by Regina Duke
“I know. She’s out with Chester.”
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence until Mrs. Stigliano spotted Zinnia’s rolling backpack. “Is everything all right?” she asked.
To Zinnia, her own voice sounded like someone else was speaking and she wondered how she was able to move her lips to match the sounds exactly. “I’ve had a little dust-up at home. Do you think Rose would mind if I spent the night in her room?”
“I’m sure she’d think it was just fine,” said Mrs. Stigliano, stepping aside so Zinnia could enter the house. “Won’t you come in? I was just making a cup of tea.”
“Thank you,” said Zinnia.
“Rose promised she would be home every night by midnight so we wouldn’t worry, so she’ll probably wake you when she gets home. We want her to live at home with us until she gets married.”
Zinnia nodded. “Perfectly reasonable.” She followed Rose’s mother into the kitchen and sat at the small table, staring at her lap. Rose’s father appeared at the door but said nothing. Zinnia could see his work boots and olive green workpants out of the corner of her eye. A moment later he was gone, and a cup of tea was set before her. She contemplated tasting it.
Mrs. Stigliano sat down and cradled her tea cup in her hands. “What happened?” she asked simply.
Zinnia fought back tears. “Dad and Chrissie moved her kids into my bedroom, and they put my things in the storeroom.”
“While you were out for the day?”
“Yes. Without even asking me.” She glanced up at Mrs. Stigliano’s sympathetic face. “If only they had asked! I feel…ignored, invisible…and totally unwanted.” She lifted her cup with shaking hands. Hot tea sloshed into the saucer, and she set the cup back down. “I’m a little upset.”
“That Bernard. Pushing you into a tiny corner like that. I thought you were paying rent for that room?” Mrs. Stigliano’s tone reflected her disapproval of Zinnia’s father.
“I am. I was. Two hundred a month, plus I helped Mom with cooking and cleaning.”
“It’s the middle of the month. Did they give you a refund? You should have a hundred dollars coming back to you.”
Zinnia looked up at her. “Do you think they might?”
Mrs. Stigliano made a disgusted noise. “I think they should. Whether they will or not is anybody’s guess. They probably already used it to help pay the rent on the house.”
Zinnia nodded. “I’m sure they did.” Crushed even further, she stared at the wall calendar by the table. “That’s why they always wanted it a day before the first of the month, because their own rent was due then.”
Mrs. Stigliano got up and returned with a bag of Oreos. “Have a snack. You’re too thin.”
Zinnia hid her smile. “You always say that.” She could feel the love and concern washing over her. “When I was a little girl, I used to wish you were my parents. You and Carl.”
“He’s a good man.” She pushed the cookies closer.
Zinnia took one and nibbled at it.
“Do you still have your job at the art gallery?”
“Yes. It’s only part-time.”
“You need more hours,” said Mrs. Stigliano. “Me and Carl, we’ll ask around.”
“Thank you.”
“Meanwhile, you sleep here until you find a place.”
“Rose will get tired of me.”
“Oh, she’ll be fine. If she’s ready to spend her life as a poor farmer’s wife, she shouldn’t mind sharing her room with you.”
Zinnia looked up, surprised by Mrs. Stigliano’s critical tone. “She told me Chester is a rancher.”
Mrs. Stigliano took an Oreo and twisted it open. “The Rocking Eagle is a ranch. Even the Lazy B is a ranch. Chester has forty acres with a trailer on it.”
Zinnia’s eyes widened. “Is that why Rose has never invited me out to see her future home?”
* * *
It was almost two a.m. by the time Rose got home. Her mother had texted her about Zinnia being in her room, but even her soft footfalls were too much for Zinnia’s rattled psyche. They exchanged pleasantries, then said good night. Zinnia didn’t think the middle of the night was the right time to ask Rose why her mother was unhappy about her plans with Chester.
Mornings with the Stigliano family were always fun and joyful, so much so that time got away from Zinnia.
“Oh my gosh, it’s eight forty-five! I’m supposed to be at the gallery by nine.”
Rose was still in her pajamas. “No worries. I’ll drive you.”
“But you’re not dressed.”
“Don’t care,” she said blithely. “I don’t plan on getting out of the car.”
On the plus side, Zinnia didn’t have to run full out for twenty minutes and still arrive late. But Rose wasn’t the most punctual friend in the world, and she was still fifteen minutes late.
“Thanks for the ride,” said Zinnia. “Did your mom tell you she invited me to stay a few days?”
“Yes, and I want to hear all the details after work, you hear?”
Zinnia nodded. “Meet you at the library around two?”
“I’ll be there. Oh, The Muffin Man! Darn, I’m not dressed. Can you pick us up a few pastries before you head to the library?”
“I will,” said Zinnia, waving goodbye. It occurred to her that Rose didn’t seem to be working. Rose hadn’t mentioned anything about losing her job. She puzzled about that for a whole thirty seconds before rushing up Old Main to the Art Gallery, tucked in between Thor Security and the Itty Bitty cafe. The Itty Bitty was dark and wouldn’t open until almost eleven. Zinnia had never eaten there. She just couldn’t justify spending that kind of money on one meal.
Ashley Garrison popped her head out of the tiny office on the east side of the big room. “There you are! I was worried you might be ill.”
“Just late,” said Zinnia. “I’m so sorry.” She reached under the small counter for her costume box. “I’ll be right out.” She zipped to the tiny half bath in the big workroom at the back of the gallery and donned her costume. Ashley enjoyed playing dress up at work, since at home she was juggling two children, supervising a nanny, and serving on at least two community boards. The combination kept her moving from dawn to dusk. Zinnia wondered if she should ask for more hours right there at the Gallery. Were they making enough to cover the extra pay? She wasn’t sure. It felt like they only sold two or three pieces of art a year, and she wasn’t really sure how Ashley managed to stay in business. But then, she had a nanny, so there had to be some money somewhere.
The liveliest sales lately had been in the art supplies aisle. Zinnia felt partly responsible for that addition, because when she started working there, she’d mentioned that finding art supplies in Eagle’s Toe was almost impossible. One of her friends at school, Karla, had told her she got her makeup and art supplies through the mail. Zinnia shared that with Ashley, and the very next week, they began offering canvases, brushes, and oils. Within a month, Ashley had added pastels, pencils, sketch books, water colors, graphic art pens, and a selection of books on how to draw. Zinnia was thrilled, because once she’d squirreled away the two hundred dollars she paid her parents every month, she had a place to buy art supplies.
She wrapped herself in the multicolored sarong, wearing it over her clothes, and suited up with bangles and bracelets and several necklaces from the box. She selected a couple of large Spanish combs and maneuvered them into her hair. She glanced at the mirror. Not bad for a rush job. She took her purse to the front counter, setting it underneath where she could reach it easily, and removed one of her four-by-four-inch sketch books. The nub of a drawing pencil was nestled inside the spiral wire at the top. She extracted her small box of pastels and set them on the counter.
A few moments later, Ashley emerged from her office, already removing her own bangles.
“What’s up?” asked Zinnia.
Ashley heaved a long-suffering sigh. “My nanny just called. Her mother is sick, so she has to leave, which mean
s I have to leave.”
“All day?”
“No, just long enough to pack the kids a bag. I’ll bring them back with me. Would you mind pulling the play pen out of the storeroom and setting it up near the office?”
“Of course I don’t mind.”
“Thanks. You arrived just in time to save my day.” She headed for the door, then spun around. “Car keys. Purse.” She scampered into her little office and came out with the necessary items. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” And off she went.
Zinnia relaxed on her padded stool. Soft music was playing on the sound system—Ashley called it “art-buying music”—and it looked as though she would have an hour to herself. She opened her sketch pad and began reproducing a black and white miniature version of the Gaugin hanging on the wall opposite her. She loved art. That was why she’d come to work at the Gallery. Her high school art teacher had told her she did everything wrong and had no technique, then he burned his last bridge with her by telling her parents it was virtually impossible to make a living with art. She would never forgive him for that, the silly old coot. He was a hundred if he was a day, and there he was, negating her entire dream of someday being an artist. Not only that, he’d planted the seed in her parents’ minds that pursuing art education would be a waste of time and money.
She let the old hurt settle around her shoulders for a minute or two, then shrugged it off. She’d decided that college wasn’t for her anyway. She was only interested in one topic, and if she couldn’t focus on art, what was the point? Rowdy had a full class load at the community college, and whenever he was home, he was always locking himself away in his cubbyhole in the attic to do his homework. English, algebra, world history, a whole bunch of reading and math problems…she shuddered at the thought.
As things grew less welcoming at home—meaning after Chrissie wound up pregnant a second time—she’d discovered a safe haven at the local library, not far from the high school. The librarian, Adelaide, had pointed her in the direction of the art books, and from that day forward, Zinnia tacked on a few hours onto her time in town so she could read about the great painters and practice sketching from photos of their works.
At home, she comforted herself with one of her tiny sketch books — the large ones were onerously expensive — and the beautiful art in the books Rose’s parents had brought her from their vacation in San Francisco. She’d worked on one of those images in high school art class and her teacher had turned purple.
“You’re ignoring the very basics, even while you sketch from a book. And why are you making Chinese characters?” he bellowed.
Karla Fineman Wake had come to her rescue that day, threatening to sic her vampire friends on their teacher. And everyone in class got excited because they all remembered Karla’s first year at their school when she came dressed to the nines as a vampire every day, even using yellow contacts to change her eye color. Mr. Price remembered, too, and backed off, mumbling something about forgetting his medication that morning.
Like most of Zinnia’s friends, Karla had gone off to college. Only Rose remained, and Zinnia was glad, because Rose had been her bestie since first grade. While she sifted through those memories, her hand moved in a blur over the tiny sketch pad, rendering topless native women in pastels, using her unique—and “wrong”—technique. A bell rang over the door, and she nearly fell off her stool. I forgot to set up the play pen!
She was relieved to see that Ashley had not yet returned. Instead, a homeless man had wandered in to look at the art on the walls. He ignored her, his eyes fixed on the art, and her eyes were fixed on him as she retrieved the playpen and set it up near the office door. She wanted to make sure he didn’t touch anything.
CHAPTER FOUR
Bart moseyed from frame to frame, lingering in front of the Gaugin, then moving on to the Picasso. When he saw the Van Gogh, he stopped short and muttered, “No freaking way. Here? In this little town? That’s impossible. Darn good imitation, though.” He looked closer, paying special attention to the artist’s signature. “Too good.” He glanced toward the front counter. The girl had finished setting up the playpen and was bending over a notebook or something. No point in asking her any questions. She looked about fifteen. He continued his tour, making the rounds of all the works. Most of the paintings were originals, not high priced prints or imitations. And there was a display of photographs that reminded him of Ansel Adams’ work.
His thoughts strayed back to the girl at the counter. Gold hair, blue eyes, sporting a natural look, no makeup at all. Her dress was way too spring-like for the February chill and the sprinkle of snow on the sidewalk, but that was probably why she was wrapped in a psychedelic sarong. She was a wisp of a woman, weighed down by all the cheap jewelry she was sporting. He took another look. Hard to see from over here, but I think that’s real jade.
He ambled over to the counter. When he approached, the girl started like a fawn in the woods and laid both hands over her small sketch pad. “Hello,” he said, realizing it wasn’t a notebook at all.
“Good morning. Are you enjoying the exhibit?”
Her voice was soft and sweet, but he thought he detected a twang of steel underneath. Real strength, hidden down in there, not the overly intellectual affectation of power he’d grown weary of in European art circles. “Is that real jade?” He narrowed his eyes at the exquisitely carved elephant she wore as a bracelet.
She sounded wary. “Yes. All of these are genuine. Touch anything, and I’ll push the button that brings Thor Security through that wall. Along with his very large Doberman pinscher.”
Bart held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, I was just surprised to see such workmanship in a small town like this.”
She appeared to relax a bit. He read her name tag. “Zinnia? Like the flower?”
“Yes.”
“Unusual, but very pretty.”
She made a face. “Gee, thanks. I should tell you, I don’t date old homeless men, but thank you for the compliment.”
Bart was surprised and took a step back. “Old and homeless? Is that what I look like?”
Zinnia gave a little shrug. “Well, yes. Don’t blame me. You’re the one wearing overalls and sporting more hair than Lassie.”
Bart laughed. That seemed to rock her back on her stool, and her hands lifted off the sketch book. He snatched it away.
“Give me that back! How dare you?”
Bart held the small pad out of her reach and stared at it. “You’ve sketched from that Gaugin.”
“It’s a hobby,” she said defensively.
He felt admiration blooming within, something he hadn’t experienced in several years when it came to art. Why feign admiration for another artist’s work when he could do better? But this little pastel sketch was evoking a feeling he’d nearly forgotten...envy.
“I don’t know why you hide your work. You’re very good,” said Bart, hoping the envy he was feeling didn’t come through in his voice.
“First of all,” said Zinnia with a discouraging shake of her head, “this is play, not work. I sketch for myself. I know I’m not good. I know I can never make a living at this. My best hope is to get a full-time job here at the Gallery, selling other people’s work. And besides, why should I care about your opinion?”
“I’m an artist.”
“Big whoop. You look like a homeless old man who hasn’t seen a razor blade in way too long. The only reason I’m letting you look at the art on these walls is because...” She lowered her voice for a moment. “...you don’t smell bad.”
Bart chuckled through his beard. “I’m not homeless. I’ve been living in Paris.”
“Oh, sure you have. And I’m just here to help a friend while my butler is home polishing my diamonds. Paris, my foot.”
Bart tried another tactic. “I’m not old either.”
“You couldn’t prove it by me.” She managed to pull her sketch book free of his grip. “You look old and skanky, and even though you seem pleasant enoug
h, why should I care what an old homeless self-proclaimed artist thinks about my hobby?”
Bart found her attitude more frustrating than his father’s. “I’m really an artist. And I’m telling you that you have talent. Where did you get all that negativity?”
“My parents told me that when an art teacher announces there’s no future for me in the art world, that’s it. Mr. Price told me I have no technique, no style, and no chance. He said I’ll never grasp perspective. He spent days trying to explain it to the class.”
“Was this some grumpy old college professor?”
“High school.”
Bart barked a laugh. “You’re letting a high school teacher make pronouncements on your artistic talent? That’s absurd.”
“No more absurd than believing the words coming out of the mouth of a homeless old house painter. That’s what you really do, isn’t it? You look like an out-of-work housepainter.”
“Hey! I’ll have you know, this Bohemian garb is my ticket to dinner out all over Paris! They appreciate eccentricity over there.”
“Well, good for them. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to give you the bum’s rush because my boss just pulled up outside and she might get mad if she thought I was letting you breathe on all the merchandise.” Her ice-blue eyes tried to bore right through him.
“Look, I’m buying something. See? Not broke. Not homeless.” He picked up an Art World magazine and laid a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “Keep the change. And keep the magazine. I’m coming back here tomorrow—”
“Not looking like that, you’re not.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll clean up first. I’ve been told I clean up real good.”
“What am I supposed to do with this magazine?”
“Read it! Cover to cover. Especially pages 120 through 130. They did an article on an old homeless guy.” He slapped the magazine on the counter and turned toward the door, just in time to hold it open for a slender brunette lugging a child on each hip.
She gave him a strange look but had the good manners to say thank you.
