The Charm Bracelet(69)

“There’s no doubt, it’s scary to try to make it as an artist,” Lolly said. “But as I always say: If ifs and buts were candy and nuts, oh, what a merry Christmas it would be!”

Lauren cocked her head, confused.

“It’s an old, old phrase, my dear.” Lolly laughed. “Older than me, even. What it means is: You can’t worry about all of that. You can only control the now, your own happiness. Let me ask you, what if you didn’t try? How would you feel in ten years? Twenty years?”

“You sorta sound like Lexie,” Lauren said.

“Life is filled with risk and uncertainty,” Lolly continued. “I face it every day battling my memory. Your mom is learning to let her walls down with Jake and to listen to you. And you have all the talent in the world.”

Lolly walked to the easel and studied the canvas.

“What are you painting?” Lolly asked. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

“No, not at all!” Lauren said, taking a sip of her coffee. “I’m painting our dock. I’m painting the generations who have been joined by this place, this water, this light.”

There was silence. Too long of a silence, Lauren thought, for her grandmother. A whippoorwill sang, and Lolly pursed her lips and returned its call, a beautiful whistle that matched the bird’s: Whip … or … wiiiillllll!

“Are you okay, Grandma? Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” she said. “You just … understand this place. You get me. I’m a little sentimental. I guess I’m just happy to have my girls home with me for a little while.”

Lauren gave her grandmother a kiss on the cheek and noticed that she smelled wonderful, like flowers.

“What is that perfume you’re wearing?” Lauren asked. “It’s amazing!”

“Wish I could take credit for that, but it’s not me. It’s those!”

Lauren looked to where her grandmother pointed and saw a little garden perched at the front of the dock, between the warped wood and the lake.

“Peonies!” Lolly said. “The most beautiful flower in the world!”

The two walked over, and Lauren leaned down to inhale the sweetest scent she’d ever smelled.

“Those are early blooming,” Lolly said. “Stunning, aren’t they?”

The just-opening buds were the size of small eggs, and the flowers smelled like heaven. The flowers were as white as a bridal gown, save for tinges of pink along their edges, and they were dense and thick, row after row of petals, woven together to create a round ball of beauty.

Lauren crouched down and held a heavy bloom in her hands, admiring its beauty, watching a chorus line of ants journey to its scented center. She smiled and lifted the peony to her nose, inhaling deeply.

“Now, that’s a picture I need to paint!” Lolly said. “Those started from a simple seed.”

Lauren stood and stretched. “I feel a story coming on!” She laughed.

“You know me too well. In a while. But, right now, you should paint, and I need to water before I head off to work. These flowers can’t grow without a big drink and lots of verbal encouragement.”

Lolly grabbed the coffeepot off the pier and turned to head inside, but not before Lauren grabbed her arm.

“Thank you, Grandma.”

“For what, my dear?”

“The encouragement.”

Lolly smiled and disappeared into the cabin. Lauren turned and began to paint. Inspiration came quickly, the light her guide, and Lauren swore she could feel her grandmother’s hands, right now, right here, on top of her own, helping her paint just like when she was a child.

Time seemed to stop, and Lauren became lost in her work. Slowly, three generations of women appeared in front of the lake, seated together at the end of this warped dock, the images of the women in the foreground as they appeared now—older, wiser, damaged but strong—while their reflections in the water were from their youth—younger, sadder, lost but hopeful. The connection?

This place.

Home, Lauren thought happily.

As the morning passed, the scene around her seemed to change and grow deeper.

Just like my family, Lauren thought.

In the stronger sunlight, the lake began to turn a million shades of the Pantone chart: the deeper water a midnight blue, the shoals aqua, the sandy shallows caramel, the wind turning them all forest green and midnight black when it churned the waves. Ducks drifted across the lake, as if they were sliding on ice, their feathers ruffled by the breeze. White swans—as white as newly fallen snow—bobbed. Fishermen veered their colorful johnboats in and out of the reeds, searching for the right spot, nets at the ready. Kids in bright swimsuits splashed in the water, teens sunned on Crayola-like float rafts, while their parents readied barbecues or sipped beers in retro-colored lawn chairs and Adirondacks.

I am home, Lauren thought again.

Lauren heard the screen door slam, and she was back in the present. Her mother emerged with a cup of coffee, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt.

Lauren glanced at her watch.

“You slept until ten a.m.?! I’m proud of you, Mother!”

“For what? Being a slacker?”

“No. For taking care of yourself. It was a late night.” Lauren stopped. “And thank you, Mom.”