Billy & The Beast (Ever After, New York Book 3) by Eli Easton

Author:Eli Easton [Easton, Eli]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-09-28T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

Billy

The garage door was open, the lights on, when I pulled into our driveway at five on a Thursday night. I’d promised my mom I’d be home for dinner. I’d been spending so much time at Malfleur, I felt a little guilty. But she’d been in better spirits lately. And here was the proof—she was seated at her easel in the garage studio, painting away.

I smiled as I strolled in. Our garage was an old one, only big enough for one car. She’d converted it to a studio years ago. And when the weather was nice, like it was on this balmy evening in early September, she liked to work with the door open. Currently she was brushing in big strokes on a large canvas, laying down a base of colors. It didn’t look like anything yet, but the base implied there’d be a lake, sky, and trees. A landscape.

She was dressed in an old T-shirt and jeans with her painting apron over them. Her hair was washed and tied up in a messy bun. Her face was calm and relaxed. She smiled at me. “Hi, honey! Is it dinnertime already? Just let me finish this, and I’ll get some spaghetti started.”

“No hurry. It’s only five. That looks cool. What’s it going to be?” I walked up to her and put my chin on her shoulder, studying the canvas. It didn’t really matter what it was. It could be a painting of a dog’s butt, and I would still be thrilled that she was working again.

“A lake in spring. Oh! I have so much to tell you. I spoked to Karen today, and she commissioned three new paintings. New England landscapes, and I can do whatever I like! And I got an email from Harper asking if I can do a book cover for an upcoming novel. It’s a generational story about women, and it’s set in this area, so they thought of me. Isn’t that incredible? They’re sending me the book FedEx.”

“That’s fantastic, Mom!” It had been a few years since she’d been hired to do a book cover. She was always so proud of those. There was a section of the bookshelf in the living room dedicated to books with her covers.

But I stepped back and regarded her warily. Her manic phases could be even scarier than her depressive ones. There was the time she decided a statue of her favorite, totally obscure poet had to be in front of the Ever After library, even though he was from New Orleans. She stormed city council meetings and went door to door with a petition, talking people’s ears off. All for something no one else in town cared about but her. Then there was the time she thought I was being bullied at school and went marching in there, ready to tear the place down. Her screaming at the principal could be heard through the entire building. God, that had been embarrassing.

But her eyes didn’t have that crazy sheen, and her words and movements were focused and steady, not jack-rabbit energetic.

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