Sally lets out a devilish snort and pats my arm. “Don’t let Reverend Monica hear you say that. Old Man Whittaker is her godson.”
“I hope he’ll pose for the statue in the town square,” I say.
“That statue could look like my mail carrier, Derek, for all I care,” Sally says. “Long as the plaque says Whittaker. We need the business that sort of thing could bring in.”
“Back to the story,” Libby says. “You used to sell your paintings?”
She sighs. “Well, when I was a girl, I wanted to be a painter. So when I was eighteen, I went to Florence to paint for a few weeks, which turned into months—Clint and I broke up, of course—and after a year, I came back to the States to try to break into the art scene in New York.”
“Get out!” Libby lightly thwacks Sally’s arm. “Where’d you live?”
“Alphabet City,” she says. “Long, long time ago. Stayed for the next eleven years, working my ass off. Sold some paintings, applied for shows constantly. Worked for three or four different artists and spent every night trying to network in galleries. Worked myself to the bone. Then, finally, when I’d been at it for eight years, I was part of this group show. And this guy walks in, picks out one of my paintings, and buys it. Turns out he’s a renowned curator. My career takes off overnight.”
“That’s the dream!” Libby squeals.
“I thought so,” Sally replies. “But I realized the truth pretty fast.”
“That Clint was your true love?” Libby guesses.
“That it was all a game. My paintings hadn’t changed, but suddenly all these places that had turned me down wanted me. People who’d never looked my way were all over me. Hardly mattered what I made. My work became a status symbol, nothing more, nothing less.”
“Or,” I say, “you were extremely talented, and it took one person with good taste to say so before the masses caught on.”
“Maybe,” Sally allows. “But by then I was tired. And homesick. And usually pretty hungry and broke, and the curator came on to me when I was just lonely enough to fall into bed with him. Not long after my father passed, we broke up, and I came home to be with my mother. While I was here, she asked Clint to come clean our gutters.”
“The jokes just write themselves,” I say.
“So then you realized he was your true love?” Libby says.
Sally smiles. “That time, yes. He was engaged by then. Didn’t stop my mother’s machinations. Her mantra was It’s not official until they’re down the aisle. Thank God she was right. As soon as I saw Clint again, I knew I’d made a huge mistake. Three weeks later, he was engaged to me.”
“That’s so romantic,” Libby says.
“But didn’t you miss it?” I say.
“Miss what?” Sally says, clearly not tracking.
“The city,” I say. “The galleries in New York. All of it.”
“Honestly, after all those years of toiling, it was a huge relief to come here and just . . .” She lets out a deep breath, her arms floating up at her sides. “Settle.”
“No kidding,” Libby says. “We moved to the city so our mom could try to make it as an actress—the most chronically exhausted person in the world.”
“That’s not fair.” She was spread thin, sure, but she was also full of life, ecstatic to be chasing her dreams.
Libby shoots me a look. “Remember that time she was a nickel short at the bodega? Right after that Producers audition? The clerk told her to put a lime back, and she broke down.”
My heart squeezes. I had no idea Libby remembered that. She’d just turned six, and Mom wanted to bake Lib’s favorite corn-lime cookies. When Mom started melting down at the register, I grabbed the extra lime in one hand and Libby’s little fingers in my other and dragged her back to the produce, taking our time zigzagging back to Mom while she gathered herself.
If you could have any treat, from any book, I asked her, what would you choose?
She picked Turkish delight, like Edmund ate in Narnia. I picked frobscottle from The BFG, because it could make you fly. That night, the three of us watched Willy Wonka and cleaned out the remains of our Halloween candy.
It’s a happy memory, the kind that almost sparkles. More proof that every problem could be solved with the right itinerary.
Everything turned out okay, I remember thinking. As long as we’re together, it always does.
We were happy.