Chapter 18

I smiled as I watched the guests and dignitaries mingle. After more than 30 years of events like it, I was well used to it. What I wasn’t used to, but was very proud of, was that the event was held in honor of my oldest daughter.

She was here to accept an award from the President of our country, for her work on behalf of abused and homeless children. Katie, it seemed, had decided to follow in both our footsteps, writing and illustrating books for children. The honor she was receiving tonight was for her “Snuggle Bear” series, a collection of books depicting the lives of abused and homeless children, told through the eyes and thoughts of the Snuggle Bears, legendary creatures that only appeared to children in need. Every one was a bestseller, and every one netted her nothing, all proceeds going to charities for the children described in her books.

At 38 she was still slender, a carbon copy of her mother at that age. Her Snuggle Bear, Eion, now had a position of prominence in the bedroom of our 13-year-old granddaughter.

Sissy was beside me, her hair now mostly silver, with red highlights, her hand wrapped around my arm. Our son was at college, about to graduate with an PhD in Astrophysics, and our other daughter, a very successful lawyer, was with us, moving slowly. She was due in the next month, a girl.

I smiled, remembering the day before. Katie had a showing at the National Gallery to coincide with the award, featuring many of the illustrations from her books and a few paintings she’d done on commission from time to time. There was one that was given a position of prominence, a portrait of my mother, Sissy, Chelsea, Claire, Anne, Justine, and Maddy, all the older ones gone now, titled “The Women Who Made Me”. There was another of me, Colin, Henry, and Clark, without a title.

What she didn’t know was that I’d contributed a painting, my personal tribute to my daughter.

It was a painting I did off a photo of Katie when she was seven, the very first time she’d sat down at an easel, in my old studio. I knew it would probably be the last painting I ever did. I was 69, and my hands weren’t as steady as they used to be. It took me almost eight months to do something that I once could have done in two in my prime, but it was a labor of love and I was always very exacting when it came to painting.

“Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Girl” was painted showing her back and riot of crimson curls as she leaned over to look in the mirror, the mirror capturing her facial expression as she concentrated, the canvas showing an almost stick-like figure of a girl with carrot-red hair. It was a direct rip-off of Norman Rockwell’s self-portrait, but it worked well.

It was a good thing her mother and daughter were beside her when they unveiled it, or she would have collapsed. I was glad she had stayed slender, because after she recovered, she screamed “DA!” and launched herself into my arms. It felt as good now as it did all those years ago. When she finally let go, Sissy hugged me.

I shook off the memory and watched as the President hung the gold medal around my daughter’s neck, her dark hands a stark contrast to the almost porcelain skin of Katie’s throat. She was the most popular President in modern history, at the end of her second term. The country was going to miss her hand at the helm. Sissy held my arm tightly, her eyes glistening with pride.

“We’ve done a good job, have we not?”

“We have indeed, my bride.”

Her grip got a little tighter. “Come, me husband. Make love to me tonight and pretend I’m once again your redhaired sprite.”

“You’ll always be my redhaired sprite, the enchantress I saw in an Irish glen long ago, even when your hair turns white. You are the great love of my life, my wife.”

“I’m supposed to be the one with words, remember?”

“You are. You’ll always be, but you inspire me. Let’s go shake hands with the President, hug our daughter, and congratulate her on a job well done.”

Katie smiled as she watched us leave, I could see her almost giggling when she saw her father caressing her mother’s bottom as they walked out the door.