Chapter 8
Mavis’s hands healed from the dirty rinse water quickly.
The deeper injury was different.
She could not paint for weeks.
Every blank canvas felt like Camellia standing behind her.
Telling her what color.
What size.
What buyers wanted.
Whose name would appear.
I offered a studio.
She refused.
Good.
Then accepted a small room in a separate building.
No obligation.
No deadlines.
No buyers.
Her choice.
She spent the first week doing nothing.
Then charcoal.
Not paint.
One hand.
A chair.
Then another sketch.
Rafe asleep during a meeting.
Terrible likeness.
He was offended.
Good.
Humor.
Then eventually she painted.
Not me.
A bowl of pears.
I loved that.
No family symbolism.
No hidden lineage.
May you like
Fruit.
Ordinary subjects can be freedom.
