Chapter 9: Coming Back
816 Words
Victoria left without looking behind her.
Sophie watched the black car disappear through the gate, then lowered the cardboard star in her hands.
“Did Grandma make her sad?”
I set the drill down.
“That wasn’t her grandmother.”
“I know. I mean Miss Ashford’s mom.”
Children had a way of making complicated things sound simple.
“Yes,” I said. “I think she did.”
Sophie frowned at the unfinished panel. “She was helping.”
“She was.”
“Is she coming back?”
I looked at the empty entrance.
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
I had seen women like Victoria walk away before. They volunteered when it was convenient, smiled for photographs, and disappeared when the work became uncomfortable.
Still, she had stayed longer than I expected.
She had painted without complaining. She had listened when I explained the materials. She had even let Sophie cover one corner of the booth with crooked yellow stars.
Maybe I had misjudged part of her.
Not all of her.
Twenty minutes later, the gate opened again.
Victoria walked into the courtyard carrying a paper bag and two trays of coffee.
Sophie ran toward her.
“You came back!”
Victoria’s expression softened. “I said I would help.”
“You left.”
“I did.”
She crouched in front of Sophie. “That was rude of me. I’m sorry.”
Sophie considered this seriously.
“Dad says bad days aren’t permission to be mean.”
Victoria looked at me.
I lifted one shoulder.
“She remembers everything.”
“I can see that.”
Sophie accepted the apology and returned to her stars.
Victoria placed the coffee beside my tools.
“I didn’t know how you take it.”
“Black.”
“Of course.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
She handed me one cup.
The bag contained sandwiches, fruit, and three chocolate cookies. Not catered food. Not something expensive enough to become a statement.
Just lunch.
“You didn’t have to bring anything,” I said.
“I know.”
That stopped me.
Victoria looked toward the booth.
“I should have corrected my mother immediately.”
“You eventually did.”
“After she insulted you.”
“She insulted you too.”
Her mouth tightened. “I’m used to it.”
“That doesn’t make it acceptable.”
She stared at me, almost suspiciously, as if she did not understand why I would defend her when she had not defended me fast enough.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
This apology was for me.
I nodded. “All right.”
“That’s it?”
“What else do you want?”
“I don’t know. You usually argue.”
“You apologized.”
She crossed her arms. “You could at least pretend it was difficult to forgive me.”
“I haven’t forgiven all the other things.”
Her eyes narrowed, but then she gave a reluctant laugh.
We returned to work.
Victoria wore my sweatshirt again without being asked. She rolled the sleeves above her wrists and painted the second panel while Sophie explained the rules of the beanbag game she had invented.
Most of the rules changed every few minutes.
By noon, yellow paint covered Victoria’s fingers and one side of her hair.
I decided not to tell her.
She caught me looking.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing the expressive silence again.”
“There’s paint in your hair.”
Her hand went to the wrong side.
“The other side.”
She tried again and made it worse.
I stepped closer, then stopped.
After what happened earlier, touching her felt like a bad idea.
I pointed instead. “Near your ear.”
She wiped it away with the sleeve.
“Did I get it?”
“No.”
She sighed. “Then I suppose it lives there now.”
Something in my chest shifted.
Not attraction. I had noticed she was beautiful the first day. Beauty was easy.
This was different.
I was beginning to enjoy her.
That was not easy at all.
When the booth was finished, Sophie stood in front of it with both arms raised.
“It’s perfect!”
Victoria looked at me.
I expected her to mention the money saved or the materials we had chosen.
Instead, she said, “She’s happy.”
“She is.”
For a moment, we stood beside each other in the yellow afternoon light, watching Sophie throw the first beanbag through the crooked opening.
Victoria smiled.
Not the polished smile she gave strangers.
The real one.
And I understood that the most dangerous thing about her was not her money.
It was how quickly I was beginning to forget that I had promised myself to keep my distance.
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