stickers first, youâll ruin them when you start to paint,â Eugene said.
âHush.â Linda smacked his hand. âItâs her plane, and she can decorate it in any order she wants.â
Betty handed the red paint to Zach for him to uncap. He removed the lid and handed the small tub back to her. âI donât recall a girl,â Betty said.
âThursday,â Fern explained as she carefully removed one sticker to reposition it on the unpainted wing.
âShe must have been visiting someone else,â Betty continued, not looking up as she carefully painted the underside of her planeâs wings. âI never have visitors.â
âWhat about your son?â Eugene asked.
Betty looked up, her eyes squinted in confusion. âNo,â she said slowly. âThat must be someone else too. I never have visitors.â
âShe was a pretty thing, even in that heavy black dress she was wearing,â Fern said. âI think she was Amish.â
They were talking about Lorie! Excitement rose inside him. She had been there visiting Betty Mathis. Maybe he should ask Carol and Amber up front if she had said anything to them. As a matter of fact, he wondered why he hadnât asked them already. Surely Lorie stopped at the circulation desk before heading to Bettyâs room.
âThere!â Stan said triumphantly. âYou looked at the door again.â
Zach smiled and shook his head. âSorry.â
He had two more finals to take and then it was on to the real world. Hopefully Lorie would come back to the living center again before he found his ârealâ job. After all, he loved the residents at the home, but there were only so many balsa wood airplanes a guy could make.
Lorie eased up the staircase and into the second-floor storeroom. It seemed these days she spent every spare minute she had there. Painting.
She had almost talked herself out of ever painting again, but that was before her fatherâs death and all the secrets sheâd uncovered. Too many emotions filled her up and spilled out onto the canvases. It wasnât like she was any good, not like the artists who filled museums and galleries. This was just her way of expressing herself and dealing with her swirling emotions.
She let herself into the stuffy room and turned on the fan she had snuck up there the week before. She wished she could open a couple of windows and let the breeze come through, but she was afraid it might alert someone to her presence. Then Mamm would find out and that would never do.
She covered herself in the overlarge shirt she used to protect her clothes and opened the box where sheâd stashed her paints. It was hard and messy painting in secret, but right now she had no choice. She was going through baptism instruction and one slipup could keep her out of the church. She should shut the box, put away the canvas, and head back down the stairs, but she couldnât stop painting any easier than she could stop breathing. The time she took away from painting only stored up the feelings. She found they were there waiting for her when she returned.
It wasnât like she was showing them to people. They were just for her. She gave a quick nod at her justification. She wasnât going to sell the paintings, or try to put them in a show. They were simply her way of coping. Surely Bishop Ebersol couldnât find fault with that.
She had finished the painting of her father. She wasnât the kind of painter who painted exact replicas of the subject. Nor could she be called abstract like the paintings of Jackson Pollock she had looked at in that big library reference book. No, her efforts fell somewhere in between. Anyone looking at the painting could tell what it was of, but she tried to capture the spirit of the person, the glow that seemed to come from within.
She set up her easel and uncovered the half-finished painting she had started a couple of days before. She
âHush.â Linda smacked his hand. âItâs her plane, and she can decorate it in any order she wants.â
Betty handed the red paint to Zach for him to uncap. He removed the lid and handed the small tub back to her. âI donât recall a girl,â Betty said.
âThursday,â Fern explained as she carefully removed one sticker to reposition it on the unpainted wing.
âShe must have been visiting someone else,â Betty continued, not looking up as she carefully painted the underside of her planeâs wings. âI never have visitors.â
âWhat about your son?â Eugene asked.
Betty looked up, her eyes squinted in confusion. âNo,â she said slowly. âThat must be someone else too. I never have visitors.â
âShe was a pretty thing, even in that heavy black dress she was wearing,â Fern said. âI think she was Amish.â
They were talking about Lorie! Excitement rose inside him. She had been there visiting Betty Mathis. Maybe he should ask Carol and Amber up front if she had said anything to them. As a matter of fact, he wondered why he hadnât asked them already. Surely Lorie stopped at the circulation desk before heading to Bettyâs room.
âThere!â Stan said triumphantly. âYou looked at the door again.â
Zach smiled and shook his head. âSorry.â
He had two more finals to take and then it was on to the real world. Hopefully Lorie would come back to the living center again before he found his ârealâ job. After all, he loved the residents at the home, but there were only so many balsa wood airplanes a guy could make.
Lorie eased up the staircase and into the second-floor storeroom. It seemed these days she spent every spare minute she had there. Painting.
She had almost talked herself out of ever painting again, but that was before her fatherâs death and all the secrets sheâd uncovered. Too many emotions filled her up and spilled out onto the canvases. It wasnât like she was any good, not like the artists who filled museums and galleries. This was just her way of expressing herself and dealing with her swirling emotions.
She let herself into the stuffy room and turned on the fan she had snuck up there the week before. She wished she could open a couple of windows and let the breeze come through, but she was afraid it might alert someone to her presence. Then Mamm would find out and that would never do.
She covered herself in the overlarge shirt she used to protect her clothes and opened the box where sheâd stashed her paints. It was hard and messy painting in secret, but right now she had no choice. She was going through baptism instruction and one slipup could keep her out of the church. She should shut the box, put away the canvas, and head back down the stairs, but she couldnât stop painting any easier than she could stop breathing. The time she took away from painting only stored up the feelings. She found they were there waiting for her when she returned.
It wasnât like she was showing them to people. They were just for her. She gave a quick nod at her justification. She wasnât going to sell the paintings, or try to put them in a show. They were simply her way of coping. Surely Bishop Ebersol couldnât find fault with that.
She had finished the painting of her father. She wasnât the kind of painter who painted exact replicas of the subject. Nor could she be called abstract like the paintings of Jackson Pollock she had looked at in that big library reference book. No, her efforts fell somewhere in between. Anyone looking at the painting could tell what it was of, but she tried to capture the spirit of the person, the glow that seemed to come from within.
She set up her easel and uncovered the half-finished painting she had started a couple of days before. She
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