“Ireland,” he stated, never taking his eyes off his work.
I straightened. “Yes, sir. About Ireland.”
His brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m going to Ireland. I have to get my….” He trailed off, then kinda gestured to the canvas. “I have to… do this before I can start.”
Step into their world.
That’s the other thing Ireland had told Delly.
Shifting my plan, I leaned toward him. “Before you start what, Mr. Beck?”
He looked surprised at my question, tucking his hair behind his hair, just like his daughter.
A daughter I didn’t think he remembered at all right now.
“I applied for years. For the…. For five years there. Ireland. Painting in the countryside. Classes and….” He stopped painting, frowning as he lost his thoughts again.
I smiled at him. “You got in?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes. Five years there. In Ireland.”
“Congratulations.”
He sent me a smile, and it might’ve been the first real one he’d ever given me.
The Sewells had powerful smiles, made even more so with how closely they guarded them.
“I thought it was never going to happen for me,” he said, sighing heavily. “Was gonna give up by forty. And now my… my fucking hills.”
I craned my neck to look at the painting, and my stomach sank. I’d seen enough of Beck’s artwork to know his usual style, the precision of his strokes.
This was not that. It was strokes of chaos, haphazard and disjointed.
He painted a few more of those angry strokes and then set down his brush. “This song…,” he said. “This song.”
I tilted my head and listened.
And when you get the chance, you are the dancing queen
Dancing Queen. He’d written that on the lid of Ireland’s trashed cake.
“Mr. Beck,” I started, knowing I was running out of time. “I’m in love with your daughter.”
His gaze slid over me, but he still seemed lost in the music, tapping his finger on his thigh along to the beat.
“I want to ask Ireland to marry me. And I’d love your blessing to do so.”
No matter how many times I said it out loud, it still made my heart beat wildly at the words, and at waiting for what he might say.
The only response that could be worse than the last time I asked (“The fuck if I know. Now move, you’re blocking my light.”) would be a clear “No.”
“Ireland,” he said under his breath, finally lowering his brush. “I’ve never been to Ireland.”
I shifted in my chair, making sure I was nowhere near his light. “Have you ever been in love, Mr. Beck?”
“I’m….” His eyes slid to me, a sliver of clarity returning to them. “I’m… not sure.”
Ireland had mentioned her dad’s flings burning hot and fast, and that her birth, a result of one of them, was the reason he’d never made that trip to Ireland.
