Bad Things(133)

Mom smiled. “It’s my fault really. My teaching schedule makes it hard to get away for more than a few days a time. And then there’s Lane’s college and dance schedule.”

Maudie smiled and brushed the hair out of my face. “Ah, yes, our little Twinkle Toes!”

“Ugh, you know I hate that nickname!” I protested, playfully nudging Maudie.

“I’m always going to call you that. Even if you make it all the way to the National Ballet, I’ll shout it out to you at one of the performances!”

“The National Ballet? I think you’re setting the bar a little high for me, no pun intended.”

Maudie cupped my chin. “And why not?”

I shook my head furiously. “That’s way too grueling and intense for me! I just want to earn my business degree and one day have my own dance studio.”

“I like a gal with a plan!” she replied with a grin.

“Lane’s a chip off the old Maudie Sinclair shoulder!” Dad said.

The sound of huffing and grunting behind us interrupted our conversation. Two delivery men stood balancing a large wooden crate between them. “Where ya want this, Mrs. Sinclair?”

“Ooh, bring it right on into my office, boys!” Maudie squealed, clapping her hands together like an excited toddler. Her green eyes danced with excitement when she turned back to us. “Wait until you see my newest treasure.”

Mom and Dad chuckled at Maudie’s enthusiasm. “I’d wager it’s another piece of Cherokee art?” Mom asked.

Maudie had a thing for Native American art, especially Georgia tribes like the Cherokee and Creeks. Her house was practically a museum of sculptures, painting, and pottery. She had one of the largest collections in the Southeast and was always adding to it.

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!”