Villa Blue

by Isla Dean

  “As long as you didn’t say it to her.” Donatella told him, brushing dirt off the knees of the white cotton pants she wore.

  “Wouldn’t dare. You’d like her, actually. And she’d like you, she’d like it here.”

  “I bet I would like her then. You bring her here,” she ordered heartily.

  “Deal. So where’s the nozzle for this dickhead drip system of yours? We should get it turned off.”

  She led the way to the side of the tool shed, lowered to crank off the faucet, then gave it one last sneer before standing with her hands fisted at her hips. “You fix this, I’m going to get the sauce for dinner simmering. Keeping with a simple Bolognese since the boys are gone. Too many other things to do.”

  “Just tell me what else you need, I’ll help.”

  Donatella removed her hat, fanned it at her heated face as she considered, then turned and sauntered back toward the villa. “I’ll think about that. Grazi, tesoro,” she called over her shoulder then replaced her hat and wandered inside.

  One hell of a woman to know, he decided as he began his inspection of the lines of leaky hoses that snaked through the courtyard gardens.

  One hell of a pair of women, he corrected as he drove the golf cart down the hill to the harbor town in search of a hardware store. Ivy and Donatella. From one angle, they were nothing alike—for Ivy’s calm, creative nature, Donatella was fiery and sassy. But, from a different angle, they both were vividly expressive—one just did it with a brush and paint, and the other, he thought, amused, did it through a series of colorful words.

  By the time he located the store, found the part he needed, and returned to the villa to make the fix, the springtime sun was high and hot overhead.

  Sweetly scented flowers and salty breezes from the sea mingled, creating a heady mix that made him think his mother really would love it there, maybe more than Lake Como. She loved the outdoors, the life it breathed, and would enjoy the collection of flowers planted prettily around the courtyard.

  Using tools he’d purchased at the hardware store, he made clean cuts in the half-inch piping, removed the damaged section and laid in a new section of the same piping, then screwed in two perma-loc hose couplers, all per the instruction of the guy he’d found behind the counter in the outdoor section. He twisted the locking nuts into place and hoped to hell it would work, given that he had no real experience fixing drip systems.

  He walked back to the water spigot, turned it on, and gave a satisfied nod when the fix held. He’d damn well fixed it.

  And when he heard a whistle of water spouting elsewhere in the garden, he located the culprit and smiled. Something else to fix.

  And after a few hours spent in the sun, working with his hands, fixing whatever he found to be broken—which, it turned out, was a lot—he stood in the center of the courtyard and admired that the whole of it was in better working order than when he’d started.

  It was sweaty, tangible work that he saw through from start to finish within a few hours. The work he did at his father’s company—inquiring about potential acquisitions and negotiating deals—was work he thrived with, but something about completing work that was right in front of him was somehow satisfying in ways he hadn’t imagined.

  He glanced toward Ivy’s studio, thought about tugging her out to show her the work he’d done. But that made him feel like a little boy, eager to show his buddy some cool new shiny thing, so he decided against it. He’d just let her be for now.

  The days that followed pulled the belt of pressure a few notches tighter—with no relief in sight.

  The first excruciatingly long day, Ivy had stared at the blank cold press paper, unsure of what to paint. She’d studied the way the clouds puttered through the sky, just as golf carts puttered below along the curves of the harbor, and she hadn’t found any of the movement interesting. The birds, bees, planes, boats, carts, breeze, it was all just noise through the filter of her crappy mood.

  The day after that, she’d decided to paint Villa Blue but had only gotten as far as the archways—one after another—before she’d gotten bored with the repetition.

  And on the morning of day three of trying to paint her way through the harsh case of the blahs, she’d listened from behind her easel as two golf carts filled with loud, happy girls arrived—the bachelorette party, she figured. In response, she’d stayed clear of the villa, avoiding cheerful vacationers and, if she felt like being honest, avoiding Aiden.

  She’d cleared her head of everything but the blank paper that stared at her expectantly. And that was precisely the issue. The blank paper was silently kicking her ass. She was void of perspective on anything and, no matter how open she attempted to be, no particular feeling besides frustration flowed through. But even the frustration was dulled which was, well, frustrating.

  She let out a low sound of annoyance at the downward spiral of thoughts.

  The colors of the sky began to settle into a splendid swath of pinks, purples, and oranges, gently coaxing the day’s end along. It was why tourists flocked there, why romantics arrived hand-in-hand, why the quaint town was filled with little shops that sold art and trinkets and flip-flops. Parpadeo Island was a place of beauty, especially at the famous time of romance—sunset.

  Ivy scowled at the sky.

  Days ago she’d been connected, painting from the unknown place where she felt alive. And now, surrounded by beauty that she was annoyingly uninterested in—artistically speaking—she tossed out her jar of unused water and carted away her supplies. Another unproductive, disconnected day that gnawed at her insides.

  She wanted to be productive, craved it, and wanted nothing more. But nothing was what came. It was like waiting at a station in Texas for a train that was busy flying in circles around the moon.

  Once back in her studio, she dunked herself under the cool spray of the shower then dressed and headed down the hill, the dusky sky still irritatingly lovely.

  She needed ice cream. Maybe a double scoop. Hell, Ivy thought, make it a triple.

  A woman on a mission, she marched through the muddle of merry tourists, veered around a laughing couple attempting a selfie, and took a shortcut through an alley where the mouths of two teenagers were fused together.

  She made it to the brightly lit ice cream parlor like it was her salvation. “I want a scoop of pistachio and a scoop of mocha almond fudge. No wait,” she said to the boy behind the counter. “Those don’t go well together. I’ll go with butter pecan and mint chocolate chip. No, that sounds terrible.” She heaved out another sound of annoyance. “Just give me a damn scoop of vanilla.”

  “I’ll have a damn scoop of vanilla too.”

  Ivy spun at the voice behind her and found Aiden managing to look stoic and carefree at the same time. And sexy, she noted. Very, very sexy.

  A hot buzz hummed through her. Well, she thought, after days of numb nothingness, she felt that. And it infuriated her that she couldn’t generate that feeling on her own—that it was a man she barely knew that got her humming with elusive creative energy. She was an independent woman, dammit. She didn’t need a man to help her do her job.

  “Two damn scoops of vanilla coming up. Plain cones?” the boy with the ice cream scoop in hand asked.

  Aiden looked knowingly to Ivy.

  “Sugar cones,” she hissed out of spite then moved down the counter to the cash register.

  What did she say to Aiden, the man she’d shared a kiss with then hadn’t seen for days afterward? Nothing, she decided. She was in a “nothing” mood, so it was fitting to have nothing to say.

  Aiden reached over Ivy with money, handed it to the cashier and told him to keep the change.

  “You didn’t need to buy my ice cream.”

  “But I did anyway. Walk?”

  She took the ice cream cone that was handed to her. “I’m not very good company right now.”

  “Why’s that?” he asked as they both started down the pedestrian walk toward the beach. A line of streetlamps f
eatured ribbons of white twinkle lights strung between them, the serene glow illuminating the way.

  She shrugged, licked at her ice cream. “I’m just not.”

  “I really am sorry for, well, I’m just sorry, I guess.”

  She laid a hand on his arm, stopped him from continuing. “I heard you apologize already. And I have other things to worry about than feeling…” she waved her hand through the air, searching for the word, “…rebuffed by you. You apologized and it’s over,” she told him as his eyebrow raised in question.

  “It’s over?”

  “I’m not really one to hold grudges.”

  “Ah. Practical,” he decided.

  “I’d rather understand than hold a grudge, even if I disagree.”

  “Also practical.”

  “That’s such a boring word, isn’t it?” She licked at the vanilla, letting it linger on her tongue, then swallowed. “Told you I wouldn’t be very good company. Anyway, I’m not mad at anyone but myself,” she continued. “The one thing I want is the one thing that’s eluding me right now and it’s frustrating as hell.”

  “Are we back to talking about five orgasms? I’m happy to help with that.”

  “Ha-ha,” she said sarcastically then smiled, continued walking along the edge of the shore as the stars began to sparkle overhead. “I’ve never experienced artist’s block like this. It’s maddening.”

  He wondered, briefly, if he had anything to compare it to in his own life and came up short. But then again, he was an adventurer. If something didn’t work for him, he fixed it or moved on to the next adventure. “Well, as your official muse, I feel it is my duty to help.”

  “It’s a kind offer but I don’t believe in muses. I show up and I paint. That’s my job.”

  “You work a lot.”

  “Seven days a week. I show up then do my best to be open to the flow. But the flow just isn’t flowing and I have a show at the Lemieux Gallery in San Francisco. I think I mentioned that. It’s coming up and if that doesn’t work out, or worse, if I can’t even deliver enough paintings to try for it to work out, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “When’s the show?”

  “In just over two extremely short weeks away.”

  “How many more paintings do you need to finish for the show?”

  She lapped at her ice cream, wishing she’d chosen something with an ingredient to chew on. She needed the crunch. “The gallery agreed to show fifteen paintings, which is huge. Well, it’s a big deal for me. A lot of local galleries—on Parpadeo and on the mainland—have pieces of mine here and there. They’re popular with tourists because they end up being a memento from their trip. Most of my paintings are landscapes of the island, and the central and southern coasts of California,” she explained as they strolled down the steps to the beach, kicked off their shoes and left them by the stairs. “I have a lot to do. I should be doing it,” she finished absently to herself.

  “How many paintings do you have left to do?” he asked again, putting a steadying hand at her back when she stopped to brush something off of her foot that had poked at it.

  “I have eight so far, framed and at the gallery ahead of schedule. And the one from the other day that I think I’ll show. That’s nine, so six more. Jesus, I need to get to work.” She kept walking, swiped at stray hairs from her topknot that breezed into her face. “I have a few more that I could use but, I don’t know, they’re just not right for a show in the city. I’ll have them for backup if I need them, but no, they’re just not right. But it feels better to have them just in case, but they’re just not—”

  “Right for the show,” he finished.

  “I’m talking in circles and I know it.”

  “Sounds like maybe you should take a break and live a little life. Maybe that’ll inspire you.”

  “Oh, I’ve lived plenty of life over the past year.”

  “I’m going out on a limb here, so don’t shoot me while I’m out there, but going through a divorce and living a little aren’t the same things.”

  She glared at him and ignored the drops of vanilla that began melting down her hand. “I might not shoot you, but I could let you fall off the limb. Same end result.”

  “We could live it up together and go for those orgasms you mentioned.”

  “Ivy! Ivy Van Noten! Ivy stop!”

  Ivy gave Aiden a glowering glance then shifted her attention toward the shouts.

  “Know him?”

  “Works at the local gallery,” she told him as a tailored, trim guy in a powder pink button-up shirt ran toward them.

  When he finally reached her, his tan, manicured hand rested on her shoulder as he panted dramatically.

  “You okay, Klem?”

  He stood up straight and fanned his face. “I don’t do running. It’s so uncouth,” he said then bounced back to his natural enthusiastic self. “Phew! Sorry to interrupt. Oh, honey, your ice cream is running down your arm.”

  She licked at it with her tongue. “I’m uncouth and I don’t care.”

  “That’s like hearing a princess say she’s unkempt. It just doesn’t translate. I mean, if I could eat that and keep your figure... Oh, I miss ice cream. Anyway, I’ve been trying to reach you and you haven’t called me back.”

  “My phone is at the bottom of the ocean.”

  “Oh no! How’d that happen? I’ve never seen you swim. Do you swim? Do princesses swim?”

  “It seems I’ve taken up cliff diving.”

  At Klem’s sharp inhale, Ivy let out a laugh and felt glad she’d left her studio for the walk into town—a rare realization.

  “You’re so brave. I’d never be caught dead diving anywhere near where sharks might be. Not my thing. But you might be my thing…” Klem slid his attention toward Aiden. “Who are you?”

  “Aiden James. Straight as they come. Sorry.”

  “All the good ones are,” Klem made a face. “We need more eye candy on this island. Got any gay-boy friends? Ones as melt-in-your-mouth sexy as you?”

  “If I think of any, I’ll send them your way.”

  “You’re an angel, in a devilish kinda way. So what are you two doing tonight? A little romance?” He sang out the last word.

  “You said you’ve been trying to reach me?” Ivy asked, intercepting the direction of the conversation.

  “Oh my God! I almost forgot.” Klem’s hand lay on her shoulder once more. “We sold the last two paintings we had of yours. Sold three last week, then two more today to some businessman from New York. I didn’t make the sale—shame—but tomorrow we ship them off.”

  Ivy eyed Aiden who met her gaze with a look of smug amusement.

  “Can you believe it, honey? Congratulations! Your check is literally in the mail. Now we need more. Got blank white walls just waiting there, sadly, forlornly. Is that a word? Anyway, you have some to bring in tomorrow morning? Don’t want to miss out on the weekend traffic.”

  She let out a breath, grateful to have money coming her way, but wondering what the hell she was going to do without backup pieces for her show. What if she couldn’t finish the rest in time? What if, what if… “Sure, I can be there a half hour before opening. That good?”

  “Yay, perfect. Now, you two go celebrate the sales with champagne or something fun while I go sit in a gallery by myself. At least I can live vicariously through you two beautiful people.” Klem began walking away then lifted a hand high above his head, waving. “Bye hunnies!”

  Klem laughed and the sound of his buoyant chuckles echoed back to where Aiden and Ivy stood.

  “He’s quite a character. And he has good ideas. Champagne to celebrate. And before you say you can’t,” Aiden said, anticipating, “let’s say one glass, then I promise to get you back to your paints and brushes. You sold out of your paintings at the gallery. That’s a good thing, right? And good things should be celebrated.”

  She peered at him. “So where’re you going to hang the pieces?”

  “In my apartme
nt.”

  She nodded, not knowing what to make of it. The man had bought her paintings, she thought, letting the idea churn in her mind as they began walking back toward their shoes. Not one member of her family had ever wanted a single painting of hers. Not one. “Why did you buy them? My paintings?”

  “Easy, they moved me.”

  “Which two were they?”

  He knew a test when he was given one. “One had a lot of red in it, uh, Red Night Rising, I think it was called. And the other was the one of the harbor under the stars—like tonight actually. But in the painting it was as if the sea and sky were reflecting the other. It was interesting—light and dark at the same time. Not sure I really understood it beyond the surface but there’s something there, so maybe if I look at it long enough I’ll get it.”

  Her heart skipped, stuttering, pleased that he glimpsed the philosophical impulse behind the painting. Most people would’ve just seen a harbor at night.

  “It reminded me of you. Don’t remember the name of it though.”

  As they reached the steps to the pedestrian path, she slid her feet into her shoes while he did the same. “One Wish, Two Worlds.”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Why does it remind you of me?”

  “Well for one, you’re very direct and at the same time very hidden. And yes, I know, rich coming from me.”

  “A bit,” she said as pedestrians passed by—a couple holding hands, a young boy with a rambunctious black lab and two tired parents in tow.

  “I guess every time I think you’re one thing, you show me the opposite of that. It’s maddening and fascinating. So I bought your paintings to remind me of you.”

  Eyes soft and body too exhausted to grip tension, she stopped, faced him. “I’m glad you bought them. Thank you.”

  “I’m the one who should thank you for creating them.”

  “How about that champagne? There’s a wine bar just up ahead. I think I’ll let you buy me that glass. No, wait,” she said, changing her mind. “I wasn’t very productive today, I should head back.”