Page 98 of Summer Reading

“So, you two are dating?” Moira asked.

I didn’t wait for Ben to answer this time. “Ben and I haven’t decided what we are, which is between us.” This was true. We’d never really nailed down what we wanted to call each other, other than our person. I glanced at Ben and saw raw admiration in his eyes. I imagined very few people held their own with his mother. I sat up straighter. “I consider Ben an important part in my life, which is why I’ve been trying to help him find his father.”

I turned back to Moira. Her lips flattened into a tight line and her blue-gray eyes were matte. They didn’t sparkle like sunshine on the waves like Ben’s did.

“Why would you do that?” she asked. She didn’t sound angry, merely perplexed.

“Because I asked her to,” Ben said. It went unspoken that it was because Moira refused to tell him.

“What’s important to Ben is important to me,” I said. I glanced at Ben and nodded. He held out his hand and I put my phone in his palm.

He held it up so his mother could see. “The man in this photo, the guitarist, is he my father?”

The world went perfectly still. The birds stopped singing, the breeze halted, even the waves on the beach ceased while we waited for her answer.

She took the phone out of his hand and studied the picture. Her face softened and a small smile turned up the corners of her lips. It felt as if her inner thermostat rose a couple of degrees, not approaching any sort of genuine warmth, just removing the frost.

“I remember this,” she said. Moira glanced at me. “Your father was a wonderful drummer. He had more enthusiasm than talent but sometimes that’s more important.”

She handed the phone to me and I waited for her to tell me about the guitar player, but she didn’t. I handed the phone back to Ben, sensing he wanted to keep possession of the picture.

“My brother, Tyler, found the picture on the wall of fame at the Grape, the bakery in town,” I said to Moira. “It’s from 1989.”

“Really?” She sipped her tea.

Ben looked up at his mother and then back at the screen. He rubbed the knuckles of his free hand against his chest as if trying soothe himself.

“Who is the guitarist?” Ben pressed Moira.

“Everyone loved your father,” she said to me, ignoring Ben.

I studied her face. There was a faraway look in her eyes as if she was reliving a precious moment in time.

“Tony Gale was everyone’s little brother,” she continued.

“And the other man?” Ben asked. His voice was fierce. “Who is the guitar player?”

Moira stared at him and then she stood up, pushing her chair back. She turned to me. “Did you see the piece I’m working on?” It was clear that I was to follow her. “Come, I’ll show you.”

I glanced at Ben. His eyes narrowed and his jaw was clenched, and I remembered the conversation we had where he had pretended to be his mother. His impression had been more spot-on than I realized. She simply ignored our questions. Maddening!

Perhaps, if we double-teamed her, we could wear her down. I fell in behind Moira as she strode into the studio. She gestured to the piece that looked like a large metal flame with the woman inside. She stood in front of it, studying it.

“It’s not there yet. It needs something,” she said. She turned to me. “What do you think of it?”

Oh, shit. Was this a test? Was this how she’d determined whether she would answer our questions or not? I had no idea what to say. I’d never really had a great passion for art. I liked some things and didn’t like others. Modern art bewildered me, and mall art made me queasy.

“It’s impressive,” I said. Bullshitting 101, try to appease the other person’s ego.

“Why?” Moira asked.

“Because it’s massive,” I said. I stared up at the piece. I wasn’t wrong, but I sensed this was not what she was looking for. We were so screwed.

“Here’s my artist’s statement.” Moira plucked a piece of paper off a nearby table and handed it to me. “Read it out loud.”

“Uh...” I glanced at the paper. Of course it wasn’t in a dyslexic-friendly font.

“I’ll read it,” Ben said.

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