Read Online What We Hold In Our Hands by Kim Aubrey - Free Book Online Page B

painting happily beside him, her rock edged and shadowed in three bold, innocent strokes.
    He tried to fix his painting, adding more rocks to conceal the blurry shadow, using a palette knife to scrape away some of the paint and create planes of light where the sun hit the foreground. But when he stepped back, he saw that the rocks were too big and too much alike, and the white sailboat, which was supposed to be sailing bravely out of the harbour, seemed to be drawn hopelessly towards them.
    â€œI’ve had enough,” he said.
    â€œLeaving early again?” Miriam asked.
    André packed up his paints and brushes. “I’ll finish it at home,” he said, knowing he wouldn’t. “My son’s waiting for me.”
    Intent on her painting, Katya didn’t respond, didn’t even look his way.
    â€œI’m done,” he said as he passed Barry at the front of the room.
    One side of Barry’s mouth turned up, more a grimace than a smile. “You should try to stay for the critique sometime. You might learn something.”
    André shrugged, and adjusted the shoulder strap of his black portfolio. “I have to get home to my son before bedtime.”
    Barry turned away. André stood there waiting for something—another word from his teacher, absolution, praise for being a good father, a wave from Katya, a nod from Miriam. But heads were lowered, intent on finishing touches, and Barry stood silent, immovable, arms crossed, ready for the students to bring him their paintings so he could place them one at a time on the easel for critique.
    André hurried out the door to the parking lot. Pulling his keys from his pocket, searching for the right one, he dropped them onto the pavement. “Goddamn!” He leaned his portfolio against the black Jeep, and bent down to retrieve the keys. The November night smelled fresh as spring, but, flushed with anger and hot in his leather jacket, he couldn’t enjoy it, didn’t know when he’d last enjoyed anything. He’d yet to finish a painting, and each week it seemed less and less likely that Katya would go out with him, that he’d even find the words to ask her.
    At home, he dropped his portfolio onto the floor next to Braden’s running shoes, removed his jacket, and hung it in the closet.
    â€œDaddy!” his son’s voice squealed from upstairs. “I’m still awake.”
    â€œI’ll be up in a minute,” André called. He unlaced his work shoes, slipped on leather moccasins, and headed for the kitchen, his footsteps echoing through the big, empty house. He imagined Katya sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of hot borscht, her lips crimson from the beets. Then, noticing the dirty dishes in the sink, his familiar anger flooded back. He’d planned to make hot chocolate for three—himself, Braden, and Bridget, the nanny. Now Bridget wouldn’t get a mug. He filled the kettle, and switched on the burner. She always let him down just when he’d started to hope she was on top of her job. She hadn’t even wiped the counters. She’d probably say Braden hadn’t left her alone for one minute, that she was hired as nanny not housekeeper. But he’d been very clear about her responsibilities when she’d first arrived. One good thing about Liz—she’d been fanatical about the house, couldn’t go to bed at night if the kitchen wasn’t clean, or out the door in the morning without vacuuming the wall-to-wall.
    He filled the mugs with hot water, stirred in the mix. No, he wasn’t in the mood for marshmallows tonight. Braden would be disappointed, but he just couldn’t reach into that high cupboard, undo the twist tie on the bag, smell that whiff of vanilla. Damn Liz! Even a marshmallow could remind him of her, how she used to bake for him during what she referred to as her Suzy Homemaker phase, when she’d taken a six-month leave from her job at