“Did she do this piece?” I point to it.
“Yes.”
My brows shoot up. “Wow. That’s all metalwork?”
“Yes.” Her face glows with pride. “She does commissioned and original work using metal and copper and bronze and the like. Dad got her into welding when she was a girl, around eight.”
“A strange hobby for a grade schooler.”
She chuckles. “Right? But she had a knack for it. He showed her how to do it when he was making barbecue pits, and that was all it took for her to get hooked. She practiced all the time, making whatever she could out of materials she found in trash cans, at school, anywhere, really. Then she was discovered in high school. A guest from the city who stayed here one summer was an art collector.”
“That’s amazing.”
“It really is.”
I glance over some other group photos, including Jacob and their father.
I squint at one of Mindy. “Is this Mindy with . . . Paul McCartney?”
She nods. “She works for a music label in New York. Rebel Records.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. I’m really proud of her.” Her tone is wistful. “I’m proud of all of them.”
Even Jacob? I wonder, but I don’t push it. It’s clear losing his twin crushed his entire world, and the pieces never reassembled, which is understandable, if tragic.
“What does she do at the record label?”
“She’s a manager. I’m not sure exactly what it entails, but I know she’s busy all the time.”
“That sounds like an interesting job. Successful too. And your sister Piper is a well-known artist.” I shove my hands into my pockets and look over at Finley. “Why don’t your sisters help you?”
She flinches, a slight movement I might not have noticed if I hadn’t been watching her closely.
I wince. “Sorry. You don’t have to answer.”
She hesitates. “No. It’s fine. They have helped me in the past, but I can’t keep asking them. Everyone relinquished all rights over the property to me after Dad died. No one else wanted to deal with it, but it’s our home. This is for me to deal with.”
“Because you’re the oldest?”
“Because I have to.” Her chin lifts.
I have to admire her tenacity. “You’re doing the best you can with what you have.”
She snorts out a laugh that’s halfway to a sob. “Is that condescension?”
“No. Anyone else would have given up by now.”
“Would you?”
I shove my hands into my pockets again. “No. I wouldn’t. I understand why you can’t let it go.”
“Then why are you still here?”
“I want to come up with a plan that will please everyone. That’s my job—it’s my mission in business, in life . . . to make people happy.”
She turns toward me, arms crossed over her chest. “Who makes you happy?”