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your work finished, dear?” she asked quietly.
    â€œYes, Mum, thanks. Sorry I had to run off yesterday.” He wanted to ask how she was feeling, but that seemed crass and obvious, so he continued lamely, “But I’m here now. And Jill will be over on the weekend, to—you know—help with the arrangements and everything.”
    â€œI understand,” Mary said. “You’re both good children. Daddy knew that, you know, though he didn’t always show it. Lucy’s a nice girl too. So open and honest. Hasn’t changed a bit since she was a child.”
    She sure changed a lot in the last hour, Greg thought. But he said, “It certainly was a surprise to see her again yesterday.”
    â€œShe’s been coming around a lot since she moved back. We’ve become real friends. Did you know that Daddy was giving her lessons?”
    The revelations were coming thick and fast. “Lessons?”
    â€œPainting lessons. She’s very good, as a matter of fact.” Mary put down her teacup. “Want to see?”
    Bemused, he stared, unable to read her. Something was going on here, more than just reaction to the recent tragedy, but he couldn’t make it out. Masking it—or maybe part of it—was this strange charade. “See what?”
    â€œLucy’s work. Come on!”
    On the back of the kitchen door hung a familiar, old blue sweater. Mary heaved it on and took Greg’s arm, leading him out and along the deck to the breezeway to his father’s studio. This was a large building, finished in cedar board and batten, with windows on the river side and several skylights positioned for north light. The entrance was a heavy door, painted with Coast Salish designs, which swung inward to reveal the full sweep of the studio.
    It was a veritable forest of paintings; every wall was hung with them, as high as the rafters, and easels displayed several more, in various stages of completion. In many places, except against the big wood stove in the centre of the room, canvasses were stacked six and eight deep. The subject of this vast outpouring of creativity was the wilderness of Vancouver Island: landscapes and seascapes, birds and animals and fish, in infinite variety and exquisite detail; form and composition, light and colour, drama and design, all treated with vibrant energy and consummate skill. Greg, who’d known this place since childhood, his familiarity blending with an innate—or perhaps reactionary—indifference, drew a sharp breath. Was it the length of time he’d been absent? Had more art appreciation seeped into his unwilling soul than he’d realized? Or was it simply that the turbulent creator of all this had finally departed? Whatever the reason, for the first time in his life, his father’s work truly moved him. “Wow!” he breathed.
    After putting on the lights, his mother had paused at the door. “You sound surprised.”
    â€œI guess I am.”
    â€œYou’d forgotten how wonderful his work is?”
    â€œI don’t think I ever realized.”
    She took hold of his arm again, surveying the studio fervently. “He was a master, Greggie. BC’s very best. If he’d only known how to market himself, like some of those others, we might have been rich. Then perhaps, it wouldn’t have mattered . . .”
    Greg felt a prickling at the back of his neck. “Mattered? What?”
    Instead of answering, his mother led him to the far end of the studio, stopping in front of a small easel with a modest-sized canvas. This painting was different from the rest: a landscape, less dramatic in form and not so spectacularly deft, but with a shimmering, airy quality that was quite magical. “This is what I wanted to show you,” his mother said.
    â€œLucy’s work?”
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    â€œI’m impressed.”
    â€œDaddy thought she was very talented, and I never heard