The Things We Knew by Catherine West Page B

lighter.
    They talked awhile longer, and then, for some reason he couldn’t explain, he let Cecily pray for him.

Chapter Eight
    B y the second week in June, Lynette felt more hopeful. Her paintings were selling, and things at home were bearable, for now.
    She parked outside Evy’s gallery after work that Friday with another painting. Flowers cascaded from the ancient water trough in the middle of the street—blue and white lobelia and other summer blooms on glorious display.
    “Spectacular,” Evy crowed, clapping her hands at Lynette’s latest offering.
    “Thanks.” Lynette poked around the gallery, checked out the new work hanging rather than studying her own. “I can’t believe my stuff is selling. Jamison is much better. His pieces haven’t moved.”
    Evy laughed and went behind the desk. “Jamison is fantastic. But he’s Matisse. You’re more like Norman Rockwell. People like that. They can lose themselves in your story.”
    “Who’s buying my paintings?” Lynette faced her friend, suddenly curious. She hadn’t bothered to ask before, but she wanted to know now, having seen her competition.
    “Here’s your cash, sweets.” Evy handed over an envelope.
    Lynette did a quick count and gaped. “Seriously?”
    “Four paintings. I think I’ll raise the price on these. We are in high season, after all.”
    “Evy.” Lynette dropped the envelope into her purse. “Some poor old lady doesn’t realize she’s throwing her money down the toilet. You’re probably committing a thousand sins here, you know.”
    “The only sin is you not selling your work before now.” Evy peered over the rim of her spectacles. “If you must know, our buyer is hardly a poor old lady. He’s young. And very easy on the eyes. Although he’s not my type.” Wheezy laughter rang through the gallery as Evy reached for a black Chanel clutch and produced a gold lipstick case.
    “So the same person is buying all my paintings?”
    “Well, not all of them. But a few, yes.”
    Lynette watched Evy apply a generous amount of fuchsia to her lips. “Somebody from the city? That figures.” She shook her head. It didn’t matter. The cash would cover the next month’s round of bills. Mr. City Slicker was welcome to her paintings.
    “You look tired, hon.” Evy leaned over the counter and studied her with the all-knowing look Lynette had learned not to dodge.
    “I am, I guess.” She dragged her fingers through her hair, lack of sleep doing a smackdown. “Things are getting worse with my dad.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that. Medical care is expensive.” Evy pushed up her glasses with the top of a pencil. “I should know. Took about every cent I had paying off my first husband’s medical bills. Thankfully husband number two had more money than Solomon.”
    “What happened to him?” Lynette wasn’t so sure she wanted to know.
    “Oh, nothing.” Evy gave a throaty chuckle. “He was old. Passed away peacefully in his sleep.”
    “And left you a fortune.”
    Evy nodded and perused the gallery. “He did indeed. I sometimes wonder why I’m still here on this island instead of traveling the world.”
    “You told me you hated to fly.”
    “I suppose that would be one reason.” Evy laughed, then took on a pensive look. “Sometimes, though, it’s good to face your fears, isn’t it?”
    “Not always.” Lynette reached for a chocolate from the bowl on the counter, unwrapped the foil, and popped it in her mouth. “I just found out my father let the medical insurance slide. Everyone is pressuring me to put the house on the market. Even Nick.”
    “Nick?”
    Lynette scrunched up her nose. “Nick Cooper. He’s our neighbor. He works at the bank. You know, those Coopers? I went to see him a couple weeks ago. He was kind enough to tell me we’re about ready for an extended stay in the poorhouse.”
    She sank into one of Evy’s round leather objects that passed for a chair, leaned against the soft cushion, and closed her eyes.