The Artist’s Model Reincarnated
by Jim Harrington
Margaret jumped at the unexpected clap of thunder and dropped the box of jewelry she’d crafted for today’s flea market. She bent to retrieve the items as a group of people rushed into the tent to escape a sudden downpour. *So much for a 20% chance of rain.* She smiled and reached for a beaded necklace when she saw the young woman hurl the cotton candy into the trash barrel a few feet away.
Head tilted to one side, the tip of her tongue peeking through cranberry-tinted lips, the girl wrung the rainwater from her long, black hair. She turned away and took a step toward the back of the tent.
“Wait. Don’t leave.” Margaret hurried to the young woman and placed a hand on the girl’s arm. “I need to talk to you.”
The girl jerked her arm away.
“Please.” Margaret saw a mixture of anger and confusion on the young woman’s face.
The girl turned and placed a hand on her hip. Her eyes narrowed.
“I’m sorry,” Margaret said. “You probably think I’m crazy.” She took a step back. “It’s just … You look so much like her.”
“I have no idea who you are, or who you think I am,” the young woman said, “but I agree. You’re one totally cracked out old lady.” She turned to leave.
“No. Please. Come sit with me.” Margaret pointed to a pair of folding metal chairs. “Just for a minute.”
“It’s the eyes,” Margaret said after they sat. “I’d recognize them anywhere.”
The young woman said nothing.
“I’m sorry. I’m not making any sense.” Margaret closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“My Bernie was a successful artist,” Margaret said. “He painted nature scenes and sold them to businesses across the state. One day, after he died, I found a painting of a nude woman in his loft hidden behind some of his other works. She had long, black hair, small breasts, and the eyes of an enchantress. Much like yours.” She touched the girl’s face. “In fact, if you were twenty years older, you could be her twin.”
The girl tilted her head back and moved her chair away from the woman.
“I know this sounds crazy.” Margaret took another deep breath. “According to the date on the picture, he painted it around the time he changed. I can’t describe exactly how, but something about him was different.” She rolled her shoulders. “I thought he was having an affair. I imagine that’s what every woman thinks at first, but I couldn’t prove it.” Margaret paused. The young woman said nothing. “I decided I was being silly. He didn’t stay out late, or come home with lipstick on his collar, or anything like that. He was just … different.” Margaret pulled a tissue from her breast pocket and wiped her eyes. “I don’t know if he did anything more than paint the woman, but the time he spent with her changed him anyway.”
The young woman placed her hands in her lap and chewed her lower lip.
“The model may have been my mother,” the girl said to the ground. “She told me about the painting. The artist had passed away, and she didn’t want me to find out about what she’d done from a stranger.” She turned in her chair and looked toward the far corner of the tent. “My dad had abandoned us a few weeks earlier, and we needed the money.” The girl swallowed. “She consented to pose for the artist as long as he agreed to never show the picture in public.”
After a pause, the young woman pointed at Margaret’s fingers. “Did you make those?”
Margaret looked at the gold and silver rings adorning her fingers and thumbs. “Yes, that’s how I earn a living now that Bernie’s gone.”
“I like them,” the young woman said.
Margaret dropped her hands to her lap.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” the young woman said.
Margaret nodded and mumbled a thanks.
What’s your name?” she asked the young woman.
“Jessica.”
“Mine’s Margaret.”
“Nice to meet you, Margaret.”
“Same here.” Margaret looked at Jessica. “Where is your mother now?”
“She died five months ago. Colon cancer. The doctors found it too late.”
“Oh.” Margaret handed Jessica a tissue. “That was shortly before my Bernie died.”
Jessica’s eyes opened wider. “Do you think…?”
“I doubt it. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe.”
Margaret took Jessica’s hand in hers.
“All I know is I miss my Bernie, and I want him back.”
“I miss my mom, too,” Jessica said.
The two women fell silent. Hand-in-hand, they sat and listened to the rain’s song as it drummed against the roof of the tent. Margaret squeezed Jessica’s hand and felt the young woman respond.
“Maybe we could have dinner together sometime,” Margaret said.
“I’d like that,” Jessica replied.
Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two cats. His stories have appeared in Apollo's Lyre, Every Day Fiction, Bent Pin Quarterly, Long Story Short, MicroHorror, Flashshot and others. He currently serves as a flash fiction editor for Apollo’s Lyre. You can read more of his stories at www.jimharringtononline.net. Contact Jim.
