Paint the Wind Read Free Page A

gravy. Grandmother had sent other housekeepers fleeing for as much, but unfortunately, Morgana had a steady hand.
    Grandmother glanced down at the floor. “Morgana, did you mop and wax today?”
    â€œYes, Mrs. Menetti, not three hours ago.”
    Maya looked down at the white tile, which gleamed like an unwavering lake.
    â€œI see a cloudy area,” said Grandmother. “I cannot have inefficiency in this house, Morgana. Buff the floor after dinner.”
    Maya gave Morgana a pitying smile, as if to say, “See, she really is unreasonable.”
    Puzzled, Morgana said, “Certainly, Mrs. Menetti.” She gave Maya a quick nod and a tight grimace and disappeared into the kitchen.
    Maya ate with her eyes downcast. Not a word transpired. The air filled with the clink of silverware and Grandmother’s sips and swallows. Sounds from the neighborhood beckoned through the open dining room window. One of the boys from across the street countedfor a game of hide-and-seek. The ice-cream truck crawled down Altadena Lane with the tinkle of carnival music, followed by the squeals of children begging it to stop. Bike bells rang from the sidewalks. Maya gazed out but tried to look indifferent. Grandmother didn’t believe in foolishness of any kind, ever.
    Morgana walked into the dining room, wearing a look of smug superiority. “Mrs. Menetti, I hope I’m not presumptuous in presenting these to you, but you told me to be diligent in the supervision of Maya’s time. I found her playing with these this afternoon. She keeps them hidden in her closet.” She held out the shoe box.
    Maya stood up, clutching her napkin. Her face pinched with disbelief. The pot roast jumbled in her stomach. “No!” she yelled.
    Grandmother signaled for Morgana to come closer.She lifted her eyeglasses to her face and looked inside. The photo of Maya’s mother lay on top. “How long have these been in my house?”
    For the first time, Maya could not think of a lie that would please Grandmother. “She … I … my … mother gave them to me when I was little. I didn’t tell you …” Maya glanced at Morgana. “Because … you don’t like horses.”
    Grandmother leaned forward, her eyes examining the girl. “Have you forgotten, Maya, that it was your mother’s obsession with horses that was your parents’ undoing?”
    Maya sat down and stared into her plate.
    Grandmother turned to the housekeeper. “You see, Morgana, my Gregory was well past the age to marrywhen he met Maya’s mother. Over forty years old, successful in business, and firmly entrenched in Pasadena society. Then he went on a vacation to Wyoming. On a painting expedition, of all things, out in the wilderness. Oil painting was such a trivial, messy hobby. And then he met that woman. Imagine! She was half his age. Her family lived with animals. Like animals. He took her away from that desolate and forsaken place and brought her to civilization.” Grandmother took a deep breath through her nose. “That’s the kind of man he was, always wanting to help the less fortunate.” Her eyes narrowed. “But she couldn’t give up riding horses. And my son indulged her. They were on their way to one of those excursions in the middle of nowhere, so she could ride and he could paint, when the accident occurred.” Her face lost expression andshe seemed to retreat into her thoughts. “He was my only child, my sweet boy … and that woman and her horses took him away from me. She might as well have killed him with her own hand.”
    â€œMy condolences, Mrs. Menetti,” said Morgana. “So, with respect, ma’am, your son and daughter-in-law didn’t die in a boating accident in Costa Rica?”
    Grandmother snapped into the present. “Certainly not! Wherever did you get that idea?”
    Morgana’s eyes glared in Maya’s direction.
    Maya