I pointed toward Clara.
“Why is your drawing on her body?”
Glen looked.
The towel fell from his hand.
Clara stared directly at him.
For one endless second, neither spoke.
My aunt stopped gathering plates.
My father straightened beneath the umbrella.
Someone switched off the music.
Glen’s face lost its color.
“Please,” he said. “Let me explain.”
It was the worst possible choice of words.
Naturally, it was.
Clara wrapped the towel tightly around her waist.
“I don’t know what kind of story you’ve made up in your head.”
“In my head?” My voice sharpened. “My daughter just recognized my husband’s drawing on your body.”
Ariel stood between us, drawing the shape in the air.
“Daddy draws the happy sun.”
Glen knelt beside her.
“You’re right.”
The admission passed through the guests like cold water.
I stared at him.
He rested one hand on Ariel’s shoulder.
“Before I met you, I volunteered at an arts center downtown.”
“I know that,” I snapped.
He had mentioned weekend classes and community murals.
He had never mentioned Clara.
Clara tightened the towel around herself.
Glen looked again at the tattoo.
“There was a program for people recovering from surgery. Local artists helped them design things to cover scars. I’m not a tattoo artist,” he added quickly. “I only sketched.”
Clara’s lips parted. “The community room on Willow Street.”
Glen looked at her.
“Only pieces.”
She touched the lighthouse.
“I remember a young man with paint on his hands.”
My father glanced between them.
“No one knew each other?”
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