It was an oil painting of a dark-haired woman with a couple of small children, all walking along the beach. She was in the center, wearing a yellow sundress and holding the nearest hand of each child. Both were boys. Each wore navy shorts and a short-sleeved, classic white button-down shirt.
Was it a mom and her kids? That was my guess.
The concept wasn't unusual. And yet, for some reason, I couldn’t look away. Why was that? Maybe it was the facial expressions that drew me in. They conjured up feelings of love and absolute security – emotions I'd found sadly lacking ever since the death of my parents.
I was still looking at the painting. "Do you know if this was painted recently?"
While waiting for his answer, I gave the subjects' clothing a better look. The outfits weren't exactly modern, but they weren't terribly old-fashioned either.
It was the same with the hairstyles. The woman's hair was long and flowing. As for the boys, their hair looked delightfully disheveled, like they'd just been caught in a summer breeze.
Based purely on the clothing and hair styles, the painting had to be less than fifty years old, but its exact age remained a mystery. There was a timeless quality that made it impossible to place.
Even now, I couldn’t stop staring. "You don't know who painted it, do you?"
When he still didn't answer, I turned to give him a questioning look.
He asked, "Why'd you uncover it?"
Instantly, heat flooded my face. Until just a few minutes ago, a large white sheet had been thrown over the painting, hiding it from view. I looked down at the sheet, now wadded up in my arms. "Sorry, I guess it's a bad habit." I gave an awkward laugh. "Family history and all."
Silently, Joel took the sheet from my hands and began to move around me, as if preparing to cover the painting up again.
"Wait," I said. "You never answered my question. Do you know who painted it?"
"Yeah." He tossed the sheet over the painting. "Me."
I did a double-take. "What?"
He looked toward his car. "You ready to go?"
"Not yet." My mind was reeling. "You saidyoupainted that?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Because you never mentioned it."
"Mentioned what?"
"That you were a painter." I looked toward the painting, now hidden from view. Even now, in my mind's eye, I could still see it.
I was an art history major and the daughter of a famous artist. I was familiar with practically all of the popular names and styles. Even if Joel had only copied the painting, it was an amazing reproduction.
I asked, "What did you paint it from?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, is it a copy of something? Like another painting?"
"No."
I hesitated. "A photograph?"
"No." Again, he glanced toward his car. "Ready to head out?"
I looked toward his car and then back to him. "Why are you so anxious to leave?"
"Because I've got the stuff we came for."
