Bartholomew stared at the computer screen, reading another email between Mother and an art gallery.
“Buying up father’s legacy.” Bartholomew shook his head. “Only to hide it away.”
He fisted and unfisted his hands as images of Mother and Mr. White raged in his mind. The words blurred and he imagined them inside the warehouse with Mother ordering burly construction workers to unload a forklift.
Although he knew he should have been listening for footsteps in the hallway, it made him so angry, he got lost in a fantasy of bursting into that warehouse and knocking them all unconscious. Then he’d take that forklift and drive down State Street to the beachfront arts and crafts show. Here, on a grassy knoll next to the Pacific, he’d smash those crates open.
And display every resplendent painti
