"We're not going to have a ceremony. He didn't want one," Ann said. She looked down at the floor for a moment and then raised her head. "I'm going to bake something, if you boys will excuse me. Friends are going to start coming by; I want to have something to offer them."
"Chocolate chips?" asked Brendan. She left without answering and they finished their wine in silence.
"Might as well pick a painting," Joe said.
Brendan came with him to the barn. When they were inside, Brendan said, "The old goat!" Joe spotted his father's special stash of Laphroaig and reached for it.
"To the old goat," he said and took a healthy swallow. He passed the bottle to Brendan. "You're all right, Brendan."
Brendan drank and cleared his throat. "Yowsir!"
Joe searched through paintings, mostly oils, and chose a small one, unframed, that had been done earlier that year—a spring scene of the woods at the edge of the field behind the barn. The leaves were just out, and his father had captured the delicate early green, chartreuse, that is gone in a week. The young leaves were modestly and unashamedly tender. There was nice work with interarching birches among the other trees and in the meeting of the woods and the field, but the light on the leaves was the main act.
"A good one," Brendan said.
"Not too big, easy to mail."
"I'll bet you could carry it on the plane, if you packed it," Brendan said. They rummaged around and found a shipping box just large enough for the painting and the drawing.