Rose Dupree at eighteen, wearing her formal debutante gown.
“Ah, dear girl, I see you’re admiring … well, me,” her grandmother said, smiling, and set down her teacup with the gentlest of clinks.
Ginger nearly dropped the cup and saucer from her knee, surprised that Rose had paid attention to her wandering eye. She usually got reprimanded for daydreaming.
“It’s quite an amazing painting, Grammy,” she said, and Rose beamed at the compliment.
“I was hoping you’d take an interest in it one of these days, and never better than now.” Rose took the monogrammed napkin from her lap, got up gracefully from the settee, and walked slowly toward the fireplace.
Crossing thin arms, the older woman gazed up at the portrait of her much younger self, and Ginger squinted, trying to imagine the grandmother she knew—with the fine linesabout her subtly powdered face, the perfectly coiffed white hair and ever-present pearls—having once been the lithe and lovely teenage girl painted in the flowing white dress.
“I was something, wasn’t I?” Rose Dupree said, as if reading her mind. “Hard for you to believe I was ever your age once, hmm?”
How to answer that one without inadvertently insulting her? Ginger played it safe, replying, “You were beautiful then, and you’re beautiful now.”
Rose smiled appreciatively, but there was a knowing look in her eyes. “You are quite the little diplomat. I’m not sure where you got your even temper, not from either of us”—she flicked a hand toward Deena—“and most certainly not from that no-good father of yours.”
Deena frowned. “Mother.”
“It’s true.” Rose scowled back at her daughter. “Probably one of the reasons that arrogant bastard you married finally left you. You’re both stubborn as mules.”
“Please, Grammy, tell me more about the painting,” Ginger begged, stepping in before any real fireworks went off.
Besides, she was actually curious. Art had long been a love of hers, ever since she was a kid and Deena had enrolled her in summer classes at the Glassell School, part of Houston’s Museum of Fine Art. Though Ginger had redirected her passion toward the environment last year, she figured the beauty of the earth and the beauty of true art went hand in hand, like the Ansel Adams photographs she had hanging in her bedroom. Sometimes she wondered if artistic talent wasn’t a big part of what had attracted her to her last ill-fated crush, Javier Garcia—besides how good-looking hewas and his activism, of course—and she had to admit that it was. There was something sexy about the smell of oils and the way Javier always seemed to have a smear of paint in his hair ….
She cleared her throat, pushing that thought away, asking her grandmother, “What was it like posing for a true artist? Did you have to stand there for hours, holding the back of a chair and looking over your shoulder like this?” She tipped her head coyly and discreetly arched her back, mimicking Rose’s stance in the portrait, and her grandma chuckled.
“It wasn’t easy, let me tell you, but it was well worth it.” Rose stared up at the mammoth painting and sighed. “That was certainly a time in my life I’d never want to forget. You’ll see what I mean, Ginger, very soon. Becoming a Rosebud is an incredible privilege, and I’m so proud you’ll be following in my footsteps.”
A quiver of excitement traveled up Ginger’s spine at her grandmother’s words, and she flashed on the sight of the messenger in top hat and gloves who’d delivered her formal Rosebud invitation. What a relief that had been! Especially when her bad judgment in boys had nearly derailed her.
“She’ll be following in my footsteps too, don’t forget,” Deena said, sounding miffed, as if she felt forgotten in the conversation between grandmother and granddaughter.
“Although you weren’t exactly the model deb, were you, Dee?” Rose cocked her head, tapping a finger to her chin.
“Ah, dear girl, I see you’re admiring … well, me,” her grandmother said, smiling, and set down her teacup with the gentlest of clinks.
Ginger nearly dropped the cup and saucer from her knee, surprised that Rose had paid attention to her wandering eye. She usually got reprimanded for daydreaming.
“It’s quite an amazing painting, Grammy,” she said, and Rose beamed at the compliment.
“I was hoping you’d take an interest in it one of these days, and never better than now.” Rose took the monogrammed napkin from her lap, got up gracefully from the settee, and walked slowly toward the fireplace.
Crossing thin arms, the older woman gazed up at the portrait of her much younger self, and Ginger squinted, trying to imagine the grandmother she knew—with the fine linesabout her subtly powdered face, the perfectly coiffed white hair and ever-present pearls—having once been the lithe and lovely teenage girl painted in the flowing white dress.
“I was something, wasn’t I?” Rose Dupree said, as if reading her mind. “Hard for you to believe I was ever your age once, hmm?”
How to answer that one without inadvertently insulting her? Ginger played it safe, replying, “You were beautiful then, and you’re beautiful now.”
Rose smiled appreciatively, but there was a knowing look in her eyes. “You are quite the little diplomat. I’m not sure where you got your even temper, not from either of us”—she flicked a hand toward Deena—“and most certainly not from that no-good father of yours.”
Deena frowned. “Mother.”
“It’s true.” Rose scowled back at her daughter. “Probably one of the reasons that arrogant bastard you married finally left you. You’re both stubborn as mules.”
“Please, Grammy, tell me more about the painting,” Ginger begged, stepping in before any real fireworks went off.
Besides, she was actually curious. Art had long been a love of hers, ever since she was a kid and Deena had enrolled her in summer classes at the Glassell School, part of Houston’s Museum of Fine Art. Though Ginger had redirected her passion toward the environment last year, she figured the beauty of the earth and the beauty of true art went hand in hand, like the Ansel Adams photographs she had hanging in her bedroom. Sometimes she wondered if artistic talent wasn’t a big part of what had attracted her to her last ill-fated crush, Javier Garcia—besides how good-looking hewas and his activism, of course—and she had to admit that it was. There was something sexy about the smell of oils and the way Javier always seemed to have a smear of paint in his hair ….
She cleared her throat, pushing that thought away, asking her grandmother, “What was it like posing for a true artist? Did you have to stand there for hours, holding the back of a chair and looking over your shoulder like this?” She tipped her head coyly and discreetly arched her back, mimicking Rose’s stance in the portrait, and her grandma chuckled.
“It wasn’t easy, let me tell you, but it was well worth it.” Rose stared up at the mammoth painting and sighed. “That was certainly a time in my life I’d never want to forget. You’ll see what I mean, Ginger, very soon. Becoming a Rosebud is an incredible privilege, and I’m so proud you’ll be following in my footsteps.”
A quiver of excitement traveled up Ginger’s spine at her grandmother’s words, and she flashed on the sight of the messenger in top hat and gloves who’d delivered her formal Rosebud invitation. What a relief that had been! Especially when her bad judgment in boys had nearly derailed her.
“She’ll be following in my footsteps too, don’t forget,” Deena said, sounding miffed, as if she felt forgotten in the conversation between grandmother and granddaughter.
“Although you weren’t exactly the model deb, were you, Dee?” Rose cocked her head, tapping a finger to her chin.
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