"Well, what does it look like?" I asked, suppressing a smile.
"It looks like Rhapsody's signature."
"Yes, it does, doesn't it?"
"Dozens of signatures," he said, picking up another stray piece of paper.
"Yes, it took quite a few tries before we got it right," I said.
"Got what right?"
"Rhapsody's signature, of course. Mother and I worked at it for several hours before we finally decided I could do it well enough to try it on the canvas."
"By canvas, I presume you mean the portrait of Mother?"
"Naturally. How could Dad possibly object to Mother commissioning a female painter to do a glamour portrait of her as a young woman as a present for him?"
"Oh Lord," Michael said, closing his eyes.
"Of course, that does leave us with one small problem," I said.
"Dare I ask?"
"We haven't quite figured out what to do with the painting we bought from Rhapsody," I said. "I mean, we needed it to copy the signature from, and we bought the biggest one she had so we can pack the two paintings together and sneak the portrait off the island that way. But we haven't quite figured out what to do with it when we get it home. I don't suppose you'd like a larger-than-life portrait of a puffin, would you?"
"What's he doing--sledding, trimming Christmas trees, mowing the lawn?"
"Nothing silly like mat. It's a nature study, not an illustration from one of her books. He's just sort of loitering about on the rocks, with a dead fish dangling from his beak. Very picturesque."
"No thanks," he said. "Unless, of course, you have developed an inexplicable fondness for the thing and want to see it on a regular basis."
"No," I said. "I'd be just as happy never to see it again."
"I'll pass, then," he said. "Although if you need a place to hide it, I'd gladly offer my attic. Or my basement. When I have an attic or a basement again."
"I'll keep it in mind," I said. "Oh my God!"
"What?" he asked, whirling about. With Jim still loose somewhere on the island, everyone startled easily.
"Rhapsody's coming," I said. "Help me stuff the rest of the forgeries in the trash barrel!"
We were backing away slightly from the roaring blaze that resulted when Rhapsody reached us. And, unfortunately, Dad spotted her and came dashing down the path. Mother fixed me with a gimlet eye and raised an eyebrow in a signal for me to deal with the situation.
"What a wonderful painting!" Dad exclaimed as he reached us. "I can't tell you how much it means to me!"
"Why… thank you," Rhapsody replied. She was pleased, although obviously a bit taken aback by the force of Dad's enthusiasm.
"It's a masterpiece," Dad said, taking both of her hands in his and shaking them vigorously. "It really transcends everything else you've ever done."
"Do you really think so?" Rhapsody said. "I wasn't sure it worked, really. It's the first time I've done anything like it, and the first time I've worked from life, so to speak."
"Well, you should do more like it," Dad said. "Truly astounding. The skin tones are absolute perfection!"
"Skin tones?" Rhapsody echoed in a puzzled voice.
"Of the feet and the beak, I suppose," I murmured in an undertone. "He tends to anthropomorphize."
"And the way you've captured the fur!" Dad went on.
Rhapsody's confusion deepened.
"Fur, feathers--he gets them mixed up when he's this excited," I stage-whispered.
"I know we'll always treasure it as a reminder of a special time in our lives," Dad said.
"Yes, it has been quite a weekend--" Rhapsody began.
"Dad," I broke in. "When are you going to show us the painting?"
"Show us?" Michael repeated, his voice so strangled, it was almost a squeak.
"Why--" Dad's jaw suddenly dropped, and he blushed bright red. "No," he said, finally. "It's… well, it's rather personal. I'm sure your mother would rather not. You understand," he said, looking at Rhapsody and then retreating back to the cottage. Mother smiled her thanks at me as she followed him inside, and for the next few minutes we could hear the fuss and bother Dad kicked up as he ransacked the cottage in search of a quiet, discreet place to hide the painting.
"Personal," Rhapsody repeated.
"He's very sentimental about presents Mother gives him," I improvised. "Hides them away where he thinks no one but the two of them can find them. And keeps them forever; she's learned the hard way never to give him anything edible. Bottles of vintage wine turned to vinegar in their closet; ten-year-old chocolate truffles petrifying in the bureau drawers. A nuisance, I suppose, but we've always thought it rather sweet."