“What’s this?”
“I’ve been trying to come up with an idea for a Christmas gift for Austin. It’s Christmas Eve, and he and Patrick are going to come over to see you tonight, and I have nothing for them.”
“And what is that supposed to be?” Heinz asked, pointing at the sketch while simultaneously trying and failing at diplomacy.
“Trying to draw a picture of Spammy. And Queenie, of course. Something to remember us by,” she said.
“It’s so serious-looking,” Heinz said. “Dark. Even brooding. Why not draw it the way you did with your little storybook?”
She considered the sketch. Ripped it from the pad, wadded it up, and tossed it in the trash.
“I think I’m stuck. I’ve been sitting here for ninety minutes, trying to come up with something that will be meaningful to a little boy.”
Heinz cocked an eyebrow. “And his father?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“You must be. I’m not a very astute judge of people’s emotions, but even I can see the attraction between you and Patrick.”
“He wants me to stay here. In the city.”
“And what do you say to that?”
“It’s impossible, of course. I have no job. No place to live, almost no money. And we’ve only known each other for three weeks. Like it or not, I’ve got to go home after the holidays, try to reboot my career.”
“That’s what your rational self is telling you. Now, what about your soul? What does your soul tell you?”
Kerry bit her lip. “I think … I know, that Patrick is the one. The kindest, most decent man I’ve ever met. I feel like me—my truest, most authentic self—when I’m around him.”
“Right.” Heinz clapped his hands. “There is your answer. Everything else is … details.”
“Having a way to support myself and a place to live is not just a detail,” she countered.
“Your art, that’s how you will support yourself. You are very talented, Kerry. This picture book you created yesterday—this is a book that can be published. And the story that we drew with Austin. Also a book.”
“I don’t know…”
“Here is what George taught me all those years ago,” Heinz interrupted. “Your potential as an artist will never be achieved until you believe in yourself. Nobody else’s opinion matters, unless you honestly believe you are making good art. Do you believe that?”
Kerry looked down at the sketch pad. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Good. Now, get out of your own way. If you have a dream to make art for a living, do that. With all the passion and energy you possess. Everything else will follow.”
“How? I don’t know anybody in the children’s book world.”
“We knock on doors,” Heinz said. “Many people in this neighborhood work in creative fields. Someone we know knows someone who can help.”
“Who is we?”
He ignored the question. “Next. A place to live. Simple. You live here.”
“No,” she said quickly. “This is only until you’re back on your feet and feeling better.”
“I meant in this building. There is a very small studio unit that has been vacant for some time. The building manager’s son was living there and paying next to nothing in rent because it has never been modernized, but he has moved on. If you like, it can be yours.”
Kerry was dumbstruck by his offer. “I couldn’t possibly accept an offer like that. It’s incredibly kind, but no.”
“This isn’t charity,” Heinz said sternly. “You will pay rent, of course. And you will need a job, and I have an idea about that.”
She shook her head. “You and Patrick act as though it’s a simple thing—to just pick up my life and move it to the city.”
“Have you never lived anyplace besides your home in the mountains?”
“Well, yes. I lived in Raleigh for a few years after college, and then I moved to Charlotte. But that was different. I had a job, and I knew people there.”
Heinz threw his hands in the air in disgust. “I give up. Such a stubborn girl.”
“Takes one to know one,” Kerry pointed out.
With effort, he managed to heave himself up. He stood with his hands clamped on the back of the chair, his breathing labored. “Go home then. Give up on a good man who could bring you happiness. Give up on your art. Give up on your dreams. Live a small life in a small town. And spend the rest of your life wondering ‘what if?’”
He picked up his cane and walked unsteadily out of the room.
chapter 52
Kerry gazed down at the drawing of the camper and smiled ruefully, thinking about the secret Birdie had shared with her. The old man was right, of course. About a lot of things. She flipped back through the pages of the sketchbook, until she came to Austin’s unfinished story.
The little boy had been so eager to have the story finished, the last chapter written, before she and Murphy returned home. But she’d put that off, just as she’d put off giving Patrick answers, because, as usual, she was overthinking things. What was it Heinz had accused her of? Getting in her own way?
She picked up a handful of colored pencils, fanning them out in one hand, like a beautiful bouquet. A bouquet of possibilities.
Pencil met paper. She paused, picked up an eraser, then shook her head. No more erasing. No more second-guessing.
Two hours later, she walked out of the studio, to stretch her legs and check on Heinz. The apartment was quiet, the door to his bedroom closed. She tapped on the door. “Heinz? Are you okay? Is Queenie in there with you? I need to take her out for a walk.”
A moment later, she heard the slow tap-tapping of his cane. The door opened. To her surprise, the old man was dressed, and it was apparent from his still-damp white hair that he’d showered and shaved.
“Can I get you something to eat or drink before I take Queenie out? I’ve been working on Austin’s story and I guess I lost track of time.”
He coughed slightly and nodded. “Food would be good. And tea.”
“I’ll just heat up some soup. And maybe some cheese and crackers? I’ll bring it with your meds.”
“Your doctor friend said I should get up and walk around, so I’ll come in the dining room and eat like a civilized adult,” Heinz said, giving her a slight smile. He turned to the dog, who was right at his heels. “Come, Queenie. Lunch.”
The dining room featured an oval white marble-top table surrounded by six chairs of a similar design. Kerry set a plate in front of Heinz, with the bowl of soup and the cheese and crackers. When she returned to the table with her own plate, he gestured for her to join him.
“Claudia’s famous minestrone?” he asked, dipping a spoon into the thick broth.
“My favorite,” Kerry said. “I’m going to have to beg her for the recipe.” She pointed at the table. “Heinz, is this a real Saarinen tulip table and chairs?”
He ate his soup and nodded. “Yes. We bought it after my second successful exhibit. I didn’t know much about contemporary design. I’d studied Saarinen in art school, of course, but as I said, George came from money, and he was used to nice things. Everything you see in this apartment, we chose together.”