down the legs, and all the unrelated but individually striking paintings on the walls. There was a seascape, a still life, a wild pattern of some sort, a languorous nude in the grass and a large canvas covered with what looked like a conveyor belt with rabbits on wheels careening off it. A bright sun shone, smiling birds flew around the rabbits and in the background ducks on a pond bathed happily. He stepped forward for a closer look.
The painting defied explanation. He’d always thought he preferred representational art—a pot of flowers, a portrait, a familiar scene—but this brought a smile and seemed to inspire in him a sense of good cheer. It was ridiculous, but somehow enjoyable. The signature on the bottom right read “RLM.”
He heard light laughter behind him. “That’s called Hare Raising.” It was Bobbie’s voice.
He continued to study the canvas. “Really. It’s wild. I’m surprised that I like it, but I do. Who’s RLM?”
“I am.”
He turned to her in surprise. She had an armload of books, papers and boxes, and a canvas tote she was trying to put it all in. He took the bag from her and held it open. “So, Bobbie is for, what? Roberta rather than Barbara?”
“Right.” She dropped everything inside, then took the bag from him and gave it an adjusting shake. She handed it back. “Roberta Louise Molloy. That was my one foray into surrealism.”
“I think of myself as a traditionalist, but I really like it.”
“I did, too, when I did it. It was toward the end of my first round of chemo and I had to dig deep for energy and enthusiasm, so I tried something new. I had a dream one night about a similar scene. I added the birds and the ducks just because I like them. But I haven’t been able to find that feeling again.”
He looked at the painting once more, then at her. “The feeling of a frightened rabbit on a wild ride?”
She blinked and stared. He was obviously on target, but he felt sure she didn’t appreciate it. Something shifted in her eyes as she lowered them and closed him out. He could almost hear the sound of a slamming door.
She gave him an artificial smile. “Yes. That was perceptive. I think you probably understand the boys better than you think you do.” She walked ahead of him to the door and opened it for him.
He paused in the entry before she physically pushed him out. Instinct told him that was coming next. “Thank you.” He held up the bag. “Dylan will be very happy.”
“You’re welcome. See you on Halloween.”
He stepped onto the porch as the door began to close.
It was clear that, for whatever reason, she didn’t like being understood. Which was probably best. He didn’t want her to become a chummy neighbor and understand that he was a deeply angry man who wasn’t dealing very well with his life, and had no idea how to raise two lost and frightened little boys.
God, he missed Ben.
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