by Tracy Daugherty
All winter she’d waited for Robert’s worries to break. In late January he’d brought his father home to Texas from the rent–controlled apartment in Manhattan. He’d arranged for round–the–clock care at the med center, and he’d temporarily suspended his own projects. His work wasn’t moving much anyway—one small showing in a local gallery where, predictably, he was promoted as the son of the famous Abstract Expressionist, Frederick Becker.
Previous selections Browse editions Newer Selections