Other Shepards Read Free Page A

and her pale, smoke-colored eyes regard my sister and me with steady attention.
    Geneva remembers thinking that Annie was floating. “She was holding her pencil like a wand, and she was wearing that light blue dress, and the sun was coming in behind her so I had to squint. But when she moved across the kitchen to us, it was like those fairies with the pulleys on their backs from when we saw A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Bleecker Street Theater. Or at least,” Geneva bites her lip, “that’s what I think I thought. The kitchen was full of sun. I couldn’t see.”
    Which is strange, because in my mind Annie wears a dark blue dress and the afternoon is overcast. The image is like a negative plate held over Geneva’s picture, and looking back, I can’t help but mistrust both versions of our memory.
    “Annie the painter?” I repeat. “A wall painter or a picture painter?”
    “Both. A picture on a wall,” Annie says. She reaches a hand to the messy knot of her upswept hair and untwists it. Saffron squiggles fall around her shoulders. “I’m painting the mural for your mom’s birthday. Some plants and leaves to look at and cheer her up while she slaves over a hot stove.” She points a finger at each of us. “Two Shepard sisters. But which is … ?”
    “That’s Geneva,” I say. “I’m Holland.”
    “Nobody slaves much in this house,” says Geneva. “Mostly we defrost.”
    “Speaking of, who wants a nice warming cup of coffee? My own blend. I’m taking a breather. What do you think of my sketches?” She nods to the kitchen table.
    Rolls of vellum paper clutter our table and banquette. The lazy Susan and napkin holder have been pushed aside to accommodate sketch paper and pencils. Several opened books display glossy photographs of landscape paintings and designs. The place mats are stacked on the floor. I suppress an urge to straighten the mess.
    “The parents don’t like us to drink coffee,” Geneva says, creeping toward the table. She bends over a book, her arms wound exaggeratedly behind her back to show she won’t touch it. Then she turns and looks at me, her teeth raking her bottom lip, waiting for me to set the situation right. “Do they know she’s here?” she whispers.
    “You’re sure my mom and dad know you’re here?” I ask as politely as I can. “I mean, that you’re here in our kitchen right now? Because I think they would have told us. It’s kind of, whatever, weird, finding a stranger in your own house.”
    “But it’s supposed to be a surprise. From your dad to your mom. Only, when you think about it, the mural is really from me to your mom, since I’m doing all the work. Now why don’t you two relax and take off those funny hats. Who wants coffee?”
    That’s when I notice the powerfully cozy coffee smell wafting through the kitchen. I never drink coffee, but this aroma is like a potion, thick and enticing.
    Annie opens a cupboard and pulls out two orange-striped coffee mugs, part of a set of Navajo earthenware we never use anymore. Geneva and I yank off our berets but otherwise remain motionless, watching Annie.
    She picks up the pot and pours coffee into mugs. “At least try it. It’s a special vanilla nutmeg blend that I invented myself. And I have a bag of cinnamon rolls. There was a day-old sale at My Favorite Muffin. Jack eats there all the time.”
    “Who’s Jack?” I ask.
    “Jack’s a friend of mine, an actor. In fact, he went out on an audition this morning, a television commercial for heartburn medicine. He was so funny, talking to himself in the mirror—‘I can’t believe all those years of summer stock for this’—but then he got more positive, which is just like Jack, telling himself how an actor’s life is not about shortcuts, but persistence and … you want milk?”
    We are transfixed, watching Annie bungle around our kitchen, rummaging for spoons and milk. She has a dancer’s body, long limbs as delicately hinged as Japanese brush