Free Cooking for Picasso by Camille Aubray Page B

the same day Grandma Ondine had a heart attack, right?” I said softly. As a child I’d felt slightly guilty about it, as if I’d somehow inadvertently caused her death. Later, in my more mystical teenage years, I told myself that my grandmother had somehow passed the baton to me that day. So now, holding on to this elegant, leather-bound book, I felt that “baton” in my hands for the first time.
    “Yes. It happened when I was at the hospital. A neighbor looked in on Grandma and called the doctor. She died at home that day—the doctor said she went quickly and didn’t suffer.”
    We both fell silent. Mom’s face was puckered with regret as she said sadly, “They kept me in the hospital for weeks because I was anemic and caught bronchitis. So your father had to deal with Grandmother Ondine’s lawyer for me, to settle the estate. Grandma had everything in order, just the way she wanted it. Most of it was already in trust to me. Her French lawyer knew just what to do, and, while I was recovering, he handled the sale of her property. Everything was happening so fast. And I had
you
to care for!” I reached out and took her hand, and she squeezed mine in response.
    After I absorbed this, I asked, “But—what about the Picasso painting?” She shook her head.
    “I never saw it! And because Grandma made me swear that day never to tell your father about it, all I could do when I got out of the hospital was to ask the lawyer if he’d found any artwork,” Mom explained, looking stymied even now. “He said he emptied every piece of furniture before he sold it, and there was nothing—no art, no safe-deposit key, no receipts or bill of sale; so he believed that if she had a painting she must have sold it quite some time ago.”
    “Maybe the lawyer stole the picture,” I couldn’t help saying.
    Mom smiled and shook her head. “No, he was a nice young man, a good man.”
    “Could Dad have found it?” I asked. We looked at each other, both perfectly aware that my father seldom resisted a good opportunity to show off. “It’s not the kind of secret he could have kept,” I concluded, and Mom allowed herself a smile of agreement.
    Hesitantly she added, “So, I just assumed that Grandma must have already sold the Picasso and was trying to tell me about the money, which would explain why she had quite a bit to leave me.”
    Our solitary moment was suddenly broken by the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.
    We glanced out the window. “It’s your father. In Danny’s car,” Mom said, in a complete change of tone, hurriedly rising. “And there’s Deirdre and her family in the car right behind them, back from shopping. The twins were
so
determined to get Daddy released from the hospital in time for Christmas!” she said, automatically putting on her happy face. I felt a familiar pang of sympathy for her, seeing how hard she was trying to please everyone. Instinctively I stayed close to her as we rose to meet them.
    I heard several car doors slam, and I saw from the window that the twins, now in their late forties, still looked to me just as they had when they were kids—lanky, sandy-haired, freckled, with that unspoken conspiratorial air between them—except now they were stretched into grown-ups, with children of their own. I had the same thought I always do at the holidays, which was,
Maybe now we can finally be a happy, harmonious family.
But this wish faded as my father got out of Danny’s car, appearing a little more bent and grey-haired these days. As usual Dad’s face looked like thunder. Something was already pissing him off.
    “Please take this now,” Mom said urgently, handing me back Grandmother Ondine’s notebook. “Put it in your suitcase before everybody comes inside—and don’t tell them that I gave it to you. After all, it’s what Grandma Ondine asked me to do. But we don’t want Deirdre to feel jealous.”
    I dutifully went and zipped up the notebook in my bag. When I returned to