All conversation had stopped. Ethan felt a heavy, tense expectation had formed between them. Somehow, Ethan’s hand patted Mercy’s head, which was settled and appeared heavy on his thigh, her lower lids droopy, her bloodshot eyes huge and rolled upward. Chris and Ginger were both staring at Ethan. He felt obligated to speak, so he said, “Dan tells me you’re a great fisherman.”
Chris studied Ethan’s face for any sense of irony or sarcasm. Dan had forewarned Ethan about Chris and his latest efforts to become Sçid Çándl’s artist in residence. Chris’s thick brows frowned, wounded perhaps that Ethan had gone mute, had not commented on his painting. Ethan was unable even to utter the skin-grating, dismissive platitude nice.
Chris turned to openly adore his painting, as if it were his prodigal c
