Excerpt of The Seeing Garden by Ginny Kubitz Moyer

New York City

1910

On the lush green lawn knelt a young mother, smiling and serene, beside her baby son. The mother wore a rust-colored dress and a halo. The child had a halo, too, and stood on his tiptoes in a way no real baby could possibly do. The mother’s left arm circled her son lightly in a gesture that promised freedom as well as shelter. Madonna of the Springtime, said the small plaque on the gilded frame.

     Catherine was gazing at the painting when her aunt Abigail suddenly appeared at her side.

     “I’ve just heard from Mrs. Anson,” she said in a low voice, “that William Brandt is coming to town. From California. He will be at the Crosbys’ ball next week.”

     It took a moment for Catherine to register the words. She’d been standing as close to the painting as she could without attracting the attention of the other museumgoers, totally absorbed in her study of color and line.  “I’m sorry,” she said to her aunt. “I didn’t hear. Who will be there?”

     “William Brandt.”

      Catherine smiled politely and turned back to the painting. Her aunt gave a barely audible sigh of exasperation, as she did every time Catherine showed a lack of interest in things other nineteen-year-old girls found important.

     “It’s good we learned this when we did,” her aunt said, buttoning her coat. “I will telephone Madame Rainier and see if she can make you a new gown.”

     “I thought I was going to wear the pink one.”

     “That was before we knew who would be there,” said Abigail firmly. “Come. You can look at the paintings another day.”

     After eleven years in her aunt’s house, Catherine knew it was pointless to resist.  But she followed her with deliberate slowness, looking back over her shoulder until the last possible moment, taking the image of the sunlit field with her into the drizzly February streets.