The Art of Healing (Coastal Dreams #2)

Prologue

DALLAS

Even though it was a Sunday, Keaton Maxwell awoke at four.

His body had long been tuned to rise well before the sun made an appearance.

Usually, he headed for the shed in Miss Peggy’s backyard and worked for an hour.

She had given him use of the shed years ago so that he had a place to paint.

It was small, only ten by twelve feet, but it was a place he could create to his heart’s content.

Today, he had high hopes that he would sell some of his paintings.

He had always had an artistic bent, sketching in class when he should have been listening to his teachers.

Because his attention wandered often, he had earned poor grades and had been labeled troubled.

His parents hadn’t pressed him about grades because they were drug addicts.

Their only interest was where their next fix came from. Keaton was some vague afterthought.

Because of that, he had grown resilient early.

He fed himself with whatever he could find in the apartment or from the garbage can he scoured regularly.

He’d learned to check the trash at restaurants, especially at closing time.

The help dumped all kinds of things, and he reaped the benefits of what patrons had left on their plates.

He also washed himself and kept his clothes as clean as he could.

As he got older, he learned about the free breakfast and lunch program for disadvantaged kids.

He asked someone in the attendance office for the forms when he was eight and filled them out, forging his mom’s signature.

By that time, his dad hardly ever came around.

When he did, his parents fought. Not just verbally but knock your teeth out kind of fights.

Keaton learned to avoid being around them when they were together because all they did was fight or get high.

His big mistake had been calling out his dad when he came home after dumpster diving for dinner one night and caught the old man going through his worn backpack.

Keaton kept what little money he earned in the backpack, collecting and selling lost balls from a local golf course.

When he came home that night and found his dad stuffing money from the backpack into his own pocket, he lost it.

He cursed at him. Tried to take the money away, knowing it would just go for the next fix. The next line of coke.

Even though his dad looked like a cadaver from his drug use, he packed a wallop of a punch.

Keaton was used as a punching bag for several minutes, trying to fight back.

His mom jumped into the fray, trying to steal the money while she was striking them both.

Some neighbor called the cops, and the next thing he knew, he was being carted away and placed in temporary foster care.

Temporary became permanent after a court case that dragged on for almost two years.

His parents lost parental rights to their own flesh and blood when Keaton turned ten and entered the foster system permanently.

No one had to tell him that ten-year-old troubled boys weren’t the kind of kids who were eagerly adopted.

He went from home to home. From bad to worst. Finally, he landed in a place with six foster kids, all boys.

He stayed there for two years, until he turned eighteen and aged out of the system at the end of April.

The asshole caregivers didn’t even let him finish out his final month of high school before they cut him loose.

If it hadn’t been for Miss Peggy, who lived across the street and took him in, Keaton wouldn’t have earned his high school diploma.

Not that he had many options once he graduated.

He’d sleepwalked through school, doing the bare minimum to get by.

Though he loved his art classes, he couldn’t afford to go to some fancy art school.

He was good with his hands, though, and Miss Peggy had a friend who ran a construction crew.

Frank Peterson did remodeling jobs in Highland Park, an exclusive enclave surrounded by Dallas.

Highland Park folks were mostly white, obscenely rich, and had a penchant for constantly having their homes redone.

It didn’t take long for Keaton to learn how to do all kinds of physical handiwork.

He painted interiors and exteriors. Learned how to put in kitchen sinks, backsplashes, and new countertops.

He laid wood flooring and then learned to build cabinets, which also led to jobs redoing people’s closets.

That had been the last dozen years of his life.

Living in a room he rented from Miss Peggy.

Working on Frank’s crew. Getting up early to paint mornings and reading books Miss Peggy checked out for him at the library after she fed him dinner at night.

She was interested in all kinds of topics.

History. Architecture. Art. Politics. When she saw how little education he had retained, Miss Peggy embarked upon a crash course of educating Keaton.

He read the books she brought home. They talked about them.

That was his life.

Now, though, he had begun testing the waters with his paintings.

He’d signed up and paid for the booth space at two arts and crafts shows this spring.

Surprisingly, he had sold five of his paintings.

Today he had space at a festival held downtown at Klyde Warren Park, a public park built on top of a freeway by some billionaire.

It was an oasis of green space, running three city blocks, and dedicated to the public.

It had children’s areas. Reading spaces.

Fountains and game areas. Food trucks of all types were always parked around its edges.

It was the cool, go-to place for many Dallasites and even people from the surrounding suburbs.

And Keaton hoped that today his art would be noticed.

Klyde Warren was on the edge of Dallas’ Arts District.

It also had some fancy restaurants on its perimeter and nearby.

He’d heard some art galleries sent employees to scope out new artists.

If someone recognized that he had talent, he might be able to hang up his tool belt and finally devote himself to his art.

Of course, that was the pipe dream. In reality, he simply wanted to sell some paintings.

Maybe cut back from working on Frank’s crews from six days a week to five.

Having Saturdays to himself in order to paint would be a luxury.

He dressed quickly and went to the shed, loading paintings into his ten-year-old sedan, then locking it. Returning inside, he showered, putting on fresh clothes, and shaved. When he went to the kitchen, Miss Peggy was already seated at the table, sipping a cup of coffee.

“Got the car loaded?” she asked.

Keaton nodded. “I’m taking twenty paintings to display. Have easels for two.”

“And payment?”

“The last couple of shows I let people Venmo or Zelle me, but I talked to a guy about Square. I got the app, so I can use it to sell today. People can just tap their card.”

“I hope some good comes out of today, Keaton. You’ve devoted yourself to your art for a long time.”

He put a pod into the coffeemaker. “Yup. A dozen years now.”

She got up and went to the counter, lifting the lid off something. Lifting it, she brought it toward him.

It was a cake.

“You remembered,” he said, his eyes misting over.

“I would never forget your birthday, young man. Although can I say young? After all, you are thirty today,” she teased. “Should I start looking for gray in your hair?”

He laughed and then grew serious. “Thank you, Miss Peggy. Not just for the cake, but for everything. You gave me not only a place to live. You gave me a home. You’ve been both friend and mentor to me.”

She set down the cake. Making light, she said, “I’m just glad you put up with my foolishness. I know I’ve tried to cram a ton of info into you over the years.”

“You have,” he agreed, taking his mug of coffee and turning off the coffeemaker. “But I’ve learned about everything from the Renaissance to how Wall Street works to how to make an omelet. The cooking lessons have fed me physically. The book knowledge has fed my soul.”

Miss Peggy touched his cheek. “I wish I had money. I wish I could give you some so that you could travel. See places around the world. Draw inspiration.”

“Hey, we watch Rick Steves all the time on PBS. He’s shown us everything from cities along the Danube to the Hagia Sophia. It was a helluva lot less expensive that way, watching from the couch.”

Keaton took a sip of the coffee. “And if I do start selling my paintings, who knows? Maybe I’ll make enough to up and move to Italy for a year and paint. You could come with me. Learn how to make pasta and drink really good wine.”

“I’d like that,” she said wistfully.

For a moment, he caught something in her eyes. Something she was holding back. He didn’t press her, though. If Miss Peggy had something to share with him, she’d do it in her own sweet time. She’d always respected his privacy, and it was something he had done, as well.

“Well, I’m going to get ready for church,” she declared. “It’s my turn in the rotation to set out the coffee and donuts after Sunday school this morning. Good luck today.”

“Thanks.”

She left the room, and he whipped up some scrambled eggs and toast for himself.

Miss Peggy never ate breakfast. In fact, she didn’t eat much, despite being a fine cook.

She never had much of an appetite, but lately, she seemed to not eat at all.

Now that he thought about it, she was thinner than usual.

A sense of dread filled him. Keaton told himself not to go there. To focus on one day at a time—and today was all about his art.