Free Summer Breeze by Nancy Thayer

body and slowly, step by step, went down the stairs, through the hall, and into the kitchen.
    By now, Natalie had joined Petey on the floor and added a red colander and a set of measuring cups to their timpani. Petey was intent on his hammering, crawling from one pot to another, and Natalie was hitting various items with a whisk while singing, “I don’t want to work, I want to bang on the drum all day!”
    Morgan set the painting on the floor, shoved her hand into her pants pocket, and yanked out her cell phone. She took a video of the pair, and just in time, because Natalie looked up and saw her.
    Natalie stood up. “My ears are ringing. Don’t tell me you got us on video.”
    “And it’s going right to YouTube.”
    “I don’t think so. Look at him. He’s still banging away. Doesn’t he ever get tired?”
    “Not tired, no. He’ll get bored in a while and crawl off to wreak havoc somewhere else.”
    “Let’s go down to the beach,” Natalie suggested. “Sand is quieter.”
    “Good idea. Let’s take the Tupperware and a spoon for him to play with.”
    “And I’ll bring some iced tea for us.”
    Morgan scooped up Petey and some bowls. Natalie carried the iced tea and a spoon. They went out the kitchen door onto the deck and down the wooden steps to the flagstones leading through the short stretch of lawn to the beach. When Petey saw the sand, he struggled to get there.
    “I could fetch chairs …” Natalie offered.
    “No, sitting on the ground is just fine.” Morgan established Petey in the sand and sat cross-legged next to him, leaning back on her elbows, lifting her face to the sun. “What a great day.”
    The beach was wide and ran up from the water a good ten feet. A short wooden pier extended between Natalie’s house and the Barnabys’, with a wooden boathouse a few feet away from the lake, which today reflected a cloudless blue sky. Oaks, birches, and pines grew in all the yards, casting shadows that would be welcome in the heat of deep summer and providing homes for the birds who chirped and rustled among the leaves. From across the water came an occasional note of music or the industrious hammering of the fellow whom they could see repairing the roof of his boathouse.
    Natalie handed Morgan a glass of iced tea and took a long sip of her own. “The sun feels so good on my shoulders.”
    “Is painting hard physically?” Morgan asked.
    “Not really. Sometimes I get stiff.” She yawned. “This is nice.”
    “Natalie, I found the painting I want. It’s called Romance . I saw the label on the back, so obviously you exhibited it at least once.”
    “And no one bought it,” Natalie said.
    “Because it was waiting for me to buy it,” Morgan retorted. Then, because she could tell that Natalie was struggling, she said, “Natalie. Listen. I really like that painting. But I’d be the first person to admit that I know nothing about art. Plus, not to be rude or ignorant, I probably could tell a first-rate still life from a bad one, but with abstract art … it all looks incomprehensible to me. But this painting has spirit . It has emotional power .”
    Natalie smiled shyly. “Thanks.” Her eyes were cast down, her face shadowed.
    “I want to buy it.” When Natalie didn’t respond, Morgan coaxed, “It would only be next door. You could come visit it anytime.”
    Natalie’s posture straightened. She lifted her chin and stared straight at Morgan. “Look. I’m not an abstract artist. That painting is not my best work.”
    Morgan cocked her head. “And yet, I like it.”
    Natalie snorted, exasperated.
    “Listen, Natalie, what if it were hanging in a gallery? What if I saw it there? I’d buy it, and I’d have no idea what the artist thought about it, right?”
    Natalie picked up a handful of sand and let it drift through her fingers as she thought. “I see what you’re saying.” After a moment, she admitted, “I’m struggling with my still life, too.”
    Morgan could tell that