Chapter 16 #3
It was hard to learn that Dad had artistic talent and yet had never pursued it. She would honor his memory by hanging this painting in a prominent spot at the Bay Breeze.
Layne came to her feet and took the painting downstairs with her. In the better light, she could see the fine brushstrokes of each wave, and she hoped the remaining framed works upstairs were all painted by her dad.
Over the next hour, she read the letters Mom had written to Dad before their marriage.
It was obvious how much Mom loved and missed her boyfriend, but she never pressured him to come back to Texas.
In fact, Mom had a plan to join him in Chicago.
She had found a secretarial school and been accepted to it, writing with joy how she would go through the program it offered and then find a job so Jack could finish art school and have plenty of time to paint.
Obviously, that had never come to pass. Jack Larson had returned to his hometown and married Lark the next summer.
She knew her dad had been a carpenter during the early years of his marriage, and then he and Mom had bought the Bay Breeze.
Dad was the inn’s handyman and handled all the books, while Mom did the cooking and cleaning for guests.
She truly believed her parents had a happy marriage, but she couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if Dad hadn’t listened to his father’s demands to return to the Bay and instead continued with his art.
Now, she would never be able to ask him and learn those answers.
“Hey, what’re you up to?”
Layne looked up, seeing Keaton had arrived.
“My dad was an artist,” she told him, seeing him frown. “I’ve been cleaning out the attic. I found letters. This painting.”
She indicated the framed art, and Keaton came and raised it, studying it carefully.
“Your dad painted this? Layne, it’s amazing.”
“I know. I never knew he could paint. In fact, he discouraged me from doing so because his own father said Dad couldn’t earn a living pursuing art. I didn’t even remember him nudging me in the direction of math until I discovered all this.”
“Are there more paintings of his?” Keaton asked.
“Yes. In the attic.”
“Let’s bring them down.”
They went upstairs, making a couple of trips, until all dozen paintings were in the common room. Keaton scattered them across the room, and they went from one to the next, marveling at Jack Larson’s skill.
Eight of the paintings were landscapes, done in and around the Driftwood Bay area.
Two were portraits of her mother, one as a bride and one while she was pregnant with Layne.
One painting was of Layne when she was perhaps three or so.
She didn’t recall sitting for it and realized her dad had known her well enough not to need her to pose for him.
The final one must have been completed a dozen years ago, and she ached that he had never shared it with her.
It was a family portrait, with Layne in her high school graduation gown, Mom and Dad on either side of her.
She remembered Dr. Perry had taken a picture of the three of them, and Dad must have used it as his guide.
Her mom had kept it on the bureau in the bedroom.
It was one of the few things Layne had held on to when she cleaned everything out.
“He had remarkable talent,” Keaton said. “Most people who do landscapes can’t paint portraits, and vice-versa. Jack Larson did both with ease.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry he was discouraged from making art his profession.”
“My grandfather was a difficult man. I can see where he beat Dad down. Not physically, but emotionally. Dad was the kind of guy who liked to please others, and he would’ve been that way about his own parents. It just hurts so much to see how these were put away for so long.”
Keaton rubbed her back. “He might have had a hard time looking at them. It probably was painful for him to have set aside what he wanted to do. Displaying these paintings would have been a reminder of the dreams he’d had to set aside.”
“Well, I plan to hang these throughout the Bay Breeze. At least the landscapes. I want to keep the portraits.”
“You should,” he encouraged.
“I turned my back on art years ago because I was a daddy’s girl. I wonder if I still have any artistic ability? I told you I didn’t have an eye for anything. It might be a case of use it or lose it.”
“Possibly, but you’re welcome to use any of my sketchbooks or paints. I can teach you a little about oil paints. How to blend them. How to create shadow and light. Even how to clean the brushes.”
“I’ll have to think about it, Keaton. This is a lot to absorb. I need some time to process things.”
He wrapped his arms around her. “Take all the time you need. We can have one artist in the family—or two. No rush.”
His words warmed her. “Thanks for being so supportive.”
“You’ll find what you’re meant to do. You may stick with business. You may investigate art. Whatever, I’m here for you, Layne.”
Keaton kissed her, and her world was right again.