“I don’t know what kind of story you’ve made up in your head.”
“In my head?” My voice sharpened. “My daughter just recognized my husband’s drawing on your body.”
Ariel stood between us, drawing the shape in the air.
“Daddy draws the happy sun.”
Glen knelt beside her.
“You’re right.”
The admission passed through the guests like cold water.
I stared at him.
He rested one hand on Ariel’s shoulder.
“Before I met you, I volunteered at an arts center downtown.”
“I know that,” I snapped.
He had mentioned weekend classes and community murals.
He had never mentioned Clara.
Clara tightened the towel around herself.
Glen looked again at the tattoo.
“There was a program for people recovering from surgery. Local artists helped them design things to cover scars. I’m not a tattoo artist,” he added quickly. “I only sketched.”
Clara’s lips parted. “The community room on Willow Street.”
Glen looked at her.
“Only pieces.”
She touched the lighthouse.
“I remember a young man with paint on his hands.”
My father glanced between them.
“No one knew each other?”
“No,” Clara said, barely louder than the water dripping from the pool ladder.
“It was almost 20 years ago.”
Glen settled back on his heels.
“A woman came in one Saturday and asked everyone to draw something that meant hope.”
Clara closed her eyes.
The party seemed to vanish around us.
No plates rattled.
No children yelled.
Even Ariel became still.
“I had just had surgery,” Clara revealed.
Her hand rested over the tattoo.
“I had a tumor removed. The scar ran across my stomach, and I couldn’t look at it without thinking about everything that almost happened.”
My father stared at her.
“You never told me that part.”
“I told you I had surgery.”
“You said it was years ago.”
“It was.”
She looked at him briefly before turning away.
“I did not want to spend the rest of my life introducing myself through the worst thing that had happened to me.”
Glen rubbed his thumb against his palm.
