Nora Wood had just crossed the Atlantic and landed in New York. By the ti she arrived ho, night had fallen, and the city was aglow with lights. The vibrant and bustling atmosphere of New York surrounded her, but instead of comfort, it made her feel distant. The busier and noisier it got, the lonelier she felt.
She was exhausted.
The jet lag certainly wasn't helping.
As she pushed open the door to her ho, the lights were already on. Judy Baker was just about to leave but paused when she saw Nora. "Hey, Nora, Anson's in the studio."
Nora blinked in surprise, her delicate features gradually softening into a smile that spread across her face like a jasmine bloom—graceful and refined. Her naturally elegant appearance, with or without makeup, took on a glow under the evening sky. A flicker of unexpected joy lit her eyes as her voice gently lifted.
"Anson's back? I thought he had gone to Los Angeles."
Judy returned the smile. "He ca back yesterday, exhausted. Said he was here for an audition, and as soon as he got ho today, he went straight to the studio."
A wave of emotion rippled through Nora—excitent, quickly followed by a touch of concern.
Her youngest son had always shown an exceptional talent for painting. His sensitivity to color and line was innate, a natural gift. But Anson didn't enjoy painting. Whenever he imrsed himself in that world, he often got lost in his own thoughts, sinking into a darkness he struggled to escape.
Nora, being deeply involved in art exhibitions, understood this far too well. She had seen it ti and again in troubled artists—Christopher Wood, tornted by delusions; John Minton, trapped in the imaginary aftermath of a car accident; Vincent van Gogh, who cut off his own ear, and many others.
That's why Nora had never pushed Anson. She gave him the freedom to choose his path.
When he had told her he wanted to go to Los Angeles to pursue acting, she didn't object—perhaps it was for the best.
As far as she could rember, Anson hadn't picked up a paintbrush in a long ti.
Now, Nora couldn't help but worry about his current state.
Taking a deep breath, she shook off the unsettling thoughts. There was no need to scare herself. "What about dinner?" she asked.
Judy understood Nora's concern but didn't dwell on it. "Anson said he needs to watch his diet because the role might require him to work out, maybe even so intense physical activity."
Nora waved her hand dismissively. "If it's going to be physically intense, the first step is building muscle. Diet and exercise go hand in hand. He needs to consu enough protein and carbohydrates. And... I think today he could use a little sugar, too."
Thinking it over, Nora looked back at Judy. "What fresh ingredients do we have in the fridge? If I start a stew now, it might take too long, but I think I can still whip up sothing simple for dinner."
Judy nodded, "We've got beef and chicken, along with fresh tomatoes, mushrooms, and onions. Anson had onion soup last night."
Nora snapped back into action, displaying her signature efficiency. "Alright, let's make a chicken and mushroom stew—one of my mother's specialties. Anson will love it. I'll add so tomato and cheese on the side and prepare a salad for a balanced al. As for dessert, let's do a chocolate pudding—quick and easy."
Judy hesitated, "Do you need my help?"
She could see Nora's fatigue after the long flight and the eight-hour ti difference. Perhaps cooking right now wasn't the best idea.
Nora smiled warmly. "Thank you, Judy. But trust , I've got this. It's nothing too difficult, and I can at least make sure Anson has a proper dinner. You've already finished your shift, and your kids are probably waiting for you."
She patted Judy's shoulder gently, "They're expecting you ho, too."
With a soft sigh, Nora paused briefly, then exhaled deeply, tying her hair back. Like a modern-day Mary Poppins, she was ready to work so magic. The fatigue vanished from her steps as she headed into the kitchen with renewed energy.
Despite her image as a strong, professional woman who seed out of place in a kitchen, Nora actually enjoyed cooking. She wasn't a master chef by any ans, but she could follow a recipe and get the job done.
And if there was no recipe?
Well, dining out was always a delightful alternative.
The kitchen ca to life with the sound of clattering pots and pans.
After a flurry of activity, Nora swiftly finished her work, leaving the rest to ti. The chicken and mushroom stew still needed to simr for a while. She wiped her hands on her apron, took it off, poured herself a glass of red wine, and made her way to the studio on the side of the first-floor hall.
*Creak.*
Carefully, Nora pushed open the door to the studio—
Music softly flowed through the room, serene and peaceful. Anson sat in front of the easel, completely absorbed, fully imrsed in a world of lines and colors.
He hadn't noticed the movent at the door.
Nora didn't step forward right away. She stood at the doorway, holding her wine glass, quietly watching Anson paint. The air held the faint sounds of insects and distant engine hums, as if ti had montarily paused here.
It wasn't until Anson put down his brush.
Stretching to loosen his stiff shoulders, Anson finally noticed Nora standing with her glass of red wine. He had no idea how long she had been there.
Startled.
On one hand, he wasn't ntally prepared for this; on the other, he was anxious about his painting—
Like music, painting was a reflection of one's inner world, a place where all secrets lay hidden. The changes in style and approach couldn't deceive anyone.
After the afternoon's performance, Anson had quietly left, waited patiently for the tow truck to arrive and complete the exchange, then took a taxi ho.
Clearly, Jas Franco didn't need anyone interfering with his date with Alicia tonight, and the afternoon performance had impacted not only the audience but also Anson himself. It was a rare experience for him, and he wanted to record the notes and lyrics that had resonated, without the help of alcohol.
Once the music was recorded, Anson didn't feel lost or uncertain. Instead, he felt more determined to enjoy life. He went to the studio, and after a long, long ti, picked up a paintbrush again, trying to rediscover the hobbies he had once neglected, opening himself to new possibilities.
He hadn't had ti to ntally prepare to display his inner thoughts through his art, and now it was suddenly exposed, especially in front of his mother in this body.
What if Nora noticed sothing unusual?
"…Mrs. Wood?"
In a mont of hesitation, Anson made a playful remark. Once the words left his mouth, he breathed a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing.
Nora could hear the teasing in Anson's words. It was obvious he was intentionally avoiding calling her "Mom," which made her smile softly.
"Mr. Anson," she responded with a playful tone, "So, is this the Fairmont in San Francisco?"
Following Nora's gaze, Anson looked at his unfinished painting. "Yes, I lived there for a few weeks this sumr while working on a project. The mont I walked into the hotel's lobby, I felt the composition had a special atmosphere..."
"Sumr." Nora moved closer, carefully observing Anson's painting—
Anson was sowhat surprised.
No, very surprised.
There was no awkwardness or distance. Instead, it felt as if old friends were reuniting, with a warm and natural ease. Was that feeling normal?
Sothing seed off.
End of Chapter 3.
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