two of you run and tell your father that I will be happy to help him fix the windmill?”
They nodded solemnly.
“I’ll be down there sometime this afternoon. But I need the two of you to do me a favor,” he said, making his tone conspiratorial.
“Okay,” Minnie whispered.
“Please don’t tell Calhoun or anybody else that I was up here or that I was painting.”
“Thinking about painting,” Kenny reminded him. “You haven’t painted anything yet.”
Crockett sighed at his childish honesty. “True. Off you go, both of you, and remember, this is our secret. Only the two of you know where to find me.”
“Okay.” Minnie’s eyes shone. “We’re great at keeping secrets!”
He thought about the jibe that Calhoun probably hadn’t meant for his kids to overhear and repeat. “I know you are,” he said. “Thanks.”
They hugged him, then carefully descended the ladder.
“Hey, kids,” Crockett heard someone say. He froze as he recognized Valentine’s voice. “What are you two doing up there?”
His heart seemed to stop beating as he waited for Minnie and Kenny to reply. He did not want Valentine to visit the one place where he could hide out and try to paint her out of his memory.
“We were looking for something,” Minnie said. “It’s kind of dusty up there, though, and there’s not anything interesting.”
He grimaced. More honesty.
“Attics are fun to look through,” Valentine said. “My sister and I used to have an attic. Here, let me help you close it.”
Crockett heard the stairs fold, then boom! The attic door closed, securely locking him away with his floundering creativity.
“Wonderful,” he grumbled, feeling more moody and soulful than ever. Quickly, he strode to the window, looking down into the yard. He was rewarded by the sight of Valentine walking with Kenny and Minnie across the lawn.
He loved looking at Valentine. Okay, so maybe he was spying, but she was so feminine that he even enjoyed watching her walk away.
Just then, Minnie turned around, her little face tipped up in his direction. Very discreetly, she waved.
He jumped away from the window, his heart beating hard. Too close. He had to stop getting funky over that little package of female dynamite. Back to my creation.
After a long fruitless period of staring at the blank canvas, his cell phone rang, startling him out of his churning thoughts. “Hello?”
“Crockett, it’s Calhoun. Minnie says you’re going to help me with the windmill.”
“Yeah,” Crockett said reluctantly, knowing that Valentine had walked the kids home. She would be at Calhoun’s house. Even if he didn’t want to avoid her, which he did, he was trapped in the attic. The biggest problem of the two was Valentine, hands down. “Not right now,” he said.
“When?” Calhoun asked. “Valentine’s here. Olivia says she’ll whip up some barbecue if you want to head this way. She’s going to teach Valentine how to ride Gypsy after supper.”
That would be worth seeing, but he knew he shouldn’t see it. “Tell Olivia thanks, but I can’t do it, dude.”
“Why?
“I’m busy,” Crockett said. “Look for me tomorrow.” He snapped the phone off and sat in front of his canvas again, trying to gather his scattered thoughts.
Then it came to him. He should start easy, with a warm-up. Nothing difficult. Something that would waken his muse and loosen up his inner artist.
A small challenge would totally keep his mind off Valentine and how she would look while learning to ride the cagey Gypsy. A still life would keep him from sitting here thinking about how all of Valentine seemed to bounce so cutely whenever she…well, bounced.
A pear would be the perfect thing to paint. “A pear in a bowl,” he murmured. “Very still.”
Slowly, his hand unsure, he trailed his first colored stroke against the empty whiteness.
“IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE supernatural,” Crockett heard someone whisper. “Don’t you get it?”
“I think it’s extraterrestrial maybe.” The voice sounded puzzled. “Could be a heart, Van Gogh style. With something cut off. Wasn’t Van Gogh famous for cutting things off?”
“I don’t quite see that,” came the quiet reply. “I think it’s a woman’s buttocks.”
Crockett’s eyes snapped open. Last and Mason were standing over him, staring at his painting. He jumped to his feet. “What the hell?” he demanded, trying to cover his precious secret from their puzzled glances.
“Sorry,” Mason said. “We sent out a search team for you when you didn’t hit the table for supper. It’s not like you to miss a meal.”
“Nope,” Last said, his eyes huge. “What the hell is that thing you painted? And why are you up here, hiding out with the dust bunnies?”
“So you wouldn’t bug me,” Crockett snapped. “And I wish I’d stayed hidden. I’m feeling very intruded upon.”
Last’s eyes widened. “We were worried about you.”
“Entirely unnecessary.” He’d just gotten tired and had decided to stretch out and rest his eyes. “How’d you find me up here?”
Mason shrugged. “There’s all kinds of dirt on the floor from the attic door being opened. I don’t guess anybody’s been up here in ages. We really ought to clean it out.” Glancing around, he sighed. “When we have time.”
“So, what did you paint?” Last said. “Mason thinks it’s a Picasso-style heart—”
“Van Gogh,” Mason corrected.
“I’m thinking the red tones are sexual,” Last said. “The curves are feminine and delicate, so it’s probably a woman’s fanny. It almost reminds me of Georgia O’Keeffe. You know how she revealed the sexual nature of women when she painted those petals.” Last scratched his head as he looked at his brother. “But you never think about sex when you’re holding a paintbrush. I probably just didn’t get your vision. Let me have another look.”
“No!” Crockett hopped away with his overcritiqued treasure. Gently, he set it down where it could dry in peace. “Look, do you guys mind getting the hell out?”
“No problem, Picasso,” Mason said. “But since it seems your creativity has fizzled for the moment, you think we could get you to come down for supper?”
“Why not?” Crockett said, following them down the stairs. “I have nothing better to do than be harassed by my brothers.”
“Excellent.”
