Gia & the Blast from the Past by Becky Doughty

Author:Becky Doughty
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BraveHearts Press

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Six weeks earlier...

Phoebe waited while Trevor came around the car to open her door for her, delaying the moment of truth as long as she could. They were parked in front of the Masters' house, a lovely two-story home in a residential part of Midtown.

Trevor laced his fingers with hers as they made their way up the walk to the front door. "Are you ready?" he asked, squeezing her hand reassuringly. When she nodded, he reached out and pushed the doorbell.

A moment later, the door opened, and a young man in black pants and a white shirt greeted them with a warm smile.

"Oh, hello, Frank," Phoebe said, her surprise evident in her voice. Frank was one of Cal's employees at the grocery store, and he often delivered her orders to her, a service Phoebe was exceedingly grateful for. She hated grocery shopping.

"Hello to you, too, Phoebe. And you must be Trevor." Frank introduced himself and stepped back as he held the door wide for them. "Come on in." Trevor and Phoebe exchanged curious looks as they stepped into the foyer behind Frank.

Phoebe froze and let out a small, startled sound at the sight of the painting hanging on the wall in the front entry. Even though Cal had told her it was there, she'd all but put it out of her mind over the past few weeks, consumed with concerns of what they'd talk about over dinner, how she was supposed to behave, what it would be like to sit across the table with the mother of the girl who'd changed their lives so completely. So seeing it huge and real and so prominently displayed was an immense shock to her system. "Cerulean," she murmured when she could speak.

Frank murmured something to Trevor before slipping away, talking so low Phoebe couldn't make out his words. He could have shouted and she wouldn't have been able to hear him over the clamor of emotions inside her.

Trevor said nothing—she'd told him about the painting—but he slipped his arm around her, presumably just in case she needed his support.

Phoebe, however, needed to find her own footing in the presence of this painting that had been birthed from the womb of her pain. She squeezed his hand at her side, and then stepped forward, her arms crossed tightly, her eyes upraised as she took in the womanly form on the canvas. The figure, her features almost ageless, stood nearly naked with her arms wrapped around her distended abdomen, a length of gossamer fabric draped around her torso, barely covering her breasts and the shadowed apex of her thighs. The creature's face was lowered, her eyes closed in an expression of longing mixed with serenity. Dark hair flowed down her back, a blue-black slash against the cinnamon and caramel hued background that seemed to be lit from somewhere just beyond the edge of the painting. The woman's face, porcelain pale like Phoebe's, but with the distinct features of Theresa, the woman who had

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