Afton Family Portrait Novels & Stories

she said as she inspected the pictures. “You like them?” he asked, and she nodded. “These are my brother’s kids,” he said pointing at the portrait of three children, two young girls and a boy. The youngest girl looked to be about two and had short dark blonde hair as did her brother who looked to be the eldest, around five or six perhaps. The older girl, she guessed to be around four, had dark-brown hair that curled in ringlets around her neck. Each had the same dark-blue eyes as Creighton and smiled cheerfully from a bench in front of a garden setting.

“With the whole family.” Franklin nodded slightly, even though it couldn’t be seen. “Noted,” he replied before ending the call. There was a lot waiting for them in Atherton, responsibilities and unfinished matters that couldn’t be ignored, and somewhere beneath it all, the absence of Tristan lingered heavily, something neither of them spoke about but both felt. Franklin made another call almost immediately. “Jonathan,” he said once the line connected, “we’re meeting the family tomorrow. You need to be there.”

His body was slender, with minimal muscles, and he was twenty years of age. The youngest, Tobias Thornton, was eighteen. He was skinny, with no muscles, five feet ten inches. Tobias had auburn-colored hair, cut low and styled similarly to his brother Timothy. He had a straight nose and hazel eyes, like his mom. He had his father's perfect lips, not too small, not too big. These boys were handsome and spoilt rotten! Trouble and drama followed them. The fascinating family of four lived close to the mountains. The towering mountains were to the back of them, and on the other side of those mountains were the expansive and beautiful seas, and everything else was in front of them. Just the way he

Small beds lined both walls, thin mattresses long since collapsed with age, faded blankets still folded at the foot of several of them, as though someone had once cared enough to make them each morning. Drawings covered one wall, taped there decades ago and somehow, impossibly, still clinging to the concrete children's crayon work, faded almost past recognition but unmistakably tender in subject. Suns with too many rays. Houses with crooked chimneys. Families, hand in hand. Aurora crouched slowly in front of one drawing near the corner, her flashlight beam trembling slightly as she studied it. A family, five stick figures holding hands beneath a bright yellow sun, and standing slightly apart

"She's going to frame us. I give it a week before there's a portrait." There was, in fact, a portrait within four days, hand-painted by a cousin twice removed who fancied himself an artist, depicting Ava and Enzo standing triumphant with the joint trust documents held aloft like a trophy, hung directly beside the beach house family photo on Elena's refrigerator, and nobody in either family found this even slightly strange, which perhaps said everything anyone needed to know about the family in question.

Something about its placement, tucked away and slightly dusty compared to everything around it, made me kneel down and lift the lid before I'd fully decided to. Photographs. Dozens of them, loose and unsorted, spanning what looked like decades of Ashcroft family history. I sifted through them slowly, recognizing Nyric at various ages — a solemn boy in formal pack attire, a teenager caught mid-laugh at some long-forgotten gathering, a young man standing beside an older version of himself I assumed must be his father. Then I found the torn one.

The photographs were in a manila envelope, handled carefully, the way you handle things that have been kept safe for a long time. Margaret laid them on the table one at a time. A man in his late thirties — dark hair, Lila's jaw, unmistakable — standing on a lawn in summer holding a small child who was reaching for something outside the frame. A family portrait: the man, a woman beside him with her arm through his, five boys ranging from teenage to toddler, and a girl — four years old, gap-toothed smile, a stuffed rabbit under one arm.

Alton lifted the child and wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me closer. We turned towards the camera, beaming with genuine smiles on our faces. The next scene involved us walking through the garden, admiring the blooming flowers. The hotel's garden was a significant asset, so we took several photos there. Hand in hand, we strolled, capturing the essence of a happy family. We also took pictures lifting the child and played on the playground, enjoying the swing. As Alton gently pushed the boy, I watched them with joy, resembling a proud mother.

"Mom, I know," Ashton replied. He had already learned from Scarlett that Colton's health was failing and that he didn't have much time left. If possible, he would extend his grandfather's life. He would also make the Lowe family stand alongside the Zapata family as the top families on Linton Island. "Get some rest," Irene said. "Okay." Ashton could tell his mother had something on her mind, but he didn't press her. Before he left Linton Island, he would settle everything.

What had my father been writing about? I was still thinking about it when Valentina called me over. “Come look at this.” She was holding something in her hand. I wiped my hands on my jeans and walked over. “What is it?” She handed me a piece of paper. A painting. Drawn with bright colors. A child's work. I blinked, recognizing it immediately. It was a family portrait. Our mother, our father, the three of us. Adriano had been barely three or four when he drew this.