CHAPTER FOUR
“Down, Luther, down." Sam had to fight off the exuberant Russell Terrier as he bounced around her then threw up his paws, almost knocking her over. “I know, honey, I missed you, too, but let me come in, will you?”
Tail wagging, his body trembling with excitement, Luther moved aside just enough for Sam to finally push the door open and step in. This was their ritual every time she came by to visit her mother at the family home just outside of Niagara Falls. Anyone would think Luther would have been bored with her frequent visits, but no such luck. Every time he saw Sam, even if she’d been there just the day before, it was like a grand homecoming.
“Where’s Mom?” she asked as she strolled through the house toward the kitchen. She smiled as she saw the big round vase sitting in the middle of the table sporting a wild assortment of flowers, the vibrant colors bringing cheeriness and life to the room. Mary adored flowers and even from her childhood days in this house Sam couldn’t remember a day when this kitchen hadn’t had a fresh bouquet of flowers.
Luther was following behind her, still whimpering with joy, when a gray tabby with black pencil strips sauntered into the room.
“Sheba, how are you?” Sam leaned down to pat the cat who paused and gave her a haughty look that said, “You may stroke me now.” Sam laughed and did as she was told, running her hand from the top of Sheba’s head and across her back to the end of her tail. The cat trembled in ecstasy then lifted her head for more of the same. Finally, as a reward to her loyal subject, she rubbed her fluffy body against Sam’s leg.
“Do you know where Mom is, Sheba?” Sam asked as she opened the kitchen door and stepped out onto the deck. And, just as she’d guessed, there was her mother sitting in front of an easel in the shade of the thicket of trees and bushes at the bottom of the garden, her eyes focused on the canvas.
Not wanting to startle her, Sam didn’t bother to call out. Instead, she descended the steps and walked across the grass toward Mary whose back was turned to her. As she got nearer she saw that her mother was painting a cluster of buttercups nestled at the foot of a majestic old elm. She marveled at the beauty of the depiction, so striking and true. She never ceased to be amazed by her mother’s talent.
“How are you, dear?” Mary asked without taking her eyes off the canvas. “You didn’t call me yesterday.”
“I’m great, Mom.” By this time Sam was right beside her mother, and she watched as the delicate hand deftly placed brushstroke after brushstroke, creating the effect of light with the simple addition of a touch of white. “Sorry I didn’t call. I just got tied up.”
She dropped to the grass by her mother’s feet, drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. She loved to watch her mother paint. And this evening was perfect for doing just that. It was a beautiful September day, cool enough to be comfortable, the gentle breeze softly stirring the leaves above their heads.
“Almost done,” Mary said with a sigh of satisfaction as she put the finishing touches on her work. She obviously loved what she was doing, smiling as she worked and even humming under her breath. She was so different from the mother Sam had known when she was growing up. Where she seemed relaxed now, even carefree, back then her mother would have been better described as subdued and careworn. It was now that Sam realized that she’d been a frustrated artist, her talent suppressed and sacrificed to her role as mother and wife.
“Your father never appreciated this creative side of me,” her mother once told her. “He’s such a practical man, going out to work and heading back home to the little woman who should only occupy her time with housewifely duties. My painting seemed so frivolous to him.” Still, her mother never resented him. They remained friends even after the divorce. She shared with Sam that she was confident she’d made the right decision in moving on. It was neither the smoking nor the gambling that had made her decide to end the marriage. It was the realization that, in order to grow, she had to move on. She recognized the value of Alvin’s industry and his skills with his hands. His clients sang his praises all around town. “You got the best of both your parents,” she told Sam, “combining the practical world of home repairs with the artistic world of colors and decoration. And you’re great at both.”
But as far as Sam was concerned, her mother was the true talent when it came to art. She was so good at what she did that her work had been placed in a local gallery and she’d even been invited to teach a couple of evening courses in watercolor painting. And she loved it. She’d truly found her calling.
“That’s it,” Mary said and laid down the brush then turned to her daughter. “I'm all ears.”
“Excuse me?” Sam cocked an eyebrow at her mother. “I’m not here to gossip.”
“No, but you’re here to talk.” Mary gave her a pointed look. “Don’t forget, I know my daughter. I’ve been reading her like a book for the last thirty-two years.”
Sam chuckled. “And she can’t fool you, right?”
“Never.” Mary slipped off her stool and sat on the grass next to Sam. Unfortunately Luther, who had used the doggy trap door to slip out of the house, saw that as a signal to romp and came bounding toward them, his tongue hanging out of his head, his mouth open wide in a grin.
“Here comes trouble.” Mary put up her arms just in time to ward off a kiss from a big bundle of energy. “Down, boy, down,” she yelled with a laugh then gave him a pat on the rump that made him hop away.
Luckily, probably startled by the commotion, some birds in the bushes at the other end of the garden raised their voices in strident complaint at the disturbance of their quiet evening. That grabbed Luther’s attention and he took off barking, leaving the two women in peace for the moment.
“Now,” Mary said with a sigh of relief at the temporary respite, “what’s on your mind?”
Sam snapped off a blade of grass and twirled it between index finger and thumb. Where to begin? She stared at the thin green leaf, almost as if it held the key to the mysteries of life, then she tossed it away. Might as well plunge in head first.