This was the point of no return. He was starting to form this half-baked dream of putting his name on something meaningful. From here on out, she would know that he really wanted it.
“What if I did something else? Portraits. Maybe.”
She steepled her hands under her chin. “Interesting. Go on.”
The pose was an adorable assault on his willpower. Was he really supposed to ignore that for five weeks? “Some of my favorite artists do things using photo references.”
“Like Kehinde Wiley.”
“The guy who did Obama’s portrait, yeah. A little. But I like using charcoal. And stuff from nature—grass, leaves, and fire?” His face was warm. “Sorry. It’s hard to explain.”
“Don’t apologize.” She moved to touch him but let her hand fall to the table instead. “You mean mixed media. And it sounds interesting.”
He studied her fingers. She wasn’t wearing a ring. “I’d like to use photo references. But I’m not much of a photographer.”
“I can help with that. You don’t need anything fancy. Your phone is fine.” She smoothed a wisp of hair back into place. He missed her curls. He liked how they would wind around his fingers like tendrils of silken rope.
“I have a camera,” he said. “An old Nikon that I don’t know how to use.”
“We can try it out,” Rachel said. “I’ll show you some basics to get you started. How about Monday?”
“Monday’s fine. So’s Tuesday. And Wednesday. I’m free every day.”
She laughed. “So am I. I keep myself busy, but sometimes I wonder if anyone in this town would notice if I was gone.”
That night at the drive-in, when they’d met as strangers, he’d had a similar thought. That he’d made his life so small, her smile might be the biggest thing in it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rachel listened to Vivaldi to calm her nerves while Faith drove through rush-hour traffic. The Four Seasons was long enough to make it to Potomac, where Niles and his fiancée lived. Faith had been so eager to get behind the wheel since coming home, she pulled her blue Mini out of the garage with a flourish that nearly took out their mailbox.
In addition to her daughter’s rusty driving skills, Rachel was also anxious about the party. Alesha would be there, and so would Mia, with her bloodhound ability to sniff out messy secrets. Thinking about it made her stressed and lonely, so Rachel distracted herself the same way she had all week, by texting Nathan about his photographs. In between messages, she snuck wistful glances at Faith.
Sunlight lit the angles of her daughter’s face and sharpened her features in a way that made her briefly unrecognizable. That always happened when Faith returned after long periods away; her daughter would seem like a different person. She’d suddenly care deeply about things she’d never mentioned before or notice nuances in situations she used to overlook. That morning, Rachel had gotten up early to beat Lenora in their ongoing war to control the laundry, and Faith had asked, “Why are you fighting for something you hate doing?”
Her daughter wasn’t growing up anymore. She was growing into herself, uncovering morals and values that she’d formed on her own. As a mother, Rachel found it gratifying, but also scary. Her little girl had been raised, past tense, and was now a full-blown adult, reckless driving habits and all.
Faith motioned for Rachel to turn her music down. “Who were you texting earlier?”
Rachel considered lying. But those were starting to pile up, and it was hard to hide things from Faith anyway. “The artist whose work we commissioned for the gala.”
“Nathan Vasquez?”
Rachel paused. “Yes. Do you know him?”
“Do you remember Celia? We went to junior prom together. She wore that baby-blue suit, and—”
“It got covered in makeup when you two hugged. I remember that. I felt so bad for her.”
“Yeah, well her current girlfriend’s cousin dated Nathan’s best friend, Dillon, who, according to Celia, is a drug dealer.” Faith’s eyes briefly flicked her way. “She also claimed that Nathan is his connection to a cartel, which is why he got sent away for high school and no one talks about him.”
Faith recited the story with the flat inflection of a newscaster. “That isn’t true,” Rachel said. “About Nathan. I don’t know any Dillon, but that cartel stuff is really racist.”
“Right? Who would believe it anyway? He’s a bubble kid. Probably paints landscapes of the hood with thousand-dollar paintbrushes.”