I choked on a piece of chicken and couldn’t help but fall into a fit of laughter. Even Aletha couldn’t hold back. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she let loose boisterous guffaws, laughing so hard she couldn’t even take a breath. She managed to squeak out, “Hey! He’s my son.”
The mood instantly lightened. “It’s not your fault,” Matt said, still chuckling as we all caught our breaths.
“Oh, boy, Matthias. That’s the one thing you get from your father.”
“What’s that?” My interest suddenly piqued.
She smiled warmly. “He and his father are so lighthearted. They can’t be serious about anything for more than two minutes without turning it into a joke.”
“He’s not like that anymore,” Matt interrupted.
Aletha’s shoulders bounced with silent laughter. “Well, at least your father used to be that way.”
We finished our soup in the glow of pleasant conversation, then Matt stood from the table. “Mom, Thank you. This was delicious. Grace, you want to shower while I help my mom clean up?”
“Yes, okay. I can help, too.”
“Don’t be silly, Grace. We’ve got this.” Aletha walked over and patted her son on the shoulder.
Before I left the dining room, a wooden hutch full of photos caught my attention. Matt followed my gaze. There were various childhood pictures of Matt and Alex, as well as a slew of art projects, beaded lampshades, old cameras, handmade pottery pieces, and several black-and-white photos of a much younger Aletha, laughing joyously. “I took those when I was a kid,” Matt said.
“They’re amazing.” I stood to get a closer look and Matt followed. “She was like your first muse.”
I turned and looked up into his dark, squinting eyes. Everything froze for a moment. He looked at my mouth, slightly parted. He ran his fingertips down my cheek and the calloused pads of his thumbs felt divine against my skin. I shivered.
“You’re my first muse, Grace.”
The music Orvin had taught me how to hear was back. The sounds rushed through my ears as Matt bent and kissed me tenderly on the lips.
MATT’S SIDE OF the bed was cold and empty when I woke up the next morning. I shuffled into the dining room to find Aletha sitting alone at the table, sipping coffee and intermittingly spooning globs of oatmeal from a wide bowl.
“Good morning, dear.”
“Good morning, Aletha. Did Matt leave?”
“Yes, he’s out running errands. He didn’t want to wake you. Oatmeal?”
“Just coffee for me, thanks.”
“Have a seat.” When she stood, I noticed she was wearing a paint-spackled apron and garden shoes. She noticed me scanning her attire.
“I was in the Louvre. That’s my art studio in back, more popularly known as a garage. I call it that because, hell, I want my artwork in the Louvre, and this is about as close as I’ll get. I can take you there after breakfast.” She went into the kitchen as I took a seat. I mindlessly began tracing a vein in the wood with my finger while I watched Matt’s mom search a high cabinet for a mug. Aletha seemed like someone whose soul was so at peace, like life was no a longer a mystery to her.
“I’m nervous to meet Matt’s dad and his family,” I admitted, without thinking if she would take offense by my referring to them as his family.
Her movements stopped just for a second as she peered into the cabinet, balancing gracefully on her tippy toes. It was long enough for me to tell that my comment had jarred her.
“You’ll be fine,” she said, without looking over at me. When she returned to the dining room, she handed me a hand-thrown pottery mug full of black, thickly aromatic coffee. She was smiling. “Matt’s dad, Charles, was a lot like Matthias once.”
“Once?”
She pointed to the center of the table where a silver tray held a tiny metal pitcher of cream.
“Black is fine for me,” I answered her unspoken question.
She sat down on the other side of the table, leaned back in her chair, and removed the glasses from the end of her nose, setting them beside the empty oatmeal bowl. Seconds of silence passed before she continued. “Sometimes money changes people. As for Matt’s brother, Alexander, don’t worry about him. Monica is the one you’ll have to keep an eye on, especially when she’s around Matthias. She’s the conniving one. Alexander is just . . . well, I think Matt described him pretty well last night. Harmless but not exactly benevolent. I think that’s the nicest way to put it.”
I opened my eyes wide, shocked by her candor.
“I just tell it like it is, Grace. Monica always had a thing for Matt. It’s just that her thing for money was stronger. I think Alexander knows that, and it’s driven a wedge between him and his brother. They were always different but they were close before she came along.”
Desperate to change the subject, I nodded and sipped my coffee while my stomach did somersaults. “I’d like to get something for Matt.” I paused and she waited. “I don’t have much money. Do you have any ideas of what he might like?”
She looked up from her coffee and smiled. “Yes, I’m glad you asked. I think I know the perfect thing. Come on out to my studio.”
I followed Aletha out to the garage, which looked as old as the house but wasn’t maintained as well on the outside, its beige, battered shingles in need of repair. She ushered me inside and closed the door quickly, giggling like we were conspiring schoolgirls. There were racks everywhere with drying pottery, sculptures, and an easel with a half-finished landscape painting. The walls were lined with large shelving systems that went all the way up to the ceiling and were filled to the very edge with brushes in tins, metal tools, and glass jars. The new potter’s wheel sat in the corner. The only gleaming, untouched surface was the large, round metal top of the wheel. From the back of the door, Aletha grabbed a smock and handed it to me. “How about you make something for Matthias?”