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“Oh, she absolutely is,” Heather comments from behind the front desk.
Ollie ignores her and secures the last buckle before looking up at me. “Ready?”
“Ready,” I confirm and slip a tote bag I'd packed earlier with a bottle, spare clothes, diapers and Tilly's favorite stuffed toy over my shoulder.
The walk to the art studio has become so familiar that I could probably do it with my eyes closed. We pass the bakery on the corner where Ollie insists on buying cookies every week, the florist whose sidewalk buckets overflow with late summer blooms, and the little bookstore that always displays children's books in the front window.
The cheerful yellow storefront of Tiny Hands Art Studio comes into view at the end of the block. Artwork fills the windows, layered one over another in bright splashes of color. There are handprint sunflowers, tissue paper butterflies and finger-painted rainbows. Someone has written WELCOME LITTLE ARTISTS in looping letters across the chalkboard outside the main door, flowers doodled around the edges.
The familiar bell jingles overhead as we step inside. The room hums with conversation, parents greeting one another while little ones toddle across the padded play area. Somewhere in the back, soft children's music plays through the speakers.
“Peyton!”
I turn toward the sound as Lucy hurries over with Axel balanced against her hip. He spots Tilly and leans so far toward the stroller that Lucy has to adjust her hold. “Easy there,” she laughs. “You haven't even said hello yet.”
Axel babbles something that sounds like a protest. “I think he disagrees,” I say.
“I think he has excellent taste,” Ollie comments beside me.
Lucy finally notices him standing beside me. “Oh! You must be Ollie.”
He smiles warmly and offers his hand. “Lovely to meet you, Lucy.”
“Likewise. It's so nice to finally meet the man I've heard so much about. Peyton wasn't exaggerating; you really do have kind eyes.”
Ollie’s eyebrows lift and a faint flush creeps up his neck. He glances at me with an amused expression. “Is that what you’ve been telling people about me?”
I give him an innocent smile. “Only the good stuff, handsome. Mostly.”
Axel chooses that exact moment to reach both hands toward Tilly, who responds with an excited kick of her feet.
“He's had a crush on her since the first class,” Lucy says.
Ollie chuckles beside me, watching the babies smile at one another. “I didn't realize I had to be careful with who she spends time with at this young age.”
I shake my head in amusement as the instructor calls everyone toward the activity tables. Today’s project is making memory collages. Small canvases wait at each seat alongside washable paints, stamps, colorful paper, and little jars filled with buttons and ribbons. An example hangs at the front of the room, covered in handprints, painted daisies and family photographs.
We settle around one of the tables with Lucy and Axel while the instructor explains the activity.
“This isn’t about making something perfect,” she reminds everyone. “It’s about making something together with your loved ones. Let the kids explore the colors, make a mess and put things where they don’t belong. Those are usually the parts you’ll want to remember.”
Around the room, parents begin rolling up sleeves and fastening plastic aprons around wriggling babies and toddlers. The chatter quickly gives way to squeals and laughter as paint pots are opened and curious little hands reach across the tables.
I push Tilly’s sleeves up past her elbows while Ollie fastens a baby-sized plastic apron around her. She reaches for the nearest jar, her fingers opening and closing determinedly.
“Not for you,” I tell her, sliding it out of reach. Tilly soon forgets all about the buttons and becomes fascinated by the supplies scattered across the table while Ollie presses her right hand into green paint.
“You ready?” he murmurs. She responds by smacking her entire palm onto the canvas. A crooked little handprint appears.
Ollie's face softens, the change in him around Tilly never failing to undo me. “Look at that,” he says, sounding so genuinely amazed that I have to bite back another smile. He’s as enamored with the little one as I am.
“I think she takes after her uncle.”
“You mean artistically?”
“Nope. In enthusiasm.”
He laughs under his breath before helping her make another print. Next to us, a child proudly presents a blob of blue paint that represents his family dog. One mother apologizes because her daughter insists on painting everything purple.
