David’s gaze focuses on me. “Look, when you started here a few months ago, you needed to work with Emily to fine tune your delivery. Whitney’s first piece was great because it was personal to her. It had heart. The problem is, she’s busy getting ready for her art show, and that’s where her heart is right now. Eliza and I feel that if she is assigned a feature story, she may not cover it as well. News is more straightforward.”
“So you want me to show her the ropes. Help her with her delivery the way Emily helped me.” It’s not a question. I’m stating aloud what he left unsaid.
“You got it. Mr. Monohan thinks that letting her bounce between departments will get her more stories, too.” David taps the file folder against my shoulder as he stands up. “You know him. He’s always looking out for everyone.”
That’s Mr. Monohan all right. “Well, I guess I should call Whitney, and we should get a jump on the article.”
“Have fun,” David says with a knowing smile. “I do need the article by noon tomorrow though, so don’t have so much fun that you don’t get it written.”
I don’t mention that he and Emily have missed deadlines for their joint advice column for exactly that reason. Best not to bring it up when I know he’s pulled strings for me on more than one occasion. I grab my jacket from the back of my chair, pocket my phone, and head out.
The article is an easy one. We’re covering a water leak in the apartment complex on East Maple. Apparently the damage to a few apartments is severe. I call Whitney from the car on my way there.
“Sorry,” she says, picking up on the fourth ring. “I thought you were going to get kicked to voice mail. I had paint all over my hands and had to wash up before answering.”
“Finger painting?” I tease. “That’s a direction I wouldn’t have thought of going in.”
“Could you imagine me showing off finger paintings?” She laughs. “If I’d taught kindergarten, I might have been able to get away with it.” As soon as she mentions teaching, the smile in her voice completely disappears.
“You’re going to teach again. That’s the whole reason for the art show. We’ll make you some money, find a location for your art school, and then all your old students will come seeking you out.”
“You sound so sure of all of this. How?” she asks.
“Because I’m sure of you, Whitney.” I turn into the driveway and park outside her place. “I’m right out front,” I say.
She hangs up, and a moment later the front door opens. She’s a mess from painting. Her hair is disheveled, her clothes are splattered with paint, and she’s not wearing any shoes.
I get out of the car and walk up the three front steps to meet her. “Are you sure you weren’t finger painting? It seems like you were really getting into your art.”
She looks down at herself, and her cheeks redden. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I’m such a mess.” She steps back to let me in.
“I think you look beautiful,” I say, kissing her cheek as I walk past her into the house.
She shuts the door and leans against it. “You’re either really sweet or all that time on the computer is affecting your eyesight.”
“Can we go with both?” I ask, placing my hands on her waist.
She nods and then kisses me. “So, what brings you by?”
“An article.”
Her face falls. “I haven’t heard from Eliza yet. I was really hoping to have a story by now.”
I raise her chin with my index finger. “You do. Eliza and David decided to have you team up with me on an article. To help you get the hang of things. Mr. Monohan is thinking you could make more money if you covered more than just feature stories.”
“Why is he going out of his way for me?”
“That’s just him. I can’t say I’ve ever met an employer like him before. He likes to keep his employees happy. We do have a few staff writers who are leaving for various reasons, too. One is moving and another is retiring. Bringing you on board is helping the paper as well as you.”
She looks at her clothes again. “I should go change. I’m assuming we’re on a deadline.”
“Always,” I say. I motion to her art room. “Do you mind if I take a look at what you’ve been working on while you get cleaned up?”
“Not at all. Make yourself at home. I’ll be back down in a few.” She heads upstairs, jogging up them in the most adorable way. I can’t resist watching the way she bounces up the stairs or the way her yoga pants hug her ass.
Once she’s out of sight, I go to the art room. There are several canvases all around the room. Most are of flowers or various objects; I’m guessing things she had in the house—a vase, a dolphin figurine, a crystal. Then I come to the one that’s currently on the easel. This one is different. It’s an extreme close-up of a person, showing nothing but the eyes, nose, and mouth. The eyes are a very dark shade of brown. The warmth in them is so realistic it gives me chills. The nose is slightly angled, giving the impression that the person isn’t facing the artist squarely, but rather looking at her from a slight turn of the head. And the mouth is parted, not quite a smile, but definitely meant to imply happiness. I step closer and look at the eyes again. Something keeps drawing my attention there. I lean closer still and notice there’s something painted in the eye. A reflection. I look around for something to see the image better, but I don’t find anything, so I take out my phone and snap a close-up of one eye. Then I click on the picture and zoom in as far as it will go.
“It’s me,” Whitney says behind me.
I turn around to face her. Her eyes are blue, so I know she’s not talking about the painting itself. I’m convinced that’s a man’s face anyway.
“The reflection in the eyes,” she says. “I’m surprised you noticed it.”
“How did you paint that?” It’s so small. I can’t imagine how she could pull this off, or even why she wanted to if she didn’t think people would notice.”
“It’s not easy. I’ve been working on it for a week and a half now.”
“I thought it would take even longer than that,” I say, still amazed by her talent. “What made you want to include the reflection?”
“I call it ‘Self Portrait.’” She holds up a finger. “Wait here.” She disappears for a moment and comes back with a magnifying glass. Then she walks around the easel, grabs this arm-like metal bar, and bends it around the front of the canvas. She places the magnifying glass on the end of the metal bar and positions it directly on top of the left eye. “Now look.”
I do. There she is, but she’s not the way I expected her to look. Her hair isn’t a messy bun. There are no paint smudges on her cheeks. She looks perfectly done up and beautiful.
“You’re probably wondering why I chose to paint myself this way.”
I turn to face her. “How? Beautiful? You’re always beautiful.” I motion to her current appearance. “You look fantastic in dress clothes, but you also look every bit as amazing in your comfy art clothes. I just wonder why you didn’t paint yourself the way you look when you’re in front of this easel.” I point to the painting. “The man in the painting is staring back at you while you paint him, but the reflection of you in his eye isn’t what he’s seeing.”
“Isn’t it?” she asks. She steps toward me. “The man is you, Alex. And from what you said about the way I looked in my art clothes, I think I painted myself exactly how you see me.”
She’s right. She’s beautiful to me no matter what.
“I want to buy it,” I say.
She laughs. “It isn’t finished yet.”
“Then I want to buy it when it’s finished.”
“Alex, I’m not letting you pay for it. I’ll give it to you as a gift, but you can’t pay me.”
She needs the money right now, and this painting is too good to keep for myself without her being paid for it. “Okay, then sell it at the art show. You can always paint another one for me at a later date.”
“Planning to stick around for a while?” she a
sks with a smile.
Yes. And I also plan to buy this painting. This exact one. Even if I have to get someone else to pretend to buy it for me. I don’t want to lie to Whitney, but if she won’t let me pay for it outright, then she’s not giving me much of a choice. One little white lie shouldn’t be that big of a deal, right?
Chapter Eighteen
Whitney
After Alex and I interview some people at the apartment complex on East Maple, and I snap a few pictures for the paper, we head back to the office. He drives through downtown instead of taking the back roads to avoid the traffic. I don’t mind because I’m a little terrified to write this article. What if I can’t write a news story? Sure Alex will bail me out, but I can’t take money for a story if I know I didn’t contribute to it. Other than a few pictures, that is.
I nearly get whiplash when Alex suddenly pulls over in the fastest parallel parking maneuver I’ve ever witnessed. “What are you doing?” I ask, gripping the door handle tightly.
“Sorry. I saw a sign in that window there.” He unclicks his seat belt and opens his door. “Come on.” He gets out in such a hurry I have to scramble to keep up.
I shut the car door and chase after him. He’s heading to the building next to Fitness World. It was a florist for a very short period of time, only a few months. My guess is that there were too many florists competing for attention in this city. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach when I consider my mural on Bonnie’s Boutique might have had something to do with driving business away from this particular florist.
Alex whips his phone out and is dialing a number on the “For Lease” sign. He puts the phone to his ear and smiles at me. “This space would be perfect for your art school.”
Is he crazy? I have no money to even put down a deposit on a place like this. “Alex, hang up. I’m not ready for this yet.” I need to have the art show first and see if I can even sell my work before I think about opening a school.
“Hello,” he says, not doing as I asked. “Yes, I’m interested in seeing the space on Main Street. I’m actually standing outside it right now.” He pauses before saying, “That would be perfect. Thank you.” He hangs up and pockets his phone. “The building manager lives two blocks away. He’ll be here in a few minutes.” He presses his hand to the glass to peer inside.
“Alex, there’s no point in wasting the man’s time.”
“Whitney, look at this place,” he says, ignoring my protest. “It’s in the perfect location.”
Perfectly expensive. “Businesses on this street get the best foot traffic. I’m sure I could never afford this place.”
“You don’t know until you ask. The previous renters left in a hurry. If the manager is looking to fill the spot quickly, he might be willing to cut you a deal.”
Doubtful. Especially when he finds out I want to use it for an art school. The idea has “Doomed to fail” written all over it. “Look, Alex, I’m fine with the idea of having an art show. Hell, I can’t pass up the opportunity when Mr. Monohan is offering me the old office space for it, but this idea of me teaching at my own school...” I shake my head and place my hand on his forearm. “I really appreciate everything you’re doing, but I don’t think I can make this work. It’s too big of a risk.”
“I’m not letting you say no until you’ve seen this place. The manager is on his way here already. What can it hurt?”
He doesn’t get it, and I’m not sure I can explain it to him. “An artist needs to be in a certain mindset to paint. What if I fall in love with this space and I can’t have it? The last thing I need two weeks before a show is to lose my creative flow to negativity. It happens so easily sometimes.” God, I probably sound like a whiney art-type right now.
“What would you say to your students if they had that attitude? Would you tell them not to even try? To play it safe?” He takes me by my shoulders and peers into my eyes. “You didn’t play it safe when you painted those murals, and they’re some of your best work. Don’t play it safe now, Whitney. You took a chance on letting me in when you didn’t know if I’d even keep your secret. Take a chance on yourself, because you know your own talent.”
“Excuse me,” comes a voice behind me.
I turn to see a middle-aged man with a graying beard. “Are you the one who called about the space?”
“Yes.” Alex extends his hand. “I’m Alex Wilkes, and this is Whitney Stillwater. We’d love it if you could show us around.”
“Walter Ambrogi.” He walks past us, key in hand. “I take it that means you never stepped foot inside the florist that recently vacated this space.”
“I prefer my flowers to be painted,” Alex says, smiling at me.
Walter opens the door. “Oh, you’re referring to the mural on Bonnie’s Boutique. I think that was the last straw for this place. I’d love to find the person who painted that and have them do some work for this building.”
Alex’s smile grows. “Well, you did find her. It’s Whitney.” He puts his hand on the small of my back, urging me forward.
“You?” Walter asks.
I nod. “I’m surprised you didn’t read about it in the paper.”
“I did, actually. I thought your name sounded familiar.” He motions for us to go inside and turns on the lights. “Have a look around.”
I step inside, noticing the open layout. I could fit several easels in here with no problem. The walls are painted a deep teal, but I could easily change that. Make them my own canvas, or even let my students paint them. Oh no. It’s already happening. I’m already picturing this working out. I’m being stupid.
“What do you think?” Alex asks, walking up behind me. “It’s pretty great, right?”
I’m still staring at the wall, thinking of all the possibilities. “My mom used to say you have to picture the future you want if you ever hope to achieve it.” I turn around and face him with tears in my eyes. “The problem is that she never wanted much. She was content in our tiny home. She was fine with being a single mom who waited tables for a living. She never told me she wanted to be anything other than what she was, so she was either living the life she dreamed of or she was lying to me.”
“I never met your mom, but from what you’ve told me, she doesn’t seem like the type to lie to the most important person in her life.” He squeezes my hand in his. “I’m pretty sure her dream was to see her only daughter happy.”
I cover my face, knowing he’s right. She never complained about working long hours. Instead, she happily deposited her paychecks into my college fund. “She was so much more giving than I’ll ever be.”
“Do you two need much longer?” Walter asks. “I actually have another appointment soon.”
I wipe my eyes, not wanting Walter to think I’m some basket case.
“Mr. Ambrogi,” Alex says, “were you serious about wanting a mural of your own to draw attention to your building?”
What is he doing?
Walter’s brow furrows right before he rubs his forehead. “I mean, yeah, it would be great for business. Having places sit empty hurts my pockets, you know?”
Alex nods. “What if I said you could have that mural if you’re willing to hold this place for Whitney?”
Walter drops his hands at his sides. “I’m sorry but holding the space means losing out on rent. I can’t afford to.”
“Okay, then what if I told you the price of the mural was equal to three weeks’ rent?”
I walk over and place my hand on Alex’s shoulder. “It’s fine. Let’s go.”
He doesn’t budge. “That’s not a bad price at all. And in that time, Whitney could be setting up her art school, so the place wouldn’t be sitting empty.”
“Alex,” I say, my voice more stern this time. “Please stop.”
He holds his hand out to Walter. “What do you say? Do we have a deal?”
Walter hesitates, his face contorted in thought. “Three weeks, not a day more. I’ll need the next month’s rent immediately following that.
”
“Deal,” Alex says, shaking his hand. “I’ll give you my number, and when the paperwork is drawn up, we’ll stop by to sign.”
Walter ushers us out while I’m still in shock over what just happened. Alex shakes his hand one more time before he walks away.
“So?” Alex says, smiling at me. “This is great, right?”
Great? No. This is anything but. He has no idea what he just did.
His face falls. “What’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy.”
“Happy that you made this decision for me without asking me first?”
“I’m sorry. I thought this was what you wanted. I didn’t mean to speak for you.”
“But you did. And now I have to somehow figure out how to paint enough pictures for the art show, paint a mural on this building, and write enough stories for the paper to cover the first month’s rent of this space—all at the same time!” My pulse is racing, and my tone is drawing the attention of everyone walking by.
“Whitney—”
I hold my hand up to stop him. “I need to be alone right now.”
“What are you saying?” He steps toward me, but I back away.
“I told you I don’t mind you helping me, but I have to do things on my own. Why couldn’t you let me do that? I barely know you, Alex.”
“We might not have known each other for long, but you know how I feel about you.” He looks so hurt, like I stabbed him in the chest. “I was only trying to help.”
I know he was, and maybe that’s the problem. “There’s too much going on all at once.” Maybe this was a mistake. Getting involved with anyone right now isn’t a good idea, but can I end things this quickly without really giving us a chance? “I need some space.”
“We have a story to write,” he says.
God, I can’t do this. I can’t manage everything all at once. “I have to clear my head first. Go write up a draft, and I’ll work on one later. We can merge the two or something after that.”
“I’ll take you home,” he says, his voice small and full of disappointment.
Since I Found You (Love Chronicles Book 3) Page 12
