Page 16 of The Me I Left Behind (Tuckaway Bay #4)

Her poor child. She didn’t get it. Did she? “Carol, the system doesn’t work that way. You and Jason and Chloe are very much a part of all of this. I’m trying to fight for you too, so your needs will be met.”

“Well, my needs right now are not being met. We need another car, Mom. Can’t you drive Dad’s SUV?”

Maggie shook her head. “You know I can’t. He insured it only for himself.”

“I really don’t think that matters, Mom. It’s insured, so it’s good.”

“But your dad said….”

“Jesus, Mom. Dad isn’t always right, you know. He tells you what he wants you to think. He twists things to confuse you.”

She was probably right. He’d been gaslighting her for far too long. “We’ll figure something out, sweetheart. But tonight, I have my class.”

Again, Carol gave her the eye roll. “Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t you skip?”

Maggie perched her hands on her hips and squared herself. “You know I can’t. I need the class to help me get back into the work world. My resume sucks so I have to figure out how to present myself as employable. I have to find a job sooner or later, and right now, this class will help me do that.”

Carol stared at her phone, texting someone. “Don’t tell me I have to babysit.”

“No. You don’t. Jason and Chloe will be fine here. I’ll only be gone a couple of hours.”

“Good. You’ll be home before me then.”

“It’s a school night,” Maggie reminded her. “In by ten, please.”

She nodded. “Sure. I texted Logan. He’s picking me up.”

Logan? Maggie watched her fingers fly over the keyboard again. “Who in the hell is Logan? My God, Carol. Did you have another guy waiting in the wings?”

Carol glanced up and smiled. “Maybe.”

Shit. She is too much like me at that age. Dammit.

“He’s here. Bye!”

A horn sounded loudly from the street. Maggie frowned and watched her daughter race across the lawn and climb into a newer model four-wheel-drive pickup truck. Memories of her own past raced through her head, strongly conflicting with the present reality.

“Mommy, I need some stuff for a project.”

Butter knife in hand, Maggie glanced at Chloe. She plucked the toast from the toaster when it popped up. “What kind of stuff?”

“Art stuff. I have to make a poster thing. I can’t remember what it’s called. I have a paper in my backpack.”

“Okay. When’s it due?” She hoped not today. Why do my kids wait so long to tell me these things?

“I dunno.”

Maggie finished buttering the toast, then placed the plate of toast on the island.

“Carol! Jason! Breakfast.” She made eggs that morning, with cheese and toast. Just how they liked them.

Would Max be able to make breakfast like this for them when the time came?

No, Max would throw them a box of tarts or donuts.

Not coming to that, Maggie. Don’t think about it.

Carol rushed into the kitchen. “I’m late. Can we go?”

Behind her, Jason drifted in, scratching his head, and sat. “I’m not ready.”

“Well, I am!” Carol nudged him and Jason nearly fell off his seat.

“Hey.”

“Stop you two. Sit down and eat. Carol, we’ll go when everyone is ready,” Maggie said.

Carol grabbed two toasts, put a spoonful of eggs and cheese between them, and squished the sandwich flat. “But I’m already late.”

“I don’t recall you saying you had to be at school early for any reason.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then….”

A horn beeped in their driveway. Carol quickly wrapped her sandwich in a paper towel and darted toward the window. “It’s Logan.” She whirled back. “I’ll ride to school with him, Mom. Okay?”

The girl was practically out the front door before she’d said she could. “Fine, I guess,” she muttered.

Jason sleepily looked at her. “You know he’s not in school. Right?”

A zip of anxiety punched at Maggie’s heart. “What?”

“He dropped out last year.”

Shit. Shit-shit-shit.

“No, I didn’t know that.” She paused, thinking. What would she have done at Carol’s age? “You don’t think she’s skipping school, do you?”

Jason shrugged. “I dunno. Can I have cereal? I don’t feel like eggs.”

“Sure.” Whatever.

With a sigh, she studied him as he got up and stumbled toward the cabinet for the cereal, opened the door, and stared at the boxes. At least it wasn’t the refrigerator.

“Were you up late playing video games?”

He shrugged, his back still to her. “I need a shower. I’ll eat after.”

“What about the cereal?”

“Not the kind I like.”

“Oh.”

He turned and ambled out of the room again, yawning. Not looking at her. He’d been quiet lately. Too quiet. And exhausted all the time. Was he sleeping at all?

“Can I have his eggs?”

“What?” She looked at Chloe, who was on her third piece of toast. “Sure.”

She scraped Jason’s eggs onto her plate and took a big bite. “The paper’s in my bag, Mommy.”

“Oh?”

“The art thing.”

That’s right. “Okay. I’ll get it. I have to go downtown this morning, anyway.”

A giddy sensation crept up from somewhere deep in her tummy and curled upward, warming her chest. Maggie felt a keen surge of happiness roll over her as her fingertips gently caressed the row of pastel chalks lined up in the box on the store shelf in front of her.

To her left sat a display of paint brushes, so she wandered closer. She picked up a long-handled brush with a natural bristle, smoothing the fine hairs between her forefinger and thumb. Down the aisle, she saw the display of acrylic and oil paints, and more.

Beyond those were aisles of various types of art media.

She let go of a long breath. It felt like she’d been holding that breath for a couple of decades—and she felt free.

Normally she would have picked up supplies at the local drugstore, or the big box store a few blocks away, but she’d had to go to the florist downtown to order flowers for a funeral, and knew the art supply store was next door.

She’d rarely been there—had passed it by many times and glanced inside via the large glass-pane windows.

Her heart always did a little twitter-pat when she did so.

She loved color. Loved paints. Adored watching the pigment spread across a page in a sketchbook, soak into watercolor paper, or slide off the brush onto a canvas.

She loved the chaos of color on a palette, dried up oils and fresh acrylics alike.

When she was younger, she wasn’t so great at cleaning up her painting messes and often left the oils to harden and dry on the wooden palette.

As she’d matured in her art, after she’d started taking classes in college, she got better at cleaning up—palettes, brushes, whatever…

But nothing said art to her as much as the leftover drips and spatters on tables and floors and aprons and old shirts and even the walls.

To her, messy was good.

Probably why Max disapproved of her painting hobby , as he called it.

Not thinking about him now. She was enjoying this too much to ruin it.

Ambling down the aisle, she let her fingertips glide over the tubes of paint, losing herself in the sensation of freedom. To be free and relaxed enough to let the muse flow from within and embark on a creative adventure.

But her mind did wander to Max.

The messiness of it all was what had ticked him off years ago.

She’d set up a studio after they’d moved into their new house, when she was pregnant with Carol and not working, and taking a couple of art classes at the local community college.

The lighting there was perfect, and she had plenty of space for storage and her easels.

She’d taken the curtains down to tease the outside into the room, and worked with the windows open, until it got too cold for her to do so.

Max complained about the smells, about the windows being open, about her not cleaning up “properly” as he would say, meaning he wanted her to clean and put away every brush, any media she was using, every night, so that the room was fresh and tidy, neat and clean, just in case someone came by.

“I can shut the door, Max,” she’d told him. “It’s not a big deal. Painting is messy and sometimes projects can’t be disturbed for a while.”

A few days later, while she was out running errands and grocery shopping, he’d brought a moving crew in to pack everything into boxes.

He told her he’d stored them in a storage unit across town until they had a better space for her.

To her knowledge, those boxes were still there, somewhere—if they indeed still rented that storage unit.

She should find out.

The following day, Max set up his home office in that same room. That was the first time he’d shut her out with locks on the door.

“May I help you find something?”

Shaking herself from the memory, she looked up into the face of a tall man standing beside her, looking down and smiling.

He had dark hair, blue eyes with crinkles at the outer corners, and a kind face.

He also sported a slightly scruffy beard, which she’d always thought sexy.

She guessed him to be about her age, maybe even younger.

Glancing lower to his chest, she noticed the store logo on the artist’s work apron he wore.

“Oh. Hi. You work here?”

He smiled. A nice, wide smile that nearly covered the lower half of his face. “I do. What can I help you find?”

She dug into her bag for Chloe’s paper. “I… My daughter has this project for school. I need supplies, a variety, I guess. I probably should have brought her with me, but I was downtown now, so…” I’m babbling.

Rambling. “The instructions are vague, so I was just looking around to see what struck me and….”

He took the paper out of her hand. “Ah. The second-grade selfie project. Mrs. Anderson’s class.”

She nodded. “How did you know?”

“She does this every year. And my daughter, Anna, is also in her class.”

“Really?” Maggie took another look. Should I know you? “I’m Maggie Oliver, by the way. My daughter is Chloe.”

He shifted the paper to his left hand and put out his right one. “Andy Ryan. Nice to meet you.”

“And you.” She took his hand. Warm. Quickly, she dropped it. “So, the project? It says mixed media, so I’m assuming we can use whatever we like. I was wondering about a canvas, or perhaps a heavy paper? What do you suggest?”

He nodded. “Kids seem to like to add on, and keep adding on, so I’d suggest something substantial—and also something they can easily handle. But really, anything could work. Poster board. Cardboard. And it doesn’t have to be flat. It could be 3-D.”

“I’m not sure where to start.”

“Well, what does your daughter want? The project is about her. I think it’s important that she pick the media to express herself. Don’t you?”

That was an excellent idea, of course. And one she should have thought of.

“You’re right. How late are you open? I could drop back by with her after school today.”

He grinned again. “We’re open until five.”

“Great.” Maggie glanced again at the paints and brushes.

“Those are great brushes,” he said. “A new company for us, but I’ve been very pleased with the quality.”

“They are very nice.” She ran her fingers over the tips of a few standing upright in a container.

“Do you paint?”

With a sigh, Maggie dropped her hand and faced him. “I used to.”

He caught her gaze and held it for a few heartbeats. “That’s a shame,” he finally said.

She nodded. “Yes. It is.” Not getting into that discussion.

Brushing past him, she took a few steps down the aisle, then rotated to face him again. He had turned toward her, too. “I’ll be back later with my daughter. Thanks for your help.”

“My pleasure.”