A girl, probably about four, was approaching, an older woman in tow.
Probably her grandmother. Kate cocked her head. She looked familiar, but she couldn't place the face.
“Hi,” the girl said shyly.
Kate leaned forward, hands on her knees, smiling. “Hi, there! Want to get your face painted?”
The girl looked at her grandmother for approval. “Go on, tell her what you
want,” the woman said.
Kate pushed the sheet with the sample designs closer. “How about a
flower?”
The girl shook her head no.
“Um…here, a kitty?
Head shake. No.
“Doggie?”
No.
C'mon, kid, you're killing me here. “Butterfly?”
That got an enthusiastic nod.
“Okay. Hop up in the chair here and we'll get you a nice butterfly.”
“Purple,” the girl said as she sat. Then, after a reprimanding stare from her
grandmother, “Please.”
“Purple it is,” Kate said, unscrewing the cap from a bottle. She began outlining some butterfly wings in purple paint, the little girls holding still. Kate smiled. She had a spray of freckles on her cheek. “I like your freckles,” she said as she got out a smaller brush and the black paint. Need to outline this thing, otherwise, the balance will be off.
“Thank you,” the girl said.
“Excuse me,” the grandmother said. “Is your name Katie?”
Kate froze drawing the curl of the proboscis. Me? She looked up. The woman's head was cocked, waiting, small smile on her face.
Kate forced a smile. “Yes, Kate, actually,” she said, returning to the girl's cheek.
“I thought I recognized you. I'm Betty Locklear. Your old piano teacher?”
Kate closed her eyes. Yes, of course. Mrs. Locklear. Summer of what? Third
grade? The weekly death marches to her house four blocks away to pound out butchered songs from that green piano book.
“Hi, Mrs. Locklear. Yeah, it's me.” She shook her old teacher's hand.
“I thought so,” Mrs. Locklear said. “Are you back in Golden Grove?”
Kate returned to her patient girl, choosing some green paint for wing polka
dots. “Just visiting. Work, actually. I'll be gone soon.” Yes, let her know this is not a permanent gig.
“Well, it's so good to see you. I always enjoyed teaching you, even if it was
just for one summer.”
Like Peter, she was being gracious. Kate had begged her parents to let her take lessons, promising to practice every day. Which she had. Then, when she'd
found out she didn't have a little something called musical ability, she'd begged
them again to quit.
“Thanks,” Kate said. “Sorry I was such a lousy student.” Was twenty years
too late for an apology? Or was twelve…?
The woman waved her hand. “Oh, stop. At least you tried your best. That's
all I ever asked.”
Kate finished the final flourishes on her butterfly. She wasn't sure if
