No one had approached her, and she knew why. One had to soak up all the talent, the dedication of each individual artist in order to truly experience what pieces spoke to the buyer. It was a feeling, not a sudden urge to buy a new clock, where you hardly gave the purchase any thought. Clocks were practical and functional. Art was different. It spoke to her soul. She had to have the last picture.

  “Excuse me,” she said, knowing the curator would appear.

  “They’re quite simple though extraordinary,” said a man with a heavy French accent. It was not something she heard very often in Texas.

  “They are,” she answered, still mesmerized. “Are they sold together?”

  “Non, no,” he said.

  “You’re French?” She stated the obvious.

  He laughed. “I am.”

  “The last painting, it’s stunning. I would like to purchase it as a gift.” She didn’t want to think how much that would set her back, but she was in decent financial shape.

  “When do you want to take the painting?”

  “Today, if possible. I’ll need to get my car first.” She cleared her throat. “And my wallet. I’ve been jogging and didn’t think to bring a credit card when I left the house. Can you hold the painting for me?”

  The man was probably around Hope’s age. He was tall, with dark hair that reached his shoulders, and quite handsome. Showing a brilliantly white smile that reached his eyes, he said, “I will, but only for you. Only for a short time. As this is Callie’s first showing, and normally, I would not allow a purchase before the artist makes an appearance, but I will make an exception for you.”

  “I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble with her,” Gracie said.

  Again, the man smiled. “Non, non, Callie is my wife.”

  “She’s very talented,” Gracie said. “Is it considered mal élevé if I ask how much you’re asking for the painting?” Her French was not the best, but she thought using a bit of his language might make him feel more . . . French in the Lone Star State.

  “No, though I appreciate that you ask me in French. You have much Southern accent like Callie.” He motioned for her to follow him to the back of the store. “Not ill-mannered at all. Practical, I think.”

  She followed him to his office, where they negotiated a price on the painting, one she was quite happy with. After Gracie assured him that she would return within an hour to pay for the painting, he told her to make it two hours, as he had to pack up the painting, correctement.

  Gracie knew the French he used meant properly in English. Once this was agreed to, Gracie jogged back to the house as fast as possible. She didn’t want her mother or Hope to suspect she was up to something.

  “Right,” she huffed, as she stopped to catch her breath. They always knew when she had something up her sleeve.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As she usually did, Gracie entered the house through the back door. She placed her keys on the island in the kitchen and grabbed another bottle of water to take upstairs. She needed to shower, get dressed, and leave before her mother or Hope saw her. They would definitely know she was being sneaky. Hope could look at her and know she was hiding something, as she wore her emotions on her sleeve. If she told even the slightest fib, her face would turn as red as a mulberry.

  She was in and out of the shower in five minutes. Having no time to dry her hair, she twisted the drenched strands into a soppy wet topknot. She would let it air dry as soon as she picked up the painting. In this heat, it would dry in minutes.

  She chose a navy sundress patterned with tiny bluebonnets, a birthday gift from her mom last year. She put on red handmade Magdalena wedges from Bali ELF, a gift from Jessica that she had yet to wear. She was glad she had thought to bring them on the flight, as she knew she wouldn’t have had time to run home and pack for her trip to Amarillo. Slipping into the soft handmade shoes, she wiggled her toes, amazed at the comfort. She located her purse, made fast work of adding mascara and lip gloss, then swooped downstairs without making a sound. Her keys were where she had left them. Still no sign of Hope or her mother. She hadn’t thought to check to see if they were in their rooms. Carefully, she eased the back door open, making her escape.

  Hope’s and their mother’s cars were parked in the usual places. Gracie opened the door of her rental, started the engine, and rounded the circular drive onto the main street without incident. They were probably taking a nap or lost in the extensive gardens. The drive to the gallery took little time, but it took forever to find a place to park. Finding nothing close to Thompson’s or Artiste, she drove to the parking garage on Buchanan Street.

  First, she returned to Thompson’s. Kelly was at the register with a customer. Gracie stood back, waiting for her to finish her sale. As soon as the customer left, she went to the register.

  It was obvious that Kelly didn’t remember her.

  “Gracie, Mrs. Walden’s daughter,” she said to jog her memory.

  Kelly’s sky-blue eyes brightened in recognition. “Of course, I didn’t recognize you. You look awesome,” Kelly told her.

  “Nothing like a shower and a change of clothes,” she said, thinking she must have appeared really hideous before. “Just wanted to thank you for letting me take the card. Take this.” She held a twenty-dollar bill out to her, more than enough to cover the cost of the card.

  Using a handheld scanner, Kelly said, “It’s three dollars.”

  Gracie put the twenty on the counter. “Just keep the change; you trusted me.”

  Kelly seemed unsure. “I don’t think I should.”

  “I insist; it will make me feel better,” she added. “For allowing me to take the card without paying first.” Gracie pushed the money toward Kelly. “Have a great weekend,” she said, then swooped out the door before the young girl could say anything.

  The art gallery was just a few stores down. As soon as she entered, she was greeted by the cool air scented in sandalwood. “Mister . . .” It occurred to her that she didn’t know his name, so instead she said, “Hello?”

  “Back here,” a male voice called out.

  Gracie went to the back of the gallery, easily locating the office. The Frenchman held a large wooden crate. “You are back soon.” He gazed at her, a slight grin on his handsome face.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You look very ladylike. This is okay to say?” he asked.

  “Sure. Thanks,” she said. Gracie wasn’t one to be easily offended. In her training, she had learned how to deal with an unruly man, or woman. In no way did he appear to be flirting with her. Frenchmen appreciate all women; at least, she thought so. Callie was a lucky woman.

  “You’re parked where?” he asked.

  “At the parking garage on Buchanan.”

  “You can’t carry this that far, I will deliver to your house,” he said.

  “No! Sorry. This is a gift for my mother. I was going to keep the painting in my car until tomorrow morning.”

  “Non, Non, Non! Tu vas ruiner la peinture!”

  She understood non meant no, but she was clueless as to the rest of his words. “I don’t understand.”

  “My apology. Keep the painting in your vehicle; the heat will destroy Callie’s beautiful work.”

  “I didn’t think of that. Are you open tomorrow?” It might be possible for her to slip away after church and pick up the painting.

  He shook his head. “Callie and I, we have children. Big celebration planned for tomorrow.”

  Gracie felt like an idiot for assuming the gallery would be open on a holiday. “Okay, then, I guess I can take it with me now, and I’ll bring it inside. I can keep it upstairs or in the shed. As I said, I want it to be a surprise.”

  “Bring your car to the back entrance, and I will load it for you.”

  “All right, I appreciate this. I, uh, didn’t get your name,” she said. He had been kind and helpful, and she wanted to send a card thanking him, and of course, Callie.

  “You may call me Lucas Beaulieu,” he said. “Now, you get your car. Meet me in the back, and you shall have your surprise for la mère.”

  “Thank you. I’ll only be a few minutes,” she replied.

  “Use the back entrance; it’s closer to the car park,” he offered.

  She nodded, then left through the door he held open for her and walked the few blocks to the parking garage. As soon as she opened the car door, a blast of heat hit her. She cranked the air conditioner as high as it would go. Now she understood. The painting would have melted if she had kept it in the trunk.

  Ten minutes later, she thanked Lucas Beaulieu for everything, promising to bring her mother back to the gallery so she could see more of Callie’s work.

  As soon as she pulled into the drive leading to the back of the house, she saw that both cars were still parked where they had been when she left earlier. Not wanting to take a chance getting caught bringing the large package inside, she quickly thought about what she would say when asked where she had been. Not that she couldn’t come and go as she pleased, but she just wanted to keep her surprise a secret. Hope tended to be a bit on the nosy side.

  The second she entered the kitchen, Hope was waiting for her. “Where have you been?” she asked. “Mom thought you were still out jogging. I told her you usually don’t take the car on a jog.”

  Gracie answered as truthfully as she could, given she wanted to keep her secret. “Thompson’s. I wanted to get a card for tomorrow. They always have the best selection.”

  “They do, though I haven’t been there since all this virus mess. I practically lived at the hospital.” Hope took two glasses from the cupboard. “Mom and I were just about to have an iced tea. You want a glass?”

  “Sure, thanks. Let me go change clothes. I thought this dress would be cool, but it’s sticking to me like glue. Be right back.”

  “We’ll be on the side patio.”

  The house had several outdoor areas they used. Mom tried to stay away from the front of the house as much as she could, because their home was on a local historic-area tour. She was a private person in many ways. Gracie often thought her mother went a bit overboard trying to maintain this appearance for the tourists, because most of the guides knew she lived in this house, which had been built by her family in the 1930s. Amarillo was not a small town, but it wasn’t Dallas, either. She guessed that the population was a couple of hundred thousand, give or take. Though she had always felt Amarillo had kept its small-town flair.

  Now that the coast was clear, Gracie returned to her rental, removed the painting from the back seat, and took it to the shed, which sat under a large tree and remained cool, where she hid it in a tall chest. Then she went to her room and focused on changing into a pair of denim shorts with a white tank top. Kicking off her shoes, she slid her feet into a pair of flip-flops she had picked up at some airport.

  Gracie saw her mom and Hope on the patio in deep conversation; Hope looked ticked off. Not wanting to interrupt, she stood off to the side, where they wouldn’t see her. If they were having a spiff, she had to let them do their thing before making her presence known.

  Hope spoke, her voice much louder than normal. “You tell her, that will be the end of all I’ve accomplished.”

  Gracie backed closer to the edge of the house. She couldn’t help herself, wanting to hear what they were arguing over. And I accused Hope of being nosy, she thought.

  “It’s time, Hope. You and I both know it. You heard what she said this morning. She was not overreacting to the pan catching on fire. Neither were we. We know why. It’s time she knew, too.”

  She waited a couple minutes to see where their conversation would lead them, but just as she was about to press herself closer to the wall, she heard Hope say, “She’s coming out soon, let’s pick this up later.”

  Gracie felt like an intruder in her own family. What were they hiding from her? Should she ask them? Tell them she had overheard their conversation. No, she thought, this has to be handled delicately.

  Plastering a smile on her face, she stepped away from the brick wall. “I’m ready for that glass of tea,” she said. It was the first thing that popped into her head. With no skill at acting, she thought now was time to start.

  “There’s my girl,” Ella said, in her normal, sweet way. “I told Hope you must have gone for a drive. You ran out without telling us you were leaving.”

  “Sorry, Mom, I had to pick up a couple of items in town. Was I gone that long?” she asked, tilting her head to the side in what she hoped looked as though she were mystified by the time she had been gone.

  “An hour,” Hope said. “She was gone for one hour, Mother. She’s a grown woman, remember?”

  “Jeez, if I had known you two were going to make a big deal out of my leaving without telling you, I would have added both of you to the tracking app on my cell phone. Should I do it now? Just in case.”

  Hope’s brown hair was damp with sweat; her upper lip, too. A sure sign she was stressed.

  “You look like shit, Hope.” She wanted to shock them, get their attention. Knowing it was rare for her to curse, Gracie felt sure they would know she suspected there was something they weren’t telling her.

  “Gracie Lynn, that’s not like you to curse. You know how I disapprove. Are you upset with me? Did I do something to anger you?”

  “I don’t know, you tell me,” she responded.

  Hope looked at her mother. “Well, Mom, are you upset with little Gracie?”

  She had never seen Hope so ticked. Ever. She was a calm person, never any drama. Until then.

  “Hope, if you’re ticked off at me, tell me. You, too, Mother. I’m an adult. Whatever secret you two have, you can tell me or not. I don’t care either way, but don’t drag me into the argument I heard the two of you having.”

  Watching them, Gracie knew she had hit the nail on the head. Her mother’s face turned as white as the brick on the side of the house. Hope clamped her mouth shut.

  “I’m sorry you had to hear that. Hope and I, well, we’ve had a disagreement over . . . Clara. It’s nothing, really, Gracie. Just a little difference of opinion on Jackie’s future, more of what we discussed last night.”

  In thirty-two years, Gracie had never known her mother to lie. As sure as the sun would rise in the morning, she knew at that moment that her mother was deliberately lying to her. “Okay, if that’s what you want me to believe, fine.”

  She took a drink of tea and waited for one or the other to explain herself. Nothing but silence, except for the northern mockingbird’s mimicking singsongs, a hummingbird’s tiny wings flapping in a nearby feeder, and a loud bullfrog croaking in the bushes. A car passed by, windows down and blasting music. An ice cube clinked in her glass. Still, no one said a word. Gracie normally had the patience of a saint. She had to in her line of work. But not then. They were acting like two-year-olds. She took another drink of tea and watched the struggle between Hope and their mother.

  Pushing her chair back, Gracie stood. “I’m going inside, just so you know.”

  Let them stew for a while. She went inside to her room. Checking her cell, she saw that she had missed a call from Jessica. She would return the call when she was in a better state of mind. She leaned against the pillows, saw the book she had picked out last night, flipped it to the first page, and within minutes was absorbed in the life of the fictional character, Emma Harte. She was on chapter two when she heard a light tap on her door. She closed the book and slid it beneath the pillows.

  “Come in,” she said, still reclining on her bed.

  Hope.

  “I’m sorry you had to witness me and Mom arguing. We’re normally like two peas in a pod, but we do have our disagreements more often than you’re aware of. I see her almost daily, and I think our relationship is changing.”

  Gracie sat up. “Changing how?”

  Hope shook her head. “That’s just it, I don’t really understand it myself. It’s like we’ve become these two old spinsters with no life. I work. Mom makes nice. Repeat.”

  “First, neither of you are spinsters, and secondly, you like your work, right? Mom likes to be . . . mom. What is wrong with that?” Gracie asked, more curious about Hope confessing that her relationship with their mother was strained than she was when she had overheard them earlier.

  “Lots of things, Gracie, so many that it would take years for me to try to explain them. It’s not like we don’t get along; we do. But there are issues, private issues, between us that you don’t need to hear, but that’s a whole different story. Just things from my childhood. When Dad was sick, home wasn’t the happiest place. Mom took care of Dad’s every need, and trust me, he needed constant care. Toward the end—I know you won’t remember this, because you were just a toddler—but Dad was like the walking dead. No, scratch that, because he couldn’t walk. Mom tried to put on a good show for me and her friends, but I knew she was about at the end of her rope. I was just getting in her way being here, so I spent a lot of time hanging with friends, drinking, partying too much for a fifteen-year-old. I know now that I was just trying to get Mom’s attention. I think I was jealous of all the time she spent taking care of him.”

  “Oh, Hope, that must’ve been so hard for you, especially at that age. I don’t remember him at all, though I’ve never said this to anyone. I have a vague idea of him, seeing his pictures, hearing y’all talk about him. I wish life weren’t so cruel. I guess in a sense I was lucky, since I was so young when he died.”