“Who would even pay for something like that?”
“Speaking of artists,” he murmured, “when are you going to let me hang one of yours in the living room?”
“Greg, don’t start.”
“You could actually sell those, Nora. People would pay real money.”
I laughed, the way I always laughed when he said things like that.
“Who would even pay for something like that? Come on.”
“You look tired, Nor.”
“You would, if you ever let anyone see them.” He nodded toward the hallway, where my canvases were stacked behind the linen closet door. “You know what you need? A place that’s actually yours. Big windows. Paint everywhere. Your name on the door.”
For half a second, I could see it.Then I picked up Toby’s abandoned cereal bowl.
“Sounds expensive.”
Greg smiled. “You didn’t say you wouldn’t want it.”
“You’re painting again.”
****
That Sunday, we drove to my mother’s for brunch. My mother, Delia, had set the table with the good plates, and my sister, Vanessa, was already there, of course, in a cream blazer that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget.
