4. Vision

Bonnie spent what remained of the afternoon in her studio, finishing up the last of her four paintings, all of which would be displayed in two weeks' time as part of her fine arts seminar's exhibition. She had no illusions about her talent; she was not an artist like her Grammy A. She had no "vision" of her own, nothing "to say." That had been the source of some grief to her in her teens, but she had made peace with the fact that she was a technician, a highly-skilled renderer. In this, as in so many other areas, she took after Grammy T, whose dig notebooks were crammed with exquisite little drawings of bones, primitive stone tools, pottery shards, and the like. Grammy T had been a keen observer, not a creator, and so was she.

She had thought long and hard about the paintings she would execute for her final project, and had finally decided to pay homage to her home state of Virginia. As the theme itself was banal in the extreme, she had conceived of approaching each of her subjects, four of the many state emblems, as though seen through a microscope. In painting the cardinal, she had focused on capturing all the fine detail of a single dark eye surrounded by hair-thin black and red feathers; for the dogwood blossom, she had represented only the very center of the greenish-yellow flowering head; the scallop shell and the brook trout were studies in intricate patterning. As with any common object greatly magnified, none of the emblems was immediately recognizable but they were all nonetheless accurately represented, an effect she found pleasing and moderately interesting. Most importantly to her, the brushwork was strong, clean and neat, the kind of brushwork she needed to master if she was to be trusted with retouching compromised canvases.

When, at last, she glanced at her watch, she saw to her dismay that she would have to race about if she was to leave for her date in a timely fashion. A quick shower, some hot curlers rolled willy-nilly into her auburn hair, a few swipes with the mascara wand and a light sweep of blusher, and she was ready to shimmy into her slip dress, a vintage black-silk number she had discovered in a tiny consignment shop off Rue de Charonne in Paris. Vous avez de la chance, Mademoiselle, the chic salesgirl had told her: they had put the dress out only that morning. Cocktail length, with sequin-trimming along its spaghetti straps and tie belt, the designer creation fit like a second skin, making the most of her skimpy curves. She stepped into the sling-back pumps whose darling little bows over the toe box had seduced her into spending far too much, and rushed back into the bathroom, where she removed the curlers, shook her hair into a riot of loose waves and applied a new-for-her shade of lipstick: candy apply red. She snatched up her black cashmere stole and beaded evening bag, and hurried to her grandfather's suite to wish him good night.

Instead of Grandpa B, she found her eighteen-year-old brother Maximillian in sole possession of the living area. He was sprawled on the divan, scrolling through his messages when she walked in. "Va va voom!" he said, popping up into a sitting position. "I hope Trev's ticker's in good condition, 'cause it just might stop at the sight of you, big sis. Poor old guy. Show him some mercy, why don't cha?"

Bonnie suppressed a smile at his arrant nonsense. "Cut out the blather, and make yourself useful for a change." She turned her back to him, and lifted the hair off the back of her neck. "There's a hook-and-eye closure I couldn't manage. Right at the top of the zipper."

Max had just finished doing her up, when the rhythmic thumping of a cane against the floorboards announced their grandfather's imminent return. Bonnie struck a provocative pose, and when he had shuffled into the room, said, "Well, what do you think, Gramps? Will I do?" She began a slow turn so he could appreciate the full effect of her elegance, anticipating with pleasure the amused indulgence she would see on his face when she'd circled back to him.

But, "Roxanne?" he said, his eyes wide in wonder and confusion. "Roxie?"

Bonnie shot Max a worried look, and hastened to his side. "No, Gramps." She laid a light hand on his arm, and peered into his face. "It's me. Bonnie."

"Yeah, yeah." He shrugged his shoulder irritably. "I know who you are. I'm not senile. Just for a second, there, you reminded of a girl I squired round Vegas for a couple of days, that's all. Great gal. Kept a wad of bills in her cleavage."

"How… ah… resourceful of her." Between them, Bonnie and Max saw him comfortably settled in his chair. "Must've been quite a while back. Nobody carries cash anymore."

"Been half a hundred years…" He smiled to himself, his eyes looking past them, apparently absorbed in a vision of that far-away time.

"Trev coming by for you?" Max said into the silence.

"No, he's been in D. C. all day, so I'll take SteerE in and meet him at the restaurant."

"Better hit the road, then. Traffic's bound to be a nightmare."

"Right." She bent over her grandfather and kissed his cheek, leaving a smear of red behind. "See you in the morning, Gramps."

Sleek and silver-gray, SteerE was parked and waiting for her on the circular drive when she emerged from the main entrance some minutes later. Its gull-wing doors rose noiselessly at her approach, allowing her to climb smoothly into the closer of the two passenger seats. She leaned back against the supple leather as the safety harness slid up along its track and fixed her securely in place. With the click of the buckle, a single ping sounded, followed by the well-modulated female voice Bonnie had selected as her default setting. "Greetings, Bonnie," SteerE said. "Destination, please."

"La Coupole, Pennsylvania Avenue, D. C."

"Acknowledged." The video display on the dashboard flashed into life, showing a road map of the immediate area. "Desired time of arrival."

"Let's aim for eight p.m., or shortly afterward."

"Acknowledged." An arrow now appeared on the screen, indicating the route SteerE had chosen as best suited to meet the established criteria. Gravel crunched under the wheels as the vehicle moved silently forward. "Audio preference?"

Bonnie did not want to be alone with her thoughts, but she was too distracted to listen to podcast chatter, and not in the mood for lyrics. "Classical music, I think. Something light, cheerful…"

"Mozart?" SteerE suggested. "Eine kleine Nachtmusik?"

"Perfect." Bonnie nestled against the seat back, and prepared to enjoy the ride.