appeared. Normally, not even the worst situation could cause Mel to lose her positive attitude. The social embarrassment of Jilly breaking down in front of the painting had been enough to cause even Mel to lose her smile for a while.
Anna stood as Mel approached. They hugged and then settled at the table, both avoiding the other’s gaze.
“I got you a cappuccino.”
“Thanks.” Mel pulled the cup toward her and wrapped her long fingers around it. She breathed in the aroma and smiled, this time more sincere. “How you doing?”
Anna had never met anyone who could cut through her defenses with just a look. No one besides her ex-boyfriend, Chris. For some reason she couldn’t stop thinking about him today. Anna forced the memories away. “I’m okay, I guess. Hanging on.”
“I hate to say it, hate to pry, but what the hell happened?”
“It was the painting,” Anna said, hard pressed to even say the words aloud.
“I know that. But why did Jilly lose it like that? Ms. di Rossi’s painting is beautiful.” Mel’s voice took on a hush when she spoke Mamma’s name.
Anna gripped her coffee cup so hard her knuckles whitened. She stared into the caramel depths as though searching for the words she couldn’t find in her mind. “Catarina di Rossi is our mother.” The words were out before she could take them back.
Mel gasped and reared back, speechless for a few seconds. She recovered her senses and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me this before? I’ve mentioned her plenty of times.” She looked hurt.
“I’ve never told you because Jilly and I made a pact never to mention her name again once we left Toronto. I’ve never spoken of her until today.”
Mel stared at her, waiting.
Anna paused and sipped her now lukewarm coffee. She was reminded of how Mamma loved her coffee. She still drank an espresso first thing in the morning like a shot, as they did in Italy. Anna always wondered how she could do that and not scald her throat. She used to think Italians had to have an esophagus of leather.
“She’s not the woman you think she is.”
“Who ever is?” Mel responded, recovering her senses. “Thanks for telling me. Seeing Jilly’s reaction to the painting tells most of the story without me having to ask. She obviously hurt you both deeply. I’m sorry.”
“She did, and she didn’t. She loved us, even though Jilly doesn’t think so. She just didn’t know how to share herself, and two little girls who adore their mamma need more than a cold image of a mother to flourish.”
“Oh, Anna.” Mel reached out and grasped Anna’s hand, squeezing hard. “I’m sorry she was so cruel.”
“That’s the thing. She wasn’t really cruel, like in the Mommy Dearest way you hear about. Her cruelest act was to keep herself hidden, unavailable. She is the coldest woman I’ve ever met. There were a lot of things she did to herself that damaged us, too, but the hardest thing was that I couldn’t reach her and yet she gave herself so easily to others. If someone wanted something from her, she gave it freely. But, to Jilly and me, the ones who most had a claim on her, she held everything back.”
Mel’s eyes swam in a lake of green.
“I wonder if that’s why her paintings are so emotional,” Mel mused, the curator in her coming out. “She couldn’t show her emotions to the closest people in her life, so she put them on canvas.” Mel paused, the words sitting on her lips. Anna cut her off.
“Before you ask, no, I don’t know. I don’t know why she paints that little child’s face into each painting. Honestly, Mel, I’m not sure if she even knows why.”
Mel slumped back in her chair. It would be the coup of the century if Mel were the one to solve the mystery of the child in the painting. It had intrigued the art world for thirty years, but Catarina di Rossi would never speak of the child. There had been much
Anna stood as Mel approached. They hugged and then settled at the table, both avoiding the other’s gaze.
“I got you a cappuccino.”
“Thanks.” Mel pulled the cup toward her and wrapped her long fingers around it. She breathed in the aroma and smiled, this time more sincere. “How you doing?”
Anna had never met anyone who could cut through her defenses with just a look. No one besides her ex-boyfriend, Chris. For some reason she couldn’t stop thinking about him today. Anna forced the memories away. “I’m okay, I guess. Hanging on.”
“I hate to say it, hate to pry, but what the hell happened?”
“It was the painting,” Anna said, hard pressed to even say the words aloud.
“I know that. But why did Jilly lose it like that? Ms. di Rossi’s painting is beautiful.” Mel’s voice took on a hush when she spoke Mamma’s name.
Anna gripped her coffee cup so hard her knuckles whitened. She stared into the caramel depths as though searching for the words she couldn’t find in her mind. “Catarina di Rossi is our mother.” The words were out before she could take them back.
Mel gasped and reared back, speechless for a few seconds. She recovered her senses and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me this before? I’ve mentioned her plenty of times.” She looked hurt.
“I’ve never told you because Jilly and I made a pact never to mention her name again once we left Toronto. I’ve never spoken of her until today.”
Mel stared at her, waiting.
Anna paused and sipped her now lukewarm coffee. She was reminded of how Mamma loved her coffee. She still drank an espresso first thing in the morning like a shot, as they did in Italy. Anna always wondered how she could do that and not scald her throat. She used to think Italians had to have an esophagus of leather.
“She’s not the woman you think she is.”
“Who ever is?” Mel responded, recovering her senses. “Thanks for telling me. Seeing Jilly’s reaction to the painting tells most of the story without me having to ask. She obviously hurt you both deeply. I’m sorry.”
“She did, and she didn’t. She loved us, even though Jilly doesn’t think so. She just didn’t know how to share herself, and two little girls who adore their mamma need more than a cold image of a mother to flourish.”
“Oh, Anna.” Mel reached out and grasped Anna’s hand, squeezing hard. “I’m sorry she was so cruel.”
“That’s the thing. She wasn’t really cruel, like in the Mommy Dearest way you hear about. Her cruelest act was to keep herself hidden, unavailable. She is the coldest woman I’ve ever met. There were a lot of things she did to herself that damaged us, too, but the hardest thing was that I couldn’t reach her and yet she gave herself so easily to others. If someone wanted something from her, she gave it freely. But, to Jilly and me, the ones who most had a claim on her, she held everything back.”
Mel’s eyes swam in a lake of green.
“I wonder if that’s why her paintings are so emotional,” Mel mused, the curator in her coming out. “She couldn’t show her emotions to the closest people in her life, so she put them on canvas.” Mel paused, the words sitting on her lips. Anna cut her off.
“Before you ask, no, I don’t know. I don’t know why she paints that little child’s face into each painting. Honestly, Mel, I’m not sure if she even knows why.”
Mel slumped back in her chair. It would be the coup of the century if Mel were the one to solve the mystery of the child in the painting. It had intrigued the art world for thirty years, but Catarina di Rossi would never speak of the child. There had been much
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