Fleur de Aleta

The Thursday Guide by: Aleta Gay Grimball O'Brien   Every Thursday at precisely ten o’clock, Mr. Ellison unlocked Gallery Three. He never hurried. The key turned once. The heavy oak door sighed inward. Then he stepped inside as though entering someone’s home rather than a museum.   “Good morning,” he said. He wasn’t speaking to the visitors. There weren’t any yet. He was speaking to the paintings. Evan noticed it the first week of his internship.   The old man paused in front of each canvas, studying it for a moment before moving to the next. Sometimes he smiled, sometimes he frowned ever so slightly and once, Evan could have sworn he heard him whisper, “You still don’t like that corner, do you?”   The painting, unsurprisingly, offered no opinion.   By ten-fifteen, the first tour had gathered.  Sometimes it was a group of families, retirees usually came early and in the afternoon, art students drifted in after their classes.  The students came with not...

Arkansas trip   Some vacations are measured by miles , o thers are measured by moments.   When we packed the car and headed toward Arkansas, I knew we’d see new places. What I didn’t realize was how many little memories would come home with us.   We were once again, the  “traveling Grimball’s” with my parents, TJ, Gregory and me.  (Greg was unable to go with us due to his work.) It reminded me of when I was a little girl on family vacations.  We drove everywhere, stopping at random places, which allowed us to really see our country.     The destination was to visit with Aunt Mimi and Uncle Al and to see their new home, in Fort Smith, Arkansas.  My mom was especially looking forward to seeing her sister; it’s been years since either had visited the other.     The River Walk   Our first stop was Natchitoches, Louisiana.    Gregory and I wandered along the brick streets and riverfront. It was one of those places that inv...

 The Waiting Room Chapters 20 through the end Chapter Twenty: The Keys   The Waiting Room felt different after Thomas left. His chair remained near the fireplace. The swing on Mara’s canvas still moved now and then, pushed by an invisible breeze. Vivian claimed she did not miss him; no one believed her.   “I don’t,” she insisted one morning.   Samuel sprinkled seeds into a cracked teacup, “Of course.”   “I found him irritating.”   Mara smiled into her canvas, “You told him that every day.”   “Exactly. It was exhausting.”   Evelyn folded one of her apology letters and tucked it carefully back into her suitcase, “You seem bored.”   Vivian gasped, “I am never bored.”   At that exact moment, the door appeared, Vivian brightened, “Oh good. Entertainment.”   The door opened and a woman stepped through carrying an enormous ring of keys, hundreds of them.   Old brass keys. Silver keys. Tiny keys. Rusty keys. House keys. Skeleton keys. ...