s posture.”
Good.
Then Julian saw the portrait of our father.
The one copied from Eleanor’s old sketch.
He stared.
“Too kind.”
I disagreed.
“No.”
The eyes were tired.
Not powerful.
Not mythic.
Human.
Maybe that was why Camellia used it.
Buyers loved vulnerability in powerful men.
My father would have hated it.
Good.
Julian asked Mavis whether he could buy one drawing.
She said:
“No.”
He blinked.
Then laughed.
“Fairbourne.”
Good.
She gave him one instead.
A charcoal sketch she made that afternoon.
Julian looking out the gallery window.
No title.
No price.
May you like
Choice.
That mattered.
