Chapter Seven
Leni
Present Day
IT’S BEEN A LITTLE OVER a week since the bonfire with Liam, and I’d be lying if I said my outlook on life hasn’t improved since then. Nothing has really changed, but in a way, so much has. I just feel lighter—less burdened and freer. Holding on to a grudge, especially one that isn’t warranted, is exhausting. I haven’t really hung out with Liam since that night. He’s been busy working the farm and traveling to buy cows or something. I’m still not well versed in the life of a rancher. I’m not sure exactly what he’s doing, but it requires him to be away from the ranch a lot. But I have been able to see him a few times. We’ve waved and exchanged pleasantries, and I’ve brought him out some cold sweet tea on a couple of occasions.
I think I’m just happy because we’re friends again, and unlike my friends from New York, Liam’s as real as they come.
As Mimi always says, “That boy has a heart of gold.”
If being on the ranch offers me anything, it’s time to think. Self-reflection has become my full-time job, and truthfully, I need it.
I’ve made peace with the fact that the relationships I built in the city weren’t what I thought they were. I’d rather have one real friend than a hundred fake ones. A true friend, one like Liam, knows all my imperfections and loves me anyway. And, Lord knows, I’ve got my fair share of imperfections.
Pain shoots through my fingers, and I cringe. “How do you do this without your hands aching?” I ask Mimi as I knead the ball of bread dough.
Mimi has decided to teach me how to make her famous bread, reminding me that she won’t be here forever—a thought that I refuse to think about.
“You get used to it.” She chuckles.
I feel like a major wimp because my hands seriously hurt. “How is it that my grandmother is more badass than I am?” I shake my head with a laugh.
“You got soft up there in the Big Apple, sweetie. You’ll toughen up after you’ve been here for a while,” she says as she works on the opposite counter, pounding some chicken breasts flat.
“Mimi, what should I do with my life? I can’t just stay here forever.”
“Of course you can. You’re always welcome here.”
“I know that, but I’m not doing anything, you know? I have a fancy degree. I should be using it.” I start to pound the dough with my fists to get the air bubbles out because this kneading crap is killing my knuckles.
“Why don’t we go into town for some dessert? We can stop off at the library beforehand, and you can do some job searching on the internet. I’m sure there’s plenty you could be doing. Maybe you could teach some classes at a nearby community college,” she recommends as she dips the flattened chicken in a flour mixture.
“Okay, that sounds great. Where are we going for dessert?”
My appetite has tripled since being in Texas, and with the mention of dessert, I’m now craving something sweet. I can’t stop myself from eating; it’s a problem. Mimi’s cooking is the best thing in the world, but it’s also the devil.
“Let’s go to Miss Mayes,” Mimi suggests. “Do you remember Miss Mayes?”
“Oh my goodness . . . Miss Mayes! Of course I remember. I think the French toast there is one of the most delicious things I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
Mimi laughs. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”
“Well, it’s true.”
I portion out the dough and put them into bread pans before covering the loaf pans with a towel while they rise. After I wash my hands, I step behind Mimi and wrap my arms around her. “I promise to eat less bread.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because, now, I know how hard it is to make.”
Mimi chuckles again. “You eat all the bread you want, Leni girl. I don’t mind making more.” She wipes her floured hands against her apron. “Would you mind grabbing the mail?”
“Sure.”
I open the front door and gasp, bringing my hands to my mouth.
“What is it?” Mimi calls from the kitchen.
I can’t answer though because I’m utterly speechless.
My chest fills with so much emotion that I can’t contain it all, and it escapes in the form of tears.
Oh my gosh. Unbelievable.
“Well, I’ll be,” Mimi says, now standing beside me. “I told ya, heart o’ gold.”
She retreats back to the kitchen and leaves me staring at one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.
Covering a large portion of the front porch are baskets stocked full of art supplies. I step outside and slowly walk around the treasures, my fingers swiping over everything. This is better than all the Christmas mornings I had as a child. I think anything I could possibly need is here—an easel, all types of paint, palettes, brushes, sketchpads, colored pencils, chalk, clay, tools, finishes, and canvases. It’s enough to fully stock an art studio. And it’s good stuff, too. These paintbrushes aren’t from the local craft store; these are the brushes professionals use. He had to have gotten all this somewhere outside of Mason, maybe in Austin.
I look around for a card, and I find it in one of the baskets. It’s a simple card with a picture of a Texas skyline at sunset. Inside is a handwritten note.
Be happy.
—Liam
I bring the card to my chest and hug it tight, pulling in a big breath of air. Tears continue to roll down my cheeks, but I don’t care to stop them. I can’t remember the last time I cried because I was so overcome with joy.
Has there ever been a time?
I sit cross-legged on the porch and go through each basket, reading the labels on each item.
Oh my gosh, I have to paint!
I hop up and run inside, one of the huge baskets of goodies in my arms.
“Mimi, can I turn one of the bedrooms into an art studio?”
“Of course, dear. Go for it.” She motions up toward the bedrooms.
“Thank you!” I bounce up and down on the balls of my feet.
Mimi smiles wide. “Have fun, sweet girl.”
I choose the bedroom with the most windows. I work up a sweat, rearranging the room. I’m so excited to get to the art part that I basically just push everything up against one wall, so I can have an open space to set up the easel.
I yell downstairs, “Mimi, can I use some of these top sheets in the closet as tarps?” I don’t want to ruin her wood floors.
“Yes!” she calls up.
“You know that they’ll be ruined with paint, right?” I double-check with her.
“Absolutely have at it,” she says loudly from the kitchen.
“Okay. Do you want to tell me which ones to use?” At this point, I should probably just run downstairs and have an actual conversation with her, but I’m too excited to take the time.
“Nope. They’re all fair game.”
I clap my hands together and pull a pile of sheets from the linen closet.
When the room is ready, I start bringing everything in and setting it up. It’s an amateur job, but I can spend more time later organizing it all. Right now, I need to just get to it.
I run to my room to grab my iPod and put my headphones on. Finally, with a brush in hand, music playing, I swipe beautiful colors across a canvas.
Nothing has ever made me as happy as art does. I feel I was born to create, to push boundaries, to be different. I wasn’t made to conform but to stand out.
When other girls my age asked for dolls, I asked for a pottery wheel. When the same-age girls in our social circle were training to be ladies and performing in pageants, all I wanted to do was learn how to perfectly capture a horse’s beauty using oil-based paints.
My parents humored my creative fascination for a while, though it was a continuous topic of contention in our home. I think they blamed my projects for the fact that I would argue, complain, and act out every time I was forced to attend a function where I was told to be someone other than myself. But it wasn’t the art that made me behave that way. It was them and the life I was forced to live. They never cared if I was happy, only that I acted the part when I was told to do so.
What they never understood was that art was my therapy, my saving grace in a life that was trying to smother me at every turn. I could fake it when I had to as long as I had an outlet. But, when I was thirteen, they took my happiness away.
Looking back, it’s so absurd. What parent would forbid their child to complete art projects?
After a particularly bad fight with my parents, I came home from school the next day, and all my art supplies and completed projects were gone. I think it was then that I realized my parents were never going to love me. To truly love me, they’d have to make an attempt to know me, to understand me. But they hadn’t. I would always be the daughter who wasn’t good enough. But thank God for Mimi, my innate self-pride, and my intense stubbornness because my parents didn’t break me. They only made me fight harder.
I never completed another art piece at home, but I took as many art classes in school as I could. I would stay late almost every day, telling my parents that I had study groups when, in reality, I was working with Mr. Shillaci, the art teacher. He would spend countless hours teaching me new techniques and mentoring me so that I could get into one of the best college art programs.
I know that hours have gone by based on where I am in my playlist, but I have no desire to stop. At all. Missing Mimi’s dinner and dessert at Miss Mayes doesn’t even cause me to pause. I still have no idea of where I’m going or what I’m doing with my life, yet I no longer feel stressed about it.
I stop painting for a moment and take in the painted canvas before me. I really didn’t think about what I was going to paint; it just happened. Sitting here now might be the happiest I’ve been in years. I have to shake my head and laugh because, out of infinite options for my first piece with all my new goodies, I ended up painting Texas. And not just a generic Texas picture, but also Mimi’s backyard—the barn, the pasture, and the endless horizon.
This view used to make me feel trapped and anxious to escape this state and life, but it brings different sensations now. I can hardly understand it, but at this moment, when I see the stunning landscape before me, my heart fills with gratitude, hope, and genuine joy.