Father Formula. Muriel Jensen

all the studies of faces she’d done on the plane. Since she’d arrived, she’d done sketches of the boys, both reaching up to dunk the ball in the basket, and several of Ferdie running, sleeping, leaping in the air for a Frisbee.

      The work was skillful, but she knew when it came to putting paint to canvas, she would be devoid of ideas, lacking in inspiration and, after three long months of that, without the will to try.

      She would have wallowed in self-pity, but she’d taught herself to combat this mood over the past year. All she had to do was remember the artists she revered. Michelangelo, who painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel while lying on his back on scaffolding over a period of four years; Matisse, who painted by attaching his brush to a long stick when he was too old and ill to get out of bed; the contemporary Chuck Close, who was paralyzed and used a forklift to raise himself to work on his huge portraits and had a device attached to his hand to allow him to paint.

      A slump was hardly the same as an infirmity. She would recover from this, if she could just figure out what had caused it in the first place.

      In the meantime, she had to keep working.

      She called one of her studio partners in Rome and asked him to mail the large wooden box in which she kept all her paints, the jar that held her brushes, her roll of canvas.

      “Bella!” he exclaimed worriedly. “You are not coming home?”

      “Not for a while, Claudio.” She wanted to tell him that this was home, but he was just twenty and he’d known her only in Rome. He wouldn’t understand. “I’m sending you money to cover the postage.”

      “Money? What is money?” he demanded. “The studio is cold without you, Lexia.”

      She smiled at his impassioned voice. She thought he had the potential to be a fine artist, but so far he had more emotion than skill. Still, skill could be learned and emotion couldn’t, so things were in his favor.

      “Don’t try to charm me, Claudio,” she teased. Flirting was second nature to him. “We both know you’re in love with Giulia.”

      “Giulia,” he said, his rich accent putting scorn into the name, “has gone to Palermo with Ponti. My heart is a stone. It beats no more.”

      “Oh, Claudio.” She was sure he was heartbroken. He and the vintner’s beautiful daughter had been friends since they were children, and Claudio’s adopted father had worked for Giulia’s. Their romance had blossomed only a year ago, just before she went to spend six months with relatives in New York. When she returned, Ponti, the son of a famous Italian designer had pursued her relentlessly. He’d also been a childhood friend who’d noticed her beauty and maturity when she’d returned home. “I’m sorry. I thought she’d have more sense.”

      “The whole world is mad,” he declared, then added with theatrical tragedy, “and I am alone.”

      “Well, now’s your chance to make a date with that pretty little waitress at the trattoria. You’ve always admired her.”

      He sighed. “I pine for you,” he said, “and you send me to other women.”

      “I’m too old for you, Claudio,” she said practically. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

      “What is age, bella,” he asked, “when the heart yearns?”

      She smiled to herself. She should be lucky enough to find a man closer to her own age who was this persistent. “Then consider the fact that I’m almost six thousand miles away, my friend. You may dismiss age, but distance must be dealt with. Now, go ask that pretty waitress for a date tonight and stop this foolishness. Let me know how it goes. And don’t forget to send my paints and brushes.”

      “You wound me.” He was silent a moment. “Very well, I will send your things. But when the night is quiet, you will hear my heart beating for you, no matter how great the distance.”

      “Unless Giulia comes back to you,” she taunted.

      “You are a devil woman,” he accused, a smile in his voice.

      “Goodbye, Claudio.”

      “Goodbye, bella.”

      Alexis hung up the phone, longing for her fourth-floor studio in the heart of the noisy, busy city. But only for a moment. She remembered quickly the frustration she’d felt there the past year, and though she’d been very upset about her missing sister, she’d also been grateful for an excuse to come home.

      She turned in the direction of a soft whine just in time to see Ferdie burst from the room and race downstairs. She heard excited barking as the front door opened and closed and the boys’ voices returned his greetings.

      Alexis went downstairs to welcome them home and found them already in the kitchen, rooting through the freezer. They emerged with softball-sized blueberry muffins.

      She watched Brandon wrap his in a paper towel and place it in the microwave with obvious experience. Then he nuked Brady’s muffin while his brother retrieved two cans of pop and the butter from the refrigerator.

      “How’d everything go today?” she asked.

      Both boys looked up with smiles then returned to the serious task of “filleting” the muffins into thin slices that allowed more buttering surfaces.

      “Good,” Brandon replied.

      “Yeah,” Brady agreed.

      “I thought we’d go for pizza tonight,” she said, wondering if they’d have room for it after that muffin. “Or burgers if you’d like that better.”

      Brandon was already chewing the first slice as he buttered the last. He swallowed and said, “Cool.”

      Brady picked up his stacked plate and pop can and asked hopefully, “Can we watch TV?”

      She smiled. David had coached her on this. “Until five o’clock, then you have to do your homework. I thought we’d go to dinner about six.”

      “Okay.” Brady was already past her and on his way to the family room. Brandon put the butter back into the refrigerator, wiped the counter clean of crumbs, then turned to Alexis before closing the refrigerator door. “Did you want something to eat?”

      She hadn’t spent much time with children the boys’ ages, but she didn’t think tidying up after themselves was usual behavior.

      “No, thanks,” she replied. “And thank you for cleaning up.”

      “You’re welcome.” Brandon followed in Brady’s wake.

      Alexis watched him go and wondered how they’d achieved such confidence and competence. Athena had told her a little about their wealthy mother, who went from one husband to another, having children in an attempt to hold them to her then ultimately losing them anyway.

      A careless mother had left Alexis feeling inadequate and adrift.

      She tried to remember if she’d had confidence at that age. No, she’d been reckless and wild, but that had been intended to conceal the fear that she had no value.

      Her art had helped give her a sense of self. Getting back to it again was the only solution. It would be painful to see inadequate work take shape, but it would consume her while the boys were at school and that would help her maintain her sanity, such as it was.

      She would buy a disposable camera tomorrow and photograph parts of downtown Dancer’s Beach. There was beautiful scenery, buildings with interesting architectural detail, streets lined with park benches and old-fashioned streetlights.

      Perhaps she could capture the heart of small-town life that was disappearing all across America. Schmaltzy idea as paintings went, but it was a place to start.

      BRANDON AND BRADY SPRINKLED a jumbo three-meat pizza with red pepper flakes and Parmesan cheese and ate the entire thing, going back twice for refills at the salad bar.

      She allowed