The light changed, and we drove on.
“Mother loved the portrait. I thought she was going to cry.”
“That wasn’t my intention.”
“I know. Mother, Father, and I, the three of us together. How did you manage it?”
The portrait had been done in oils. Quinn’s mother was seated in a Queen Anne chair, one hand on her knee, her legs neatly folded to the side and crossed at the ankle. Quinn stood beside her. His hand was on her right shoulder, and her left hand rested on his. Nigel Mann was behind them, and his hand covered both his wife’s and his son’s.
It had taken a bit of looking to find a snapshot of his father that was perfect for the pose I’d wanted. “I had a formal photograph of you and Portia.”
I’d called her ‘ma’am’ one time too many during dinner, and she’d paused in the act of raising
