I shook my head. “I think it’s pretty well established that artistic ability is a genetic trait. So either my biological dad was an artist or I got it from my mom.”
“Definitely your mom,” he said, laughing.
I looked up at him and could feel the confusion written on my face. He held up the sketch. “Judging from this, I mean. I obviously don’t know your sperm donor.”
Then he cleared his throat and said, “That’s a nice-looking light thingy.”
My turn to laugh. “It’s a sconce,” I said. I patted his arm.
He sighed. “Is it that obvious that I’m out of my element?”
I tried to look sympathetic. “ ‘Light thingy’ kind of gave you away.” I paused and added, “But don’t worry. I don’t know a thing about creating a hot-dog empire like you did.”
We both laughed.
Jack stood up, and I thought he would turn to leave, but instead he paused, staring at me for a moment before he said, “Sloane, is there anything I can do for you?” He paused again and stuttered. “I mean, with Adam being in his, um, situation, you know, if you need anything at all, I’m here for you. I know we don’t know each other that well and people say these things, but I’m a man, and I don’t know what to say so I need to do something. And your mom says I can’t do anything for her. So I’m useless and lost.”
I smiled encouragingly. “You know, Jack, short of bringing my husband home in one piece, I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do.”
“Scott will find him,” Jack said confidently.
“I think so,” I said. I felt another shot of warmth toward Jack then. I knew everyone else thought I was crazy. They didn’t hide their concern and incredulity well. But I knew what I knew. And that was that Adam was coming home.
If only I felt as confident about Emerson’s health, everything would be OK. Grammy’s death had given her yet another great excuse not to get the tests the doctor recommended.
He nodded and turned, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
“Hey, Jack,” I called. He turned and raised his eyebrows. “Thank you. Really. I appreciate it, and I’ll let you know if you can do anything.”
He smiled, and I think he felt better. I felt better just remembering Scott was getting on an airplane to Iraq that night. I wanted to go with him. I honestly considered it. But when I confessed that to Emerson, who was a tiny bit sweeter than Mom or Caroline, she had said, “Oh, no, that’s a great idea, Sloane. Go ahead over to Iraq and get killed. Then Caroline will be raising your children.”
I loved Caroline. She was a great sister, but she was not the mother I wanted for my children.
We looked at each other and broke out into hysterical laughter. Like so many things in life, it wasn’t funny, but it kind of was.
I was thinking about Emerson and that laughter we had shared as I picked up my brush. I was proud of her and how she had grown. She seemed to be settling into a real relationship with Mark and was even helping take care of my kids.
I was changing too. I had gotten up my nerve to send AJ and Taylor to Mother’s Morning Out, which they had come to love so much that I was a little jealous. AJ actually got mad when it was Saturday and he couldn’t go. I’m not sure what that said about my mothering, but I was grateful for the time nonetheless. When I was painting or even just doing inventory at the store, my mind was so occupied that I couldn’t think about Adam or Grammy. All I could think about was the task at hand, and that was a wonderful feeling. I wondered what people who didn’t have a creative outlet did to clear their minds. Maybe those were the people who ran marathons. Like Caroline. Caroline couldn’t paint or write or draw or act. But, man, could that girl ever run. So, she ran herself right into that 11 percent body fat she was so obsessed with.
The bell tinkled on the door, and Sandra walked in, breaking me out of my thoughts. I smiled at her, and she smiled sadly back at me, which was when I remembered Grammy was dead, her funeral was this afternoon, and instead of standing here putting paint to canvas, I should have been at home helping my mom and sisters prepare.
“Were you sent here to make sure I hadn’t slit my wrists in the bathroom?” I asked.
Sandra laughed. “Something like that.”
I stood up, wiped my hands on my pants, and curtsied, making Sandra laugh. “I am all in one piece, blood free and not suicidal.”
Sandra nodded and scrunched her nose at me. “But isn’t that what suicidal people say?”
I grinned at her. “Scott is leaving after the funeral to go find my husband, so I’m fine. I’m hopeful.”
Sandra had been like an aunt to me growing up. She was the closest thing my mother had to a sister—except for maybe Emily—and she had always told me the hard things. She was there when I needed advice, and I felt like she knew me better than most people in my life. So when a concerned look passed across her face and she said, “Sloane . . .” with that air of “you’re delusional,” I wasn’t surprised.
I put my hands up. “Look, I get it. I know it’s insane to think my uncle is going to go to a foreign land and track down my missing husband. But you guys don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like when the love of your life is lost and you are completely powerless to do anything. It’s
