by Isla Dean
“Yes, I’m not sure why,” she told them again when the bubble burst. “But my website,Ivy Van Noten dot com lists the contact info for other galleries along the coast that sell my art. I really do apologize. I’m hoping everything is okay with the people who run the gallery.”
“What’s wrong with the people who run the gallery?” The voice of a woman a few yards away chimed in.
Ivy spent the next hour greeting people on the sidewalk, apologizing, and talking about her art through the window. The reporter from the Chronicle who’d written the announcement showed up, took a picture of Ivy standing outside, and was, to Ivy’s mind, overjoyed at the story of an artist essentially showing art through the closed doors of a gallery.
While the reporter asked several times if the whole thing was on purpose, some sort of staged artistic statement, Ivy assured her that she was not a stunt artist and had no interest in making statements outside of her paintings.
Which was wholeheartedly true, she thought now, wishing she could disappear into one of her paintings.
As the flow of guests dwindled, Ivy’s heart dwindled as well. She’d maintained positivity and perspective throughout the evening, doing her best to be there for the people that had shown up for her. And now she was tired, her body and soul beginning to droop.
Not once had anyone from the gallery shown up to provide an open door or an explanation.
She turned one more time to face her paintings through the glass that reflected the city like a scattering of nightlights. On the other side of that reflection were her creations. Looking at each painting as if bidding goodnight to her babies, her heart lurched forward wanting to pull each of them in for an apologetic hug.
She’d let them down. She’d let other people down. And, dammit, she’d been let down.
Where was the gallery manager? Why hadn’t anyone told her the show was cancelled? Why would they go to the trouble to line up media interviews if they were only going to keep their doors closed? What about all of those potential sales? What did this mean for her that her first major show didn’t, well, show?
The idea that she’d failed collapsed onto her. She couldn’t live her dreams if she didn’t make enough money to live. And the likelihood of having to call her father about the hospital admin job snuck over into reality and slammed like a fisted punch in the center of her chest.
“That’s you in the picture,” a raspy female voice announced. “Are those your paintings?”
In her irritatingly restrictive little black dress, and strappy heels that made her feet ache, Ivy turned toward the voice.
The gray haired couple was very obviously homeless, coated in clothes that didn’t fit and that emanated centuries-deep stench.
“They are, yes,” Ivy affirmed as the war of questions in her head began to calm.
“These are your paintings for real?” the woman asked again, pointing.
Ivy looked at the woman’s eyes and saw that, like the gallery glass, they reflected the quiet glow of buildings and streetlights. “Yes, I painted those. I was supposed to have a show tonight but the gallery never opened for it.”
The man offered a shake of his head and the woman cooed out a maternal sound of comfort.
“Okay, you pretend we’re here to buy a painting,” the woman said, brightening with an idea. “You tell us, now, pretend,” she encouraged, getting into character. “What inspired you to paint this one?”
Emotion bubbled up yet again, and she willed it back with a smile, preparing to play along. “Well, first I’d introduce myself and tell you that my name is Ivy Van Noten and that I’m an artist.”
The woman shimmied her shoulders, enthusiastic for the interaction. “I’m Lucy, this is Bill.”
“Hello Lucy and Bill. Thank you for coming to my show this evening,” Ivy said to the couple then pointed to the painting through the window the woman had asked about. “This painting was done en plein air, which is a fancy way of saying outdoors in the open air.”
Lucy patted a hand against Bill’s chest. “We’re getting a lesson from an artist. Pay attention.”
“Paying attention,” Bill assured her. And to prove it, he asked Ivy, “Where were you then? Haven’t seen waterfalls like that around here. Looks like Hawaii or some place.”
“The island of Parpadeo,” she told them. “Just off the coast actually. It’s where I live.” As she said the words, the meaning of it melted her heart. She had a place to live, a home, these two people didn’t.
“And who’s the man in it? The subject,” Lucy said with emphasis, proud of her use of the term. “He’s an attractive fellow, isn’t he, Bill?” The woman prompted when Ivy went quiet.
“Oh yes, handsome,” Bill echoed.
“He is attractive.” Ivy gazed at the painting. “And handsome. He’s a man that I... Well, I suppose he’s a friend of mine.”
“Your lover,” the man said, chiming in without being prompted by Lucy to speak.
Ivy’s lips pressed together as she smiled slowly, thoughtfully, at the couple. “I suppose you’re right about that. But it’s complicated.”
“Love isn’t complicated. It’s the people in love who make it complicated.” Lucy looked back to the painting. “And you painted that, didn’t you? That’s what all those lines are about on top of the image but that you see through.”
Ivy watched the woman who studied her art.
“Yes, yes. I get it.” Lucy nudged Bill. “A man in nature, that’s all clear, but it’s the mind on top of it, the lines on top of it that make it obscure. The artist is looking through a window of complications out to what she sees—the man. But ultimately he’s not complicated. It’s the eye of the beholder, like they say.”
Having not spoken or heard words that so aptly described the feelings she’d painted that piece with, she was stunned, speechless.
“Nailed it,” Lucy said, deadpan, then grinned generously.
“You did. You nailed it quite well actually. Better than I could’ve done. You should be my agent.”
The woman lifted a hand as if fluffing her hair, putting on airs. “I’m no agent. Just a patron of the arts.”
Ivy bowed her head, completing the performance. “It’s so good of you both to come to my show. Your patronage is appreciated.”
“We’ll take the painting,” Lucy told her, pulling out a crinkled dollar from Bill’s jacket pocket then handing it to Ivy.
Ivy accepted the single dollar then reached into her wallet. “Oh, but you’ve overpaid. Here’s your change.” She handed over four crisp twenties, the only cash she had in her wallet.
Lucy hesitated a moment before accepting it. “You’re a lovely girl. Thank you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Ivy told the couple, the three of them standing together on the city street. “I was working my way into mad when you showed up. You made this evening better. Thank you.”
She’d started to feel sorry for herself, but how could she hold on to such a feeling in the face of two humans without a home.
“You keep warm now,” Bill told her then tugged Lucy away.
“Bye now, artist Ivy Van Noten.”
Ivy watched them walk away, arm in arm, linked together through the chill that bit into the night.
Kindness, she thought, remembering what Aiden had said after they met. The homeless couple had offered her kindness and it filled her.
And that was enough. It had to be enough. She didn’t have a show, didn’t receive money—except for one dollar—didn’t receive accolades or offers or opportunities for more shows like her mind had imagined. But she did, she thought, receive kindness and that was something.
There weren’t any answers or explanations. But there was a warm bed in a hotel waiting for her, and she would have a roof over her head on the island when she returned home which was more than some people. She had a home at Villa Blue.
At least for now.
If she let herself want for something, it would be Aiden right in that mome
nt. He had a way that made everything feel like it was all just part of the ride, like it would all work out somehow. And right then, she wanted to burrow into his arms.
But he was nowhere nearby.
She’d stupidly fallen in love with a man who lived thousands of miles away, who travelled around the world and who’d made no mention of enjoying anything other than the moment with her. And she’d given her heart and soul to her art, all in preparation for her gallery show, but that had shattered into a million pieces that sliced through her thin reach toward her dreams.
She’d gone to live on an island to get away from everything and everyone, to focus on living life on her own terms, according to her own mind. And now, with her busted dreams piercing her resolve, she felt like a lone island—by herself, encircled by thick darkness.
Instead of the irony amusing her, it served a low blow, no matter how hard she tried to focus on being grateful for what she had. For Ivy, it wasn’t a matter of have versus have not, it was a matter of working to build a life that meant something to her. And failing.
Exhausted, she took one last glance at the gallery then made her way back to the parking garage.
In a quiet place between being mad, sad, sorry, and just plain deflated, she dazedly returned to her rental car, plugged the address of the hotel into the GPS, and listened as the voice of the machine led the way. She was bone-tired and would consider all of it in new light later. For now, she would get to the hotel, rest, and drop into dreams of Aiden.
Yes, she decided as she reached the hotel, realizing she could have just walked. Aiden was quite the man to dream about. And with everything else faltering, she wanted deeply to believe in the idea that he was her muse. But he wasn’t her muse—he was a man she was in love with, a man who’d seen her for who she was, a man she would do her best to enjoy each moment with, and let go of any desire beyond that.
After checking into the hotel, she drudged through a shower, pulled on a sweatshirt and a pair of underwear, and glanced out at the lonely glow of the city.
Why it was lonely, she wasn’t sure. But one thing she was sure of was that she was a woman in need of a hug. And when she toppled onto the bed, burrowing deep into the sheets, she let herself dream of burrowing deep into the solid, safe arms of Aiden James.
The next morning, just after dawn cracked through the fog, she started down Highway 1 along the coast toward Santa Barbara. It wasn’t the fastest route but the beauty made up for it. And speed was easily sacrificed given her sluggish, sullen mood.
Her life choices came into view as she drove along the rugged cliffs that’d been carved at the base by lashing waves. Could she survive on what she earned from the smaller, local galleries? Should she consider other jobs to supplement her earnings? Maybe teach watercolor and wine classes at the gallery on Parpadeo like Klem had mentioned the past winter? What about the hotels Aiden’s father owned? Could some of her pieces hang on walls in his hotels around the world?
Though, given the strained relationship between father and son, she figured that would be a long shot.
Regardless, she would do what she needed to do, she decided, driving faster as ideas flowed. She was an artist in her heart and soul, and nothing would change that. She just had to be more diligent with her funds. She’d check her bank account, plot a detailed budget, and figure it all out. Thinking of the homeless couple, she reminded herself to be grateful for what she had, rather than fearful of what may come next.
She had an incredible home—for the time being—on an incredible island in the Pacific. She’d met Donatella who’d been like a mother, a sister, and best friend over the past year. And she’d met Aiden who’d opened up a world of adventure, kick-starting her out of artist’s block with his spontaneity, his vibrancy, his quest to experience life’s ride.
And being with him had been a ride, no doubt about that.
Whatever happened next was too much of a hurricane to think about. Her mind and spirit were scrambled with the collective sound of the wind roaring through the car windows, the faint scent of salty sea lashing against her face and hair, and the gentle warmth of spring’s sun shimmering through the windshield.
It was a new day and she would put one foot in front of the other, feeling her way along each and every step, seeing life through her own unique lens, because that’s who she was and that’s how she did things.
She was, she realized, no longer numb, no longer hindered by artist’s block. Her life was live and in color and she felt those colors, dreamed in those colors, and couldn’t wait to get home to paint, simply paint her broken heart out.
Chapter Nineteen
Ivy lugged her overnight bag up the hill toward Villa Blue. Hearing peppy chatter on the veranda, she stayed out of view and slipped into her studio. She wasn’t in the mood for chitchat. She just wanted to be for a moment—be home, be the painter behind the paintings. Just be. Then she’d find her way to a phone and make as many calls as she could to find out what had gone so terribly wrong.
She dropped her bag on the floor and fell back onto the bed with her face up, legs and arms spread wide, and stared at the sky through the glass greenhouse ceiling.
She hadn’t even gotten in a full breath before there was a knock on her door.
Aiden, she wondered? Had he returned already?
At the sound of a collection of high-pitched chuckles, she frowned. And he brought a kid with him?
She tried not to be too disappointed that, instead of it being Aiden at her door, it was one of the villa’s maids. “Hey, Lorie.”
“Here, this is for you.” Lorie handed over a large envelope. “How’d your show go?”
“Thanks. It was… Long story,” she decided, having no drop of desire to discuss it. “Who’s the sidekick?” Ivy asked, looking over the young boy holding a neon orange water pistol.
“This is Toby. His parents are out for a hike and he didn’t want to go. Instead he informed me that he’s my protective guard.”
“I’m your shield,” the boy corrected. “And I’m invisible.” He gripped his weapon and ducked behind Lorie.
Ivy let out a tired chuckle. “You two have fun. Thanks for bringing this over,” she said, glancing down at the envelope.
“No problem.”
Before Ivy could shut the door, a stream of water shot down the center of her chest. She looked up, peered at Toby.
The boy blew on the end of the barrel of his water gun, satisfied with the direct hit. Lorie didn’t seem to notice any of it as her back was already turned.
“Thanks, kid,” Ivy mumbled, figuring she probably needed the cool jolt.
Shutting the door, she gripped the slightly damp manila envelope, shook off the stray drops, then tore into it.
Moving toward her bed where natural light streamed in through the glass, she pulled out a small painting done on a sheet of art paper that’d been torn out of a bound book. The edges of it still had bits of the waxy green plastic.
The scene was of an island in the middle of the ocean. And atop the highest point on the island, was a bright blue building. Villa Blue, she knew. She’d painted the scene when she’d gone sailing with her parents one summer day. It had been before her sister was born, and she remembered like yesterday how captivated she’d been with the island, the harbor, the villa. She’d thought it looked like such a magical place—a blue castle on its very own little island—and her imagination had kicked into overdrive that day.
Her eyes soft, she turned the painting over and a note was taped to the back.
Love, Mom
That was all it said—two words that meant worlds, Ivy knew. Her mother had saved a token of her childhood—her art—and that small realization, warmed through her. Somewhere inside, however hidden, her mother valued what she created. And, in her mother’s own way, she was letting Ivy know that.
Warmth poured from her eyes in a quiet surge. And when the tears dried, she spread her arms and sprawled back onto her bed as she had before the kn
ocks on her door.
Puffy white clouds drifted by like a herd of sheep. Instead of counting them, she mindlessly watched each giant cotton ball meander by with the wind, while the sun soothed and warmed her skin. Soon spring would be ushered away, just as the clouds were, and summer would take its place. Seasons turning, life moving forward, it all spun around her as if the axis of time and space was Villa Blue.
Villa Blue—a place that had been in her heart since childhood, and now she lived there, painted there, and had learned to live life as herself there. And, most surprisingly, she’d fallen in love there.
No matter what happened or didn’t happen with Aiden, she’d been reminded of what love felt like, what it was supposed to feel like. Not long after she met him, he told her that she wore her thoughts on her sleeve. And, though he hadn’t meant the implication, he’d been right in that her heart wasn’t available to see, let alone feel.
And in what had been some of the most fulfilling and also heartbreaking weeks of her life, she’d begun to feel her heart, hadn’t she? And more, to see her heart in her work.
As agonizing as it was to know that telling Aiden goodbye for good would always be in the horizon, shimmering like a shadow laced with dusking light, she kept in focus that he’d given her one of the grandest gifts she’d ever been given. He’d given her her creative flow back.
Well, that and sidewalk chalk, which was a close second.
The clouds continued to stream by and she let her mind slip into the quiet she craved, for just that moment, for just that blip in time. Emotions also fluttered by and she wasn’t able to grasp a single one.
Probably for the best, she decided dazedly.
And after she’d zoned out for long enough, she rolled off the bed and made her way to the villa office. She picked up the phone, took a deep breath, and got to it.
“Lemieux Gallery,” a cheerful voice greeted.
“Hello? Hi, hello. Are you open today? The gallery, is it open?” Ivy fumbled over her words as she hadn’t anticipated an actual person answering.
