The Art of My Life

by Ann Lee Miller

  “What about your marriage plans?”

  “Who knows, maybe I’ll meet someone there.”

  “Chas.”

  “Whatever. Something will work out. Or it won’t. Obviously, you don’t need sex to survive like you need food, water, and oxygen.”

  She dropped the word sex into a sentence as if it weren’t the big issue lurking between them.

  He grasped for words that would make her stay. “Don’t do this to me.”

  “Hey, at least I’m doing something.”

  “But—”

  “Fish, I’m going.”

  The second time in his life she’d called him Fish. He could feel her peeling away from him already.

  “Good-bye.” She hung up.

  He tossed the phone onto his bunk. He wanted to drive over to her house and make her change her mind. He kicked the bulkhead with his boot. He didn’t know what he was going to do yet, but he’d fight for her. That much he knew.

  Aly poked her head through the window of Missy’s hot dog stand. “I’m looking for Charlie Brown’s Lucy. I need psychiatric help.”

  Missy laughed and pressed a cold Pepsi into her hand. “It’ll cost you five cents. I’ll be out in a minute.” Missy closed up the trailer and padlocked the door, juggling an A&W Root Beer.

  Missy led the way as they strolled up the beach toward Flagler Avenue. “I could use Lucy myself. What’s up?”

  Evening sun baked through Aly’s T-shirt. She scooted onto the seawall and the shade of a tiki hut. “Cal’s been out of jail for over three months, and we’ve had like two meaningful conversations.”

  “Really? He stops in at the stand once in a while for a dog, and he’s using Henna’s room as a studio while Sean’s family is staying in Mom’s apartment. Things are good with us.”

  “He hasn’t been to the gallery. He doesn’t know I hung his work.” Aly stared at the gulls dive-bombing the waves.

  “But he cares about you. I told him I wanted you for a sister-in-law, and he said something like he’d already been thinking about it. And that was months and months ago, the day he got his hair cut for a date with you.”

  Wow. Cal had been thinking marriage before they even became business partners. “He said he wants to marry me, but he doesn’t act like it. The other night he told me he loved me, then lit out of my cabin without touching me—like I had strep throat or something.” A gull tumbled in a wave, righted itself, and flew away in another direction. Maybe he changed his mind about herpes.

  Missy kicked her heels against the sea wall. “That’s more than Sean’s said. He’s been flirting with me for a year. A year! He gave the necklace for Christmas.” She fingered the pearl at her throat. Her touch went to the matching single pearl bracelet on her wrist. “And this for my birthday.” She sighed. “And I’m so done waiting. If seeing me naked didn’t make him want to marry me, nothing will.”

  “What?” Aly swiveled her face toward Missy.

  Missy shrugged a shoulder and relayed the story.

  Aly laughed and shook her head. “You’re kidding me? It could only happen to you.”

  Missy threw up her hands. “I give up.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Move to Peru, teach at the orphanage until I get over him. Everything in New Smyrna Beach reminds me of Sean—and I run into him around town. I’ll never get past him if I don’t do something drastic.”

  Aly had reservations about Cal, but she hadn’t really considered ending things. Her whole body tensed at the thought. “And I’ll never get over Cal while we’re living at either end of a forty-one foot boat.”

  Missy’s brows shot up in alarm. “You want to end things?”

  “I don’t know what I want. I’ve always been a needy mess trying to vacuum what I need from guys. It never works.” But Cal hadn’t used her for sex. And he’d supported her emotionally through the toughest times in her life. “And I want to keep selling his art. I guess we could work something out—communicate by e-mail….”

  “Don’t even go there. I’m counting on you for a sister-in-law. You guys need to talk this out. If Sean and I hadn’t talked about how I want to get married and he wants to mess around too many times to count, I’d take my own advice.”

  “You’re right. I need to talk to Cal.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “What? No! I have to think. I have to figure out how I feel.”

  Missy pushed her sunglasses up top of her head and leaned toward her. “Pick a date, and I’ll buy my Peru ticket that day.”

  “Give me two weeks.”

  Missy counted on her fingers. “August fifteenth—lets meet at Sugar Mill Ruins—after I buy my ticket and you talk to Cal. I’ll cry. You can cheer me up telling me you and Cal worked everything out. I’ll bring the chocolate.”

  Aly drew in a shaky breath. “Okay—if Fish hasn’t come to his senses by then.” She hoped Sugar Mill Ruins wasn’t a morbidly appropriate location.

  Missy clinked her can against Aly’s. “Survival.”

  But it felt like death.

  Chapter 29

  August 3

  The painting of my life is never going to hang in the Miami Art Museum. Irreversible errors were made early on. Not that I am valueless. I’ll cheer the Sarasota city hall or the Volusia Mall or someone’s living room. My life is what it is.

  Aly at www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com

  Cal cleaned his brushes and set them in a cup to dry. It was his day off from Winn Dixie, and he wasn’t due at Stoney’s for an hour. He could suck it up and stop by Aly’s Gallery for a tour, but so far he’d avoided facing the tangible evidence that Aly had moved on from being his business partner. Fifty-seven days till he’d propose. If Aly said yes, the fact they didn’t own a business together wouldn’t matter.

  He’d nearly ruined any chance of Aly’s marrying him by getting high the night he’d told her he loved her and walked away without making love to her. Four and a half months had sounded like an eternity to wait to marry Aly and sleep with her. He’d never wanted to smoke so badly in his life.

  But he’d drawn Aly sitting in her bunk, eyes tender, open to him—and art had saved him yet again. Sometimes he wondered if God had given him art as his personal coping skill, a legitimate crutch.

  He heard noise behind him and turned toward the doorway.

  Starr leaned on the door jam, her face looking pinched. She stared at the painting on his easel of rain pummeling the glow of Stavro’s Pizza.

  He was used to her stopping by most evenings over the past three months—a continuation of her jail visits, minus the angst. She even dropped in now that he painted at Henna’s. Missy must have mentioned he was painting this morning.

  Starr blinked and shifted her gaze to Cal. “I can almost smell the pepperoni and yeast and tomato. I can hear the laughter of some family celebration.” Awe tinged her voice and melted some of the stress from her face.

  His chest inflated against his will. He hated the giddy delight her words brought, how hugely hungry he still was for her praise. He wanted to tell her he was enrolling in college just to lap up some more. At least now he’d finally done something big that made her proud—six months in jail. The irony nearly made him laugh out loud.

  Starr sat on Henna’s bed. Her eyes flitted around the make-shift studio. “I stopped by Aly’s Gallery earlier. Fish was fixing the toilet. Anyway, did you see she hung your painting of the man standing in the light? That’s my favorite painting you’ve ever done.”

  What the hell was Fish doing fixing Aly’s toilet? “I haven’t been to the gallery.”

  Starr frowned. “Something wrong?”

  “I don’t have a right to pursue Aly until I prove I can be sober, adult.”

  Starr stared at him, her scar going white.

  He braced himself for her criticism, formulated an excuse to get out of there.

  But her face softened. “You must have earned ten thousand dollars in the last three months off all
the commissions Aly brokered. You’ve worked steady at Stoney’s and Winn Dixie. What are you waiting for?”

  “I’m a pothead ex-con. A bad risk for a girl with Aly’s history.”

  “You’ve been clean for eight months. You went to jail for your grandparents.”

  “I’m unstable—the artist temperament. Ask Evie. I have a lot of changing to do.”

  Starr grimaced. “You’re emotional like your father, but Evie is a drama junkie. She needs a man one step from catatonic. It would never work between you two.” Starr leaned across the table toward him. “How many girls have you loved?”

  Cal looked at the tie-dyed bedspread beside Starr. Now she was pissing him off. “Just Aly.”

  “That’s stable. And it’s in your heritage. Your dad and I. Jessie only cared about Kallie—even in his rock-god stage. Henna and Leaf.” Starr laid a hand on his forearm. “I want you to be happy.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” He stood and pulled out of her grasp. “I’ll think about what you said.”

  Starr’s gaze returned to the easel. “One birthday, Henna and Leaf took me to Stavro’s. I was so excited. I wanted to shout, ‘Look at me! Look at me! It’s my birthday, and my parents are taking me out for pizza!’ ” A wry laugh caught in her throat. “But when we climbed into the car afterward, I felt let down. Leaf had been high, Henna, preoccupied.

  She stared at the painting. “I strived for people’s approval all my life.” Her gaze settled on him. “But maybe… maybe God’s approval is easier to get than my folks’ or New Smyrna Beach’s.” She gave a little shake of her head. “I’m here to minimize the damage I’ve done to you, not figure out my own issues.”

  “Sounds like we’re pretty much tangled up together.”

  Her lips curved upward, and he felt like, for once, what he’d said had been just right.

  She stood, put her hands on his shoulders where he sat on his stool in front of the easel. “You don’t have to fit into my mold. It’s not worth fighting over the choices you make in your life. I just want to be connected to you.” She dropped her hands and folded them across her waist as though she didn’t know what to do with them. “I should have said this to you that first time I visited you in jail. I love you. Nothing you do will ever make me stop loving you.”

  The words spun through him, light, ethereal rose, mandarin, turquoise.

  The minute Cal finished tatting a butterfly on the tree-trunk ankle of a middle-aged woman named Lilibeth, he bee-lined to the marina and strode down the dock past Evie’s boat and stopped in front of Zeke’s Ambition where Fish wrenched off the spigot to the hose.

  Water wet the weathered boards of the boat and dripped from the gunwales into the river.

  “You were at Aly’s?” Cal said.

  Fish’s wispy blonde hair stuck out in all directions. He stood barefoot and shirtless staring at Cal. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.

  “You’re jealous of me putting new innards in a toilet? A toilet?”

  “You got something going with Aly?”

  “With Aly? I got noth—”

  Cal’s brain flashed back to when they used to duke it out and flop back to best friends in minutes—before they’d discovered girls or politics or pot.

  Fish jabbed a finger in Cal’s chest. “You know what? I’ll give you twenty-four hours to say whatever you have to say to Aly.”

  To propose? It was too soon to talk her into saying yes.

  Fish’s eyes bore into him. “Then I’ve got a question to ask her.” He dropped his finger, stepped across the water onto his boat.

  Fish’s last words seemed to arrive after the slam of the door. “I forgive you.”

  Maybe Cal heard wrong. He stared at the paint peeling from the door. Water lapped against the boat. A gull soared overhead. The door stayed shut.

  They’d work it out, but right now, no way was he letting Fish take a shot at Aly.

  Was he man enough to risk everything—three months ahead of schedule? It didn’t matter—Fish wasn’t getting his hands on Aly without the fight of his life.

  On the Escape, a sticky note lay on his pillow, trapped in the sun coming through the porthole.

  Cal, if you have time tonight around 7, stop by Aly’s Gallery. I’ve got something I want you to see. Aly

  She printed the address at the bottom as if he didn’t navigate a block’s span around the gallery every day.

  He had work to do. It was tonight or never.

  Fish sat in the pilot’s seat, his eyes galvanized to the gate at the end of the dock. A rivulet of water snaked down his neck from his shower-damp hair. His knee jiggled, the only looseness in his taut muscles.

  Wisps of prayers whirled like tiny water spouts inside him.

  Missy pushed open the gate and walked toward him.

  Thank God. Relief darted in and out of the water spouts, slowing their spin. She’d been so PO’d last time they talked, he didn’t know if she’d show.

  He leapt from the boat to the dock. His eyes skated all over her at once—the thin yellow T-shirt, cut-offs, flip-flops, hair up in a messy bun, tanned legs. He couldn’t scrape the smile off his face if he had to. “Hey. Thanks for coming.”

  She crossed her arms and eyed him warily. “What’s your emergency?”

  He grabbed the bucket of chum from beside the dock box. “Give me a few to work up to full disclosure.” He headed for the end of the dock.

  Missy followed. “What are the fish guts for?”

  He stopped in the shade of a cabin cruiser and sat on the edge of the dock, feet hanging over the water. “Feeding the pelicans.”

  Missy sat on the other side of the bucket and watched him lob a fish head toward the pelican squatting on a nearby piling. The bird lowered itself to the water with a flurry of wing flapping and scooped up the treat.

  He tilted the bucket toward her. “Your turn.”

  Missy half-heartedly flung a tail toward the bird.

  It squawked, and two more fowl flapped onto the dock. One dipped and scored the tail before it sunk.

  Fish tossed a handful of innards out over the water. The three birds descended.

  Silence settled between them. Now was no time to turn chicken shit. He took a deep breath. “I finally calmed down about your birthday.”

  Missy threw a two-handed pile of guts into the water. “What happened?”

  “I made a decision. We need some kickback time.” He motioned toward the bucket.

  Missy sailed a fish head out into the river. “Maybe, but I don’t see how it’s going to change anything.” She kicked her legs back and forth over the edge of the dock.

  “How’s business at the hot dog stand?”

  “Better now that I opened for breakfast and started serving bagels and coffee. I can see why Leaf sold weed on the side.”

  He emptied the bucket at their feet and watched the birds flap their wings inches from their toes.

  The pelicans returned to their perches.

  He offered a grimy hand to Missy and helped her up. He wrenched on the spigot beside the fish-cleaning table and pried loose the sliver of soap that had dried to the wood. He lathered his hands and reached for Missy’s.

  “I can wash my own hands.”

  He grinned into her eyes. “Yeah, I know.” He massaged her palms, slid his fingers between hers.

  The desire fisting in him flickered in her eyes, too, and she pulled her hands free of his.

  They stuck their hands under the flow of the water, warm from the sun beating on the hose.

  His eyes caught hers. “I’ve missed you.”

  Missy looked away.

  His stomach knotted. Still, he’d never been surer of a decision in his life. Missy’s sensual response in her eyes only confirmed it.

  He grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler he’d left on the dock earlier and handed one to Missy. “Hungry?”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “Yeah. I was over hot dogs in June.”

  He held up two subs wrapped i
n thick white paper. “From Manzano’s. Turkey or Italian?”

  “Turkey. You went to a lot of trouble, but I don’t think it will make a difference.”

  He shrugged as if a fleet of Daytona 500 pace cars of adrenaline didn’t zoom around his body. “Hey, I got an assistantship, so I can quit Zeke’s in three weeks when law school starts.”

  “Congratulations.” Missy’s eyes crinkled over her sandwich, but her voice sounded flat.

  The knot of his stomach coiled tighter. “How are plans going for Peru?”

  “I bought my ticket today. Had to postpone a celebration party tonight with Aly for your emergency.”

  He hurled the rest of his sub into the river, no longer interested in eating. The one pelican who had stuck around glided out over the water. He wadded the paper into a ball.

  “And I don’t see what the big emerg—”

  “What about your Facebook man file?”

  “I gave up on it after the holidays.”

  After the first time he kissed her. Lethal measures of hope and courage fire-hosed into him.

  Missy set her sub on its paper and brushed the crumbs from her lips.

  His gaze stuck on her mouth.

  She sighed. “It’s my own fault. If I hadn’t… um… done something stupid after I turned eighteen. And if I hadn’t read the books in Dad’s study on sex, I wouldn’t have been so crazy to get married ASAP.”

  Lava stirred through his hope. “How many books did you read?”

  Missy looked at him through the corner of her eye. “Twelve.”

  He burst out laughing. “You’re kidding me.”

  Missy gave him a rueful glance. “I’m a freaking encyclopedia of knowledge I may never need.”

  “Oh, you’ll need it all right.” Another wave of laughter rolled through him.

  He lay back on the dock, as orange sky melted into pink. Peace settled over him. “I love you, Mis.” He rolled his head to look at her.

  Even in the waning light, he could see the color drain from her face as she stared at the opposite shore of the river. She glanced at him and back at the shore. She shrugged as if to say, whatever.