The Breaking Point. Mariella Starr

my dad getting upset because she was spending so much money on framing the pieces.”

      “Both Patricia and Richard were very proud of you,” Laura said. “Richard might have complained, but he was also the first one to drag in neighbors and friends to show off your latest masterpiece. Your father was quite the braggart about his little girl’s accomplishments. Patricia was forever dragging Michael, the postman, inside to see your latest. He, in turn, would tell all the neighbors that the Murphys had a new painting they were showing off, and they’d come knocking on the door to see it. Everyone in the neighborhood took pride in your work. Are you selling your work in any galleries?”

      “I have a few pieces in the local galleries, in Cumberland and Frostburg,” Faith said. “I’m a teacher at Frostburg University, so I don’t have a lot of spare time to paint. This past year I was preparing for a show in October at the James Gallery in Pittsburgh, but the accident caused me to have to postpone it.”

      Several hours later, Faith waved both women goodbye and sent them home with a large plate of brownies. She made her way to her studio, waking Ricco on her way. She sent him to eat breakfast and told him to join her when he was finished. They would paint together.

      Ricco followed her instructions, but when he came into the studio, he spun the dial on the timer to ninety minutes and shrugged when she gave him a raised eyebrow. “Sorry, Dad said no more than two hours at a time and six hours a day. I’m supposed to keep an eye on you.”

      “Really?” Faith exclaimed. “And, who is going to keep an eye on you?”

      Ricco gave his mother a cheeky smile. “It’s Hancock, Mom. This whole town is full of watchdogs and nosey people. Everyone knows everyone and everything that happens. If I did something wrong, you’d know about it before I got home!”

      “Good, I might have to transplant our neighbors to Cumberland, to keep my juvenile terror from getting into trouble! Here is a canvas and a new pack of acrylic paints. Paint me a masterpiece, because you are getting very good!”

      “Will I ever be as good as you?” Ricco asked.

      “How good am I?” Faith questioned. “The one thing you can depend upon in art is that some people will love your work, and some people will hate it. You have to paint what you see, and express yourself on the canvas. You’re eight, those skills will come with time, practice, and more practice. You are ahead of the game for most kids your age. Your understanding of perspective is terrific, and it’s one of the hardest skills to teach. You see it naturally.

      “Remember, too, not everyone makes art a profession. I happen to teach it, and I love producing it in many mediums. Lots of people paint, draw, or do a lot of creative things just for the fun of it, and I guess I do too. Your dad is an artist with his architectural designs, but he doesn’t see them that way. His mind interprets the mechanics of how a building will look, and what it takes to keep it standing.”

      When the timer went off, Ricco stopped what he was painting, and he began to clean his brushes.

      “Mom!” he complained.

      “Okay, okay,” Faith grumbled. “Just let me finish this.”

      Ten minutes later, Ricco pulled his mother’s rolling stool from the easel. “Now, Mom, please! I don’t want you to get in trouble with Dad. I don’t like it when I hear you arguing!”

      “I’m sorry, honey, but you need to realize that if your dad and I are arguing, it shouldn’t reflect on you,” Faith said as she laid her paint pallete in a plastic box, misting it with linseed oil. She closed the lid, so her mixed colors wouldn’t dry out before she could return to the painting. She tossed her brushes into a cleaning jar and began the process of closing the session. Ricco checked all the tubes of paint to make sure the lids were screwed on tight, and he put them back where they belonged. Her son had been helping her since he was a little boy.

      “I still don’t like it,” Ricco said. “What’s for dinner?”

      “I don’t know. Dad said he was bringing it, but if he’s not here by seven, we’ll go ahead and eat,” she promised.

      “I like it when Dad comes home earlier,” Ricco said, looking at her canvas. “How do you get the sunshine to streak through the trees?”

      “Lots of practice, and ruined paintings,” Faith said. “I think it took two years to master that technique.” She hugged her son. “Come on, I really don’t want to get into trouble for working too long. Did I ever tell you how long it took me to work in watercolors?”

      “Years,” Ricco answered.

      “Many frustrating years,” Faith agreed.

      “Then suddenly, you were able to do them successfully,” Ricco finished.

      “I’ve told you that particular story,” Faith teased.

      “Maybe, I’ll be an architect like Dad,” Ricco said.

      “Kiddo, you have a lot of time to decide what you’re going to do when you get older. Now is the time to have fun. Why don’t you go over and play with Jayden for a while? When you come back, we’ll see if I can beat you at chess.”

      “I always beat you,” Ricco bragged.

      “So, you do,” Faith complained, pretending to scowl at him. “Go! I’ll make a salad to go with whatever Dad brings us for dinner.”

      “I thought Dad said he was staying over at our house,” Ricco said.

      “So, did I, but according to his latest phone message, he’s changed his mind. Hancock isn’t at the end of the world.”

      “Promise you won’t start painting for an hour?” Ricco said.

      “I promise,” Faith said, surprised by her son’s intuitiveness. She had planned to return to the canvas as soon as he left the house.

      Instead, she finished the book she’d been reading, and fixed a salad. It was in the refrigerator, the table was set, and she was bored. She went to find her sketchbook and made herself comfortable in the sunroom.

      Ricco and Faith were ten minutes into a television game show when they heard Ales open the door.

      “Dad!” Ricco called, running to the door.

      Faith smiled at her son’s reaction. It wouldn’t be long before Ricco’s pure enthusiasm for his Dad coming home from work would wane. She followed them into the kitchen, and Ales turned over the chicken carryout bag to his son and turned to kiss her.

      “Gross,” Ricco said, grinning.

      “I’ll remind you of that in a few years,” Ales teased. He looked at Faith, searching her face for any signs of fatigue. “How was your day?”

      “Annoying, since you keep making me take breaks, and you’ve posted a guard,” she gave Ricco a squinty-eye look, but he grinned and crossed his eyes at her. “How was yours?”

      “Busy and hectic. Andrew is a real talent, and we’re both glad we hired him. It takes a lot of pressure off Tyrell and me. We should have hired another architect several years ago. I spent part of my day on different sites, and the rest working with Andrew, and some new ideas. It will take a few days to get in the swing of things.”

      “I expected you to stay over tonight in Cumberland.”

      “I thought so too, but there are things we need to discuss,” Ales said softly. “Besides, after this past weekend, I need to be weaned off of your charms gently, not cold turkey.”

      Faith laughed at his nonsense, although she could see he was troubled. “Later,” she promised.

      The evening was another baseball game. This time it had been recorded. When it was over, Ricco was sent to bed, and they were alone. Ales turned off the post-game commentary, and Faith laid her sketchbook aside. She didn’t mind going to a game occasionally, but that was more for companionship with her son and husband, not because