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top shelf of the third bookcase was an eleven-by-fourteen portrait of a beautiful young woman on her wedding day. She wore a lace veil over her black hair and delicate diamond necklace. Marla walked over to the bookcase and stared at the portrait, taking in every detail.
    The brunette had sparkling blue eyes, full of joy, and an angel’s smile that put a dimple in her right cheek. Her youthful face was unblemished and untainted by the worries that came with age.
    â€œThat’s my mother. Kathleen,” she heard Carson say.
    Marla touched the shelf as she looked at the photograph of the young woman who had captured the heart of a Texas oilman decades ago. The woman who was Sophie’s grandmother.
    Sophie. She thought of her little girl. You look just like her.
    There was a striking resemblance between mother and son. But Sophie was the mirror image of her grandmother. It was startling to see it and to know that someday this was how Sophie would look.
    â€œShe was so beautiful,” Marla said.
    â€œShe was very special,” Carson replied in a fond voice as he walked over to the bookcase. He pointed to a photograph of a young man in a flight suit, posing beside a jet. “That’s my father, Gerald Blackwell,” he said with apparent pride.
    His father had been a tall, rugged man, and Carson had inherited his build.
    She looked at the other photos on display. There was a family portrait. Gerald and Kathleen Blackwell posed with their two-year-old son. Carson had thick black ringlets of hair all over his head. “Look at your hair.”
    â€œHey, I had no control over my hair back then. I don’t have much control over it now,” he said as the tension between them ebbed. “That’s my dad and his two brothers.”
    Other photographs included one of Carson and Miss Eva taken at his college graduation, and Miss Eva with her husband on their wedding day in 1943.
    Marla’s gaze shifted back to the portrait of Kathleen. She was haunted by the resemblance to her own daughter. “What was your mother like?”
    Carson shrugged. “She was a great mom. Very loving. She liked the outdoors. She liked to go horseback riding, and she always had paint on her hands. She was an artist.”
    â€œAn artist? She painted?” Marla gasped.
    Carson gave her a bewildered glance. “Yeah.” He pointed to the oil paintings of the old cowboys. “My mother did these. Eli and Jim. They worked on my grandfather’s ranch.”
    Marla crossed the room to look at the paintings signed K. Blackwell. The essence of the two men, hardened by the wind and sun, was captured in remarkable details such as the squint of their eyes and scuffed boots. Nature had not been kind to them, but it had not beaten them either. “Did she do the watercolor in your lobby?”
    He nodded. “That was her favorite medium.”
    â€œReally?” Marla gushed as she pictured Sophie brushing watercolors on art paper.
    I love watercolors, Mommy .
    When Marla saw Carson’s puzzled frown, she quickly made an excuse for her odd behavior. “I don’t mean to carry on so, but I just admire people with artistic talent so much. I can’t even draw a stick man.”
    â€œCome, I want to show you something.” He motioned to a pair of folding doors. “This is one of my studios.”
    She followed him into the airy workroom where blueprints were tacked to corkboards and drawing tables flanked computer monitors displaying images of a building in 3-D.
    â€œHere.” He led her to a wide table that held a detailed model of a sprawling complex, complete with landscaping, trees, walkways, and parking areas.
    â€œThis is the Kathleen Blackwell Center for Fine Arts. I’ve been working on the design for over two years. I guess you could say it’s my labor of love.
    â€œThe main building will house art galleries. My mother’s paintings will hang in the entrance, and