Bad Things (Tristan & Danika, #1)(112)
While one of the men strained to open the top with a crow bar, Maudie sighed with contentment. “I just got it at an auction a few weeks ago in North Carolina,” she told us. Then with a sheepish grin, she added, “I spent way more than I should have. Of course, it didn’t help that there was this obnoxious man trying to outbid me. I just had to put him in his place!”
We laughed along with her. After all, Maudie’s stubborn streak was well known.
As the gilded frame was pulled from the crate, we all leaned forward, peering expectantly.
Maudie gave it a loving glance. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
Tilting my head to the side, I examined the oil painting. It reminded me of a picture I’d seen in my US History 101 text book about the Trail of Tears. Instead of several Cherokee Indian men and women, bundled in animal skin and blankets, trekking through snow drifts with anguished expressions, there was only one man. Sorrow etched his heavily lined face as he raised his bloody hands to the sky. At his feet, a fawn lay crumpled in the snow, a crimson river flowing out from her. “I don’t know about it being gorgeous.” Maudie’s jaw drooped in defeat, so I hastily added, “I mean, it’s kinda sad, isn’t it?”
“Why honey, that’s the point! The emotions humming off this are palpable. But it’s not just the drawing that makes it such a rare find.”
“Oh?”
She bobbed her gray head. “This was done by the grandson of a Cherokee Chief. He drew it with firsthand knowledge of what his great-grandfather went through. I didn’t get all the particulars, but it supposed to be very symbolic with the death of his daughter. It was passed down through two generations until the family fell on hard times and had to sell it.”
“That’s fascinating,” Mom replied, her history professor senses tingling.
Dad and I exchanged an amused glance before bobbing our heads in agreement.
“And I know the perfect place for it, too.” She motioned to the empty wall above her office sofa. “But first, I have to replace the hanger on the back. It doesn’t look sturdy enough, and I’d hate for it to get damaged.” She eased the painting back into the crate and closed the lid. “Now then. How about an early dinner?” Maudie suggested.
Dad glanced at Mom before shaking his head. “No, we really need have to get on to the house and get settled in.”
Mom laughed. “What he means to say is Lane and I’ll be doing the settling in while he disappears onto the back porch with his laptop!”
“Exactly,” I replied.
Dad’s face momentarily reddened. “What can I say? I have to work when the muse hits, and I can feel the juices starting to cook!”
Maudie smiled. “I understand. If your muse cooperates, could I pencil you in for a home-cooked meal tomorrow night?”
After Mom and Dad agreed, Maudie turned to me. “So, I’ll see you bright and early in the morning?”
I grinned. “Of course.”