Through the Door (The Thin Veil) - By Jodi McIsaac Page 0,2

bones and olive skin and wavy brown hair that fell to her waist. She was the spitting image of her father, right down to the flecks of yellow in her golden eyes.

“Hello, my heart,” Cedar said, kissing her daughter’s cheeks and setting her back down. “Did you have a good day?”

“Yep! Gran took me to the art gallery!” Eden said.

“Oh!” Cedar said with a twinge of disappointment. She had been hoping to take Eden to the art gallery that summer, but hadn’t found the time yet. “Hey, Mum,” she called. “Sorry I’m late.”

Maeve McLeod poked her head out of the kitchen. She was short and slightly plump, with a face that still held some vestiges of gentle beauty. Now it was marred by a disapproving scowl.

“No need to apologize to me,” she said, though her tone indicated otherwise. “How was work?”

“Fine,” Cedar answered distractedly, admiring the drawings Eden was showing her. “Had some last-minute revisions for a client, that’s all.”

Maeve pursed her lips.

“What?” Cedar asked, annoyed.

“You should be more firm with them. They know you have a daughter to get home to. They make you work late too much.”

“Yes, but they also know I need this job.”

Maeve sniffed. “Well, anyway, I made you dinner. I’ll just take it out of the oven and be on my way.”

“You didn’t have to do that, Mum. I brought dinner home.”

Maeve eyed the pizza box Cedar had set on the counter with an air of distrust. “Mmm” was all she said.

“Why don’t you stay and eat with us? Are you going somewhere?” Cedar asked.

“No, not going somewhere,” Maeve said, “but I’ll go. I’ve been here all day and you two need to spend some quality time together.” She set a casserole and salad on the table, put on her coat, and left after kissing Cedar on the cheek and pulling Eden in for a hug.

Cedar took the casserole off the table and put it in the fridge, alongside the leftovers of the other meals her mother had made for them. She opened the pizza box and handed Eden a slice on a paper plate before serving herself. “So, how was the art gallery?” Cedar asked.

“Good,” Eden answered, her mouth full. “Gran said you were a painter. Were you?”

Cedar’s mouth tightened. Why was Maeve telling Eden how things used to be?

“I was,” she said. “Sort of. It was just for fun, nothing serious. It was years ago. I had more time then.” And I was happier too, she added to herself. Unbidden memories came back to her: drop cloths splattered with bright colors, the mixed smell of strong coffee and paint as sunlight bounced off her canvas on a Sunday morning, walls crammed with art she had either created or been inspired by, Finn’s laughter as she tried to squeeze in just one more frame, his suggestion that she decorate the ceiling next.

Eden looked around at the apartment’s walls, which were bare save for the bookshelves and a couple black-and-white photos of Eden. “Can I see your paintings? Where are they?”

“No,” Cedar said, so forcefully that Eden swung back around to look at her. She tried to soften her voice. “They’re not here. I put them away.”

“Why?” came the inevitable question.

“I just did.” Cedar didn’t think she could explain the complexity of her decision to a six-year-old, and it wasn’t something she wanted to discuss, or even think about, for that matter. How could she explain to Eden that those paintings had come out of the happiest time of her life, that her best, most creative work had been done in the years she’d shared with Eden’s father, when she had been so full of inspiration and passion that the paint had seemed to flow from her veins straight onto the canvas? How could she explain to her daughter that the only time in her life she had felt truly alive, truly at home, truly, deeply happy, had been before Eden was born?

She changed the subject. “So what did you like best at the gallery?” she asked.

Eden shrugged. “Dunno.” There was a pause while Cedar tried to think of a suitable follow-up question.

“How come I never see you painting?” Eden asked.

“Eden, forget about it, okay? I just don’t.”

There was another awkward pause, and Cedar found that she wasn’t very hungry anymore.

“Was my dad a painter too?” Eden asked.

Cedar stood up abruptly and started clearing the table. He was more than a painter, she thought, feeling tiny shoots of pain blossom inside her and wrap around