Page 80 of Perfect Composition

Austyn looks at me askance. I stop playing and push the stool back. “I’ll go fix it.”

Her laugh is a bit watery. “Last door at the end of the hall.”

I take my time heading up the stairs, composing what I’m going to say to try to make Paige understand she doesn’t corner the market on emotions, that what I felt for her then, now, isn’t disappearing. What we felt for one another is still alive; it just needs to be nurtured.

Like a song. Like a child.

With those thoughts crawling around inside me, I lift my hand to knock. I hear her call out a weary “Come in.”

I enter. She doesn’t turn from the painting she’s staring at in despair.

“No one ever had from me what I gave to you.” Even I can hear the mingled anger and sadness. It’s a combination I know well.

“Close the door,” she entreats me. I step in and do what she asks.

She cuts her eyes to the side. “I meant with you on the other side.”

“I never gave anyone else close to the depth of emotion I gave to you,” I semi-repeat as I make my way to her side.

But I can tell she’s barely listening, so engrossed is she by the framed images of two women that hang side by side.

I don’t say anything until I’m standing right next to her. “It’s a beautiful picture of your mother.”

“How can I miss her this much when I never knew her? Not really?”

Her barely audible words lash through me. “You do know her, bird. You absorbed a part of her soul. Of course you miss her.”

Her breath shudders out. “Thank you for that.”

I tap my fingers against my lip. “I feel like I know the face in that print.”

“It’s Adele Bloch-Bauer. It was a painting done by Gustav Klimt. It’s ironic, isn’t it? I guess I learned about them both the same way—one I heard about every day of my life, and the other I studied about in an art history elective in college. Lectures. That’s how I know them both so well.”

I cock my head to the side. “It was in different colors.”

“The first in the series was often referred to asGolden LadyorLady in Gold. It was a commissioned piece of art that was stolen during Hitler’s pillaging of art during World War II.”

“That’s not it. I mean, it is, but it isn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember the first time you ever showed me a picture of your mother?”

Even as I ask her the question, I’m swept back to the lazy day in the meadow instantaneously.

“What was she like?” I run my fingers through Paige’s as I hold the framed photo she tucked beneath her shirt as she rode to meet me.

“From what Daddy says, perfect.”

“She was like you, then.”

“Ha, ha, funny. We both know I’m not that.” Paige lets go of my hand to roll into my side.

“To me you are, Paigey. Never doubt that.” I curl up slightly to press a kiss against her lips. “She must have loved flowers.”

“What makes you say that?”

I flip the frame in her direction. “She’s surrounded by them. And isn’t that your mailbox? I’ve walked by how many times. There’s no flowers there anymore.”