by Lisa Sorbe
Now we’re two weeks into November and most of Miles’s loft is covered in my art. And the mechanical hum of the fans is almost constant.
“It actually helps me sleep at night,” Miles confesses over coffee this morning.
It’s a half hour before we open, and I’m in my studio putting the finishing touches on a piece while drinking coffee and trying not to get paint on my work clothes. With visiting my mom at the hospital every night this past week, I haven’t gotten as much work done around the studio, so I’ve been taking advantage of the few free minutes I have in the mornings before we open. Thankfully she’s doing great, at least as great as she can be given the circumstances, and should be discharged sometime tomorrow. Her prognosis is good, and with my dad having worked at the hospital for years, she’s been getting special treatment, the nurses fussing over her like she’s the Queen of England. Which puts my mind at ease since tonight is the first night I won’t be visiting her.
I have something else planned.
Miles is sitting on the stool at my side and watching me (he says seeing me paint turns him on) and reaches over to rub at a spot of cobalt blue that’s stuck to my forearm. I roll my eyes and pull the sleeve of my sweater down. That’s another thing – I’m constantly covered in paint.
“Speaking of sleep,” I say, setting my brush down and straddling his lap. “Emilia has a slumber party tonight and, provided she doesn’t call at midnight to make me pick her up like last time, I’m going to be free all,” – I kiss his neck – “night” – then his cheek – “long.” My lips find his ear, and I give him a condensed version of what I want to do to him tonight.
Which leads to him showing me, in no uncertain terms, what he wants to do to me right now.
“This,” I gasp as he pushes me over the hood of an old Chevy Blazer “is hardly professional, Mr. Wright. We” – I moan as he pops the button on my jeans and slips is hand inside – “open in less than a half an hour.”
“Sweetheart,” he growls in my ear, and I hear the rush of the zipper on his own pants, “we crossed that line months ago.”
And then he’s inside me, holding my arm behind my back with one hand and clutching my hair with the other. My palm is hot against the cold aluminum of the hood, and my breath comes in ragged, short bursts.
We don’t open on time.
My hair is a mess from morning sex and I’m studying my chipped manicure when a couple breeze into the shop, the little bell over the door tinkling their arrival. They don’t even glance at me as they fly by, their focus instead on the three paintings hanging on the wall behind the bench seats.
“This one,” the woman is saying to her husband. She looks to be in her fifties, black hair streaked with gray and pulled up in a severe bun. Her skinny frame is bundled in an expensive, fur-collared poncho, and her blocky black frame glasses sit low on her nose. She waves a leather-gloved hand at one of my paintings. “This is the one Elaine was telling me about.”
Her husband, who’s a good foot taller than her and has thick hair the color of titanium white, cocks his head. He rubs his chin, the wool of his overcoat pulling at his elbows. “Stunning,” he agrees.
They’re studying an oil painting I did of Emilia, one I started the day after Miles came over swimming. It’s a snapshot of the exact moment she got out of the pool and had that raven piece of hair curling over her cheek. The night was deep purple behind her, and it was the first time I’d look at my daughter – really looked at her – in years. I transferred the memory onto the canvas, using the soft moonlight from that night to my advantage, the way it cradled the left side of her face and threw the rest of her features into shadow. My brush swirled colors together to liven her big blue eyes and red, heart-shaped lips. I mixed burnt umber and ultramarine blue for her hair, using the dark colors to emphasize her pale skin, her flushed cheeks. I didn’t hold anything back and painted it true to form, including all of Julian’s features that can still be so hard for me to see. But Emilia has her own little quirks – ones that are neither mine nor Julian’s – and I made sure those shone through, too.
The layers are simple but deep. And out of everything I’ve ever painted, it’s my absolute favorite.
The woman finally turns her attention to me. She points at the painting. “I don’t see a price for this one.”
I stand up straight and tuck my paint-stained hands in the back pockets of my jeans. “You want to buy it?”
The woman nods, and her husband follows suit. “In a way,” she says. She considers the other pieces I’ve hung, both prairie landscapes of my grandfather’s land. “I’m interested these, too. The colors, the mood. There’s emotion in these, and it’s a style I’ve never quite seen before…” Her voice trails off as she pulls a card from her wallet and hands it to me. “We’re up from Omaha. I run a gallery there.”
I study the card, swipe my thumb over the sleek lettering. The wording is simple, but the name rings a bell.
Armani Gallery of Fine Arts
Old Market Omaha, NE
Mina Armani, Owner and Curator
It takes me a minute to place it, but then I remember.
Julian used to show here. Years and years ago. Back then it was a small gallery, but exquisite. Well cared for. I don’t remember much about the show I attended with him since it took place so early on in our relationship and my subconscious has done its best to block out most of those memories. But the thought of Julian’s sculptures being in this place – even if it was a decade ago – makes my stomach twist. Although I doubt he has pieces here anymore. Omaha isn’t exactly the mecca of the art world and, knowing Julian, I’m sure he’s sticking to places like New York and Chicago, London and Paris.
And considering I went back to my maiden name after the divorce (something Julian forced me to agree to when signing the paperwork), Mina would have no way of tying the two of us together.
So there’s no connection whatsoever.
“A friend swung through here a week ago and contacted me right away. She was impressed, and I can’t say I blame her.” She shakes her head, her expression incredulous. “In an automotive repair shop, of all places!”
I’m pretty sure I remember the friend she’s referring to. Mrs. Elaine Cormier, a sweet older woman who praised not only my paintings but the cookies Emilia and I baked the night before. She spoke with a flowing French accent and smelled like lavender – a scent which stayed behind and made me sneeze for a full hour after she left.
“Do you know how I can get in contact with the artist? I’d love to talk to him or her about showing these. And other pieces, if they have them.”
My eyes follow her husband as he drifts over to the refreshment station and pours himself a cup of coffee. I have to count to ten to calm down or I’m going to end up screaming and hugging the woman so tight she’ll probably die of suffocation, therefore putting the kibosh on this whole amazing opportunity. “That,” I say, snapping my eyes back to her and pulling a megawatt smile out of my ass, “would be me.”
She runs her gaze over my face, down over my red sweater, and notes the paint splatters on my sleeve. Her smile is warm when she looks back up. “Well, of course it is.”
Mina Armani is one hell of a woman. After walking her through my studio and showing her the pieces there and as well as the ones in Miles’s loft, she insists on taking me out to lunch so we can talk specifics. “I want to know all my artists. Character is so important. Almost as much as the work itself.”
I must look nervous (I am nervous) because she chuckles when she sees my expression. “Don’t worry, darling,” – she says darling like dahling – “I know artists can be eccentric. I won’t hold that against you.” She tucks a gloved hand in the crook of my arm as we leave the shop and asks me if I can take her to try a Charlie Boy. Apparently, Elaine had one of the loose meat sandwiches during her drive through Cedar Hills last week and told her they are “to die for, darling.” Her husband, Nicolai, stays behind to talk shop with Miles. Dur
ing our tour of the studio, he mentioned that he collects muscle cars and once he saw Mile’s Charger out back, gravitated to it like a moth to a flame. In fact, the last I see of the two men as I pull out of the parking lot are their backs bent under the hood.
I steer us toward Miles Inn (no relations to my Miles) so Mina can try one of the best loose meat sandwiches in the area, and we make small talk about the art world along the way. I never used to eat stuff like this until I started dating Miles. But Elaine is right, Charlie Boys are the shit. Even if I have to run a few extra miles a week in order to keep said sandwiches off my hips.
Granted, I’ve gained a few pounds in the last few months, what with choosing painting, sex with my mechanic boyfriend, and spending time with my daughter over what I previously chose to do – watching what I ate to the point of constantly feeling an aching hollow in my stomach, a void that I filled with cocktails and attention, men and manicures and pedicures and expensive hair treatments and designer clothes.
I was always trying to be more. More than what I already was.
I was in a race with something I couldn’t see, couldn’t ever seem to catch. And since it never stopped running, pursuing… Neither could I.
But now, I’m starting to like me just the way I am. Extra five pounds and all.
Over icy schooners of beer and three Charlie Boys each, Mina tells me about her gallery. About her years in the business and what she loves about art, about her specific tastes, and the fact that she’s open-minded enough to know that not everyone will see things her way so she tries to incorporate all types of pieces into her collection. “Observing art forms from different ends of the spectrum gets the mind working. Gets those emotions flowing. I like to see beaming smiles and tear-stained cheeks when people leave my gallery. I especially like to see old codgers who haven’t cracked a smile or shed a tear in thirty years break down in front of a painting. Shake the crust off their cold dead hearts and get them pumping again.” She finishes off her second schooner and smiles. “And you, darling? Your art has the ability to get hearts pumping again.”
My eyes burn as the words hit me – really hit me. Because they’re so true.
I was dead. I was dead, but now I’m not.
Now my heart is pumping. And it’s real, not just a phantom figment of my imagination.
All this time I thought it was Miles. Miles that got my heart thumping in my chest again. And maybe it was, to the extent that he got me back into painting. A gift I’ll never ever be able to adequately repay.
And I like Miles. A lot. Hell, I… I think I might even love him.
But if I had to choose painting over him, I know without a doubt I’d choose my art. Hands down and no questions asked. Because without it, I’m not me.
I spent so many years denying my truth. Flattening my three-dimensional self in order to maintain a phony two-dimensional image of the person I thought I wanted to be.
But it was bullshit. It was all bullshit.
Mina’s studying me, her dark eyes sharp over her glasses. “You’re having an aha moment, aren’t you darling?”
I nod. Press the pad of my finger into the corner of my eye to wipe away a tear. “Yeah, Mina. I guess I am. It’s just that…” I sigh, my smile shaky. “What you said about getting people’s hearts pumping?”
She nods.
“I know this is all metaphorical, but mine… Mine,” I say, “hasn’t pumped in years. So much wasted time…”
She reaches out and places her hand over mine, her touch gentle but firm. I welcome the warmth.
“But it’s pumping now, darling.” Her eyes flare, and she beams at me. “It’s pumping now.”
Time flies.
It’s been three months since Mina offered me a spot in her gallery, and I’ve been painting every single day. It’s her wish to hold a solo exhibit of my work in June, so I’m racing a deadline I have no idea if I’ll beat or not.
But I’m trying. I’m trying, and I’m having the time of my life.
So far, the three pieces I delivered to her last month (including the one of Emilia), have generated a positive response. In fact, the one of Emilia sold after only two days. Mina said the buyer was a fellow artist and was so taken with her portrait that he bought it immediately.
“Chiseled the stone right off his cold dead heart,” she said over the phone, her voice giddy with the memory.
I was giddy as well and immediately deposited the nine hundred dollars I made from it into a new savings account for Emilia.
But today is Valentine’s Day. And, as a result, I’m taking a break from my studio. Emilia is spending the night with Mary Jo, giving me and Miles our first free night alone since New Year’s Eve.
And I plan on taking advantage of it.
The second glass of wine I just poured along with the candlelight dinner Miles cooked for us has me feeling mushy and content. Right now, we’re sprawled on the couch, my hair in a bun and feet plopped in Miles’s lap. Despite the fact that it’s only eight o’clock, we’re already in our pajamas, and I can’t help but smile at how different this Valentine’s Day is compared to last year’s with Clark.
“I had no idea you could cook like that,” I say, taking a sip and leaning back even further into the cushions. I moan when he presses his thumb into my heel with one hand and squeezes my toes with the other. “Seriously. That roasted rosemary chicken in red muscato grape sauce looked just as good as it tasted.”
He chuckles. “I’m glad you liked it. I had my doubts. But Pinterest, man. It’ll make you believe you can do anything. I mean, who knew following a recipe was so easy?”
“Your presentation was certainly on point. Although following a recipe isn’t exactly easy for everyone,” I point out. “Many of my culinary disasters have started by merely” – I curl my fingers in the air – “’following a recipe’. Still turned out like shit.”
“Yeah, well. You’re not at exactly domestic dahling.” He mimics Mina, and we both laugh. But he adores the Armanis just as much as I do. During our last trip to Omaha, we had dinner at their house and Nicolai delighted in showing Miles his car collection. It took everything I had to get him out of that garage and back to the hotel that night.
I stick my tongue out at him, to which he responds with, “Sweetheart, don’t even tempt me.”
“Speaking of tempting,” I say, setting down my wine glass on the coffee table and hopping up. “It’s time for presents.”
Miles looks up at me from the couch, frowns. “What? I was supposed to buy you something, too? Hell, I thought all the hours I spent slaving over a hot stove was enough.” But he grins and rises with me to grab a small box wrapped in red tissue paper from a drawer in his nightstand. I retrieve my own gift from where I hid it behind a drying painting and meet him back at the couch.
“Mine first,” I demand, sidling up next to him and holding out the small box I wrapped in Disney’s Cars wrapping paper. He studies the gift and laughs. “Classy, Princess,” he says as he tears into the paper. When he lifts the lid, he looks up, confused.
“What’s this?” He pulls the key from the box, a tiny bottle opener in the shape of a miniature wrench dangling from the chain.
The smile on my face is so wide it makes my cheeks sting. But I can’t stop, because I’m so excited about what I’m about to propose. “It’s a key to your new house. A house for you and Lady.”
He frowns. “You got me a house?”
“Yes. Well, yes and no. Remember how I told you my brother owns all that land?”
Miles nods, still not sure where I’m going with this.
“He has a house that he rents out. In fact, that’s how he met Elise. Well, kind of. That’s another story. But, anyway… It’s empty now, and he wasn’t going to rent it back out again so I asked if I could use it and he said yes. So, Voilà!” I make a sweeping motion with my hands. “It’s yours!”
He doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “It’s in the country, so you can have Lady back with
you. There’s a ton of room for her to run around, a garage for you to park your Charger in, and Fox totally remodeled it awhile back so it’s absolutely gorgeous. Tiny, but adorable. You’ll love it. I promise.”
“I…” He pauses, slides away from me and stands up. “This is for me and Lady?”
For the first time since giving him the gift, my smile falters. “Yes, of course.”
“I already told you. I can’t afford to pay rent on another place until I sell the dilapidated one I’m already stuck with.”
“But that’s the gift part,” I say, watching him carefully. He’s not reacting the way I thought he would. “You don’t have to pay rent. It’s free.”
“I’m not taking someone’s charity, Jenny.” His face is a mask of ice.
“Really?” I bite back. “Because you’re all about giving it out. But when someone tries to do something nice for you… Well, you’re too much of a martyr to accept it?” I stand up and cross my arms.
He closes his eyes and sighs. “That’s not how I meant it.”
“Well, how did you mean it, then?”
“Just to clarify, you want me and Lady – just the two of us – to live there. At your brother’s place.” He opens his eyes and pins me with his stare.
I nod. “Yeah. I mean, duh. That’s what I said. And I thought that’s what you wanted. To have her back with you, a yard for her to play in. Shit, bring Lucy for all I care. Or she can stay here. Although if she can’t sleep next to your head every night, she might have a meltdown.”
He chuckles. “Jenny…”
I arch a brow and purse my lips. “Don’t even tell me you’re not going to accept this.”
Miles holds a hand up. “Wait. Just… Just wait.” He snags his gift for me and tosses it my way. It’s small, smaller than the box I put his key in, and the size has my heart suddenly racing faster than a gazelle running from a lion. He already gave me a necklace with a tiny diamond pendant dangling from it for Christmas, so unless these are matching earrings, it can only be one thing. He nods toward the box, which I’m balancing in one trembling hand, and bites back a smile. “Open it.”
