Free Summer Breeze by Nancy Thayer Page B

intent on his work. Children have done that for centuries, and here he is, one particular child. It would be something eternal and ephemeral at the same time.”
    “Why not do it?”
    “For one thing, how long is he going to keep still?” Natalie asked.
    “Here’s a solution.” Morgan reached into her pocket, took out her cell phone, and snapped a few shots of her son. She handed her phone to Natalie. “The resolution isn’t great.…”
    “And the lighting will change every day,” Natalie mused aloud. She stood up, pulled out her own phone, and took a few steps back, clicking shots at different angles. “Clouds, shadow, the earth’s angle to the sun, but still … Wait. I have a better camera. I’ll be right back.” She sprinted away.
    Morgan held her breath. Her son could grow bored in an instant; she didn’t dare move for fear of distracting him. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Natalie did a portrait of Petey!
    A minute passed. A bumblebee buzzed over to check out Morgan’s hair. She didn’t even twitch. The bee flew away. Petey continued to pour sand into the bowl. The sunlight fell on his strawberry blond curls, turning them into a mystical substance, liquid fire. His dimpled hands clutched the spoon fiercely as he cautiously, trying not to spill even one grain of sand, raised the spoon from the beach to the bowl. He would be a good chemist, she realized.
    But where was Natalie? Petey wouldn’t do this forever! She heard a click and turned her head. Natalie was on the deck with a camera, snapping photos. Morgan relaxed. She sipped her tea.
    By the time Natalie returned to the beach, Petey had become bored with this project and was toddling around the lawn, looking for bugs and falling over.
    “He’s still working on the walking thing,” Morgan told Natalie. “Did you get the shots you wanted?”
    “I think so. I’ll start tomorrow morning to see what I can do, and if the weather’s good, maybe you two can come back over.”
    “Great,” Morgan said. “But I do have one stipulation if you’re going to use my son as your model.”
    “Oh?” Natalie was looking down at her camera, clicking through the shots.
    “I want to buy the abstract. Today. We’re having Josh’s boss over for drinks this Friday, and I want to hang the painting in the living room.”
    “Oh, Morgan, just borrow the damned thing!”
    Morgan grinned. “Uh-uh. I’m paying you for it.” She picked up her son, whose diaper sagged against his sandy shorts. “I’ll carry him. You can carry the painting over. Now.”

5

    F irst, Natalie thought, she’d do a quick sketch of Petey on the beach with a charcoal pencil on a sheet of her less expensive paper. She selected her favorite photo taken of Petey in the sand by the lake, uploaded it onto her computer, and zoomed it as big as her computer screen would take it without distorting it.
    Next, she put on her music, some CDs she’d burned, a mix of upbeat and mellow, and set the volume at low. She picked up her pencil and put it down.
    Standing in front of her easel, she stared at the digitalized shot of the little boy, letting her eyes blur as she took in the background: the golden sand, blue water, green trees all around him. Her pencil waggled in her hand as she loosened her wrist. She hadn’t done portraiture for years. She wasn’t sure what she was doing. This would be only a sketch. When she used oils, she could bring out the radiance of the child’s hair, the bloom of his fresh skin, the gentle spread of light around him. For now she wanted to capture only line, shape, and shadow. His profile was to her as he squatted in the sand. His hand was halfway between the ground and the bowl, the small spoon heavy, clutched tightly in his hand, his entire body tensed with the effort not to spill the sand.
    Her own hand lifted. She didn’t think. She hummed to the music. She swayed slightly with the beat. She touched the charcoal pencil to the paper and swooped a line, the