Chapter 5 Dani
five
Dani
The man’s insane. No other explanation for it, apart from that analytical, writerly brain of his reading a little too much into the fact that I don’t sign my paintings.
But I’m not sure he’s wrong.
It’s true, my work has never been a straight-up image of Montana. I’ve always grounded my work in women’s bodies. In the work we perform, in the ways we, or maybe I, can be overlooked. Made to blend in with the background or be ignored as part of the scenery.
Still hiding behind that sketchbook, only this time, it’s canvas?
Irked, I wrap up the rest of my shift, slamming through the clean-up and checking my phone for updates on Mel’s progress. It’d been hours. For a while, things stalled, but then there was a photo.
Two tiny bundles of joy, one wearing a blue hat and the other wearing pink.
Ryan’s caption reads: “Meet Jolie and Jaxon. Healthy, happy, and with great lung capacity. Mama’s doing great! We couldn’t be more in love.”
Then, the slew of congratulations comes through, and I add mine into the mix.
Tonight, I’m closing shop early. Things have been quiet, and with the art walk coming soon, paint-and-sip classes are on hold.
I’ve got one final painting to finish. The woman and the forest. It’s not for the art walk; it’s for Mel and Ryan.
Come over. Bring your paints.
Before I can think about it too much, I pack up my paints, grab my canvas and easel, and lock up. I’m across the street and in front of his door minutes later wondering what the hell I’m even doing.
A couple of weeks ago, I dumped ice-cold pumpkin spice on the man and invited him to paint with me. Now, I’m knocking on his door because some part of me latched onto you deserve to be seen. Fully.
Apart from my sisters, who’ve wholeheartedly embraced me, no one sees me. No one notices.
Or at least, not until Colby.
The door opens, and Colby stands there in a gray Henley, dark-wash jeans, and bare feet.
“Hey,” he says, propping the door open and reaching for the canvas and easel in my hands. Behind him, Dulce leaps from her bed and comes skittering over the hardwood to greet me. “You know, I realize you know my coffee and tea preferences, but I don’t know yours. What do you like to drink?”
“Tea sounds lovely, thanks.”
He motions for me to enter, props my work along one wall, and disappears around the corner into the kitchen.
I kick off my shoes, hang up my coat, and unwind my scarf. Dulce presses her paws to my thighs, starving for attention as I stare at his bare feet and scratch her behind the ears.
For some idiotic reason, it hadn’t occurred to me how domestic and intimate it would feel coming into his space.
His very masculine space. Everything is in polished dark wood, glossy surfaces, sleek gray, white, and black. Monochrome. There’s no art on the wall, just writing awards framed in black and an enormous bookcase dominating the open layout.
Row upon row of books are slotted in there with a few trinkets on display, and there’s no sign of a TV. Just a couple strategically placed speakers pumping out sensual, moody music.
Candles line the tiny shelf running along the window, and sitting amid the scattered papers is what looks like an ancient typewriter.
“Were you writing? Did I interrupt you?”
“I was just getting myself set up to work, but I guess you’re going to need more light.”
If I’m working and not stripping down to my skin, yeah.
“Yeah, more light would be good.”
“I’ve set something up for you here,” he says, reappearing with a cup of tea, which he hands me. “Follow me.”
“You write on a typewriter?” I clutch my bag full of painting supplies and tread after him. “Isn’t that a little old-school?”
He glances back at the table, then smiles at me so those crinkles appear at the corners. “Hey, if it’s good enough for Hemingway, it’s good enough for me.”
“Seriously? You think that highly of yourself?”
He laughs. “No, I’m kidding. It’s just harder to edit while on a typewriter, so it forces me to keep moving forward instead of looking back.”
The way he says it makes it sound like a confession, and I’m not sure we’re talking about writing or creating art anymore.
As we turn a corner, Dulce’s toes tapping against the flooring as she follows, I spy a splodge of paint on the wall. Just tester spots in muted grays and whites with one tiny spot of turquoise slapped on like an afterthought.
“You know, you have a good amount of space in here. It all fits your whole… author vibe, but it could do with a bit more color.”
“You think so?” He stops in front of a darkened alcove and reaches in for the light switch.
“Yeah, I do. Nothing big, just—” I break off on a gasp as bright white fills the space, and I see the walls awash in color.
A rich, velvety eggplant color that perfectly complements the painting dominating the wall in an ornate silver frame.
My painting.
The one from the alumni showcase with the anonymous buyer.
“It was you,” I whisper, stepping into the room and letting my bag slip from my shoulder. “You were the anonymous buyer.”
“I didn’t know this was yours when I saw it. I only knew the artist lived in Wintervale, and this image moved me so much, I stood in front of it for hours. Then I had to have it.”
“Why?” I turn to him, eyes wide and heart thudding against my ribcage.
“It spoke to me. The way the woman rises from the mountain, half in shadow, half in light. She’s nearly invisible, but she’s crowned by the moonlight.
And there, in the reflective surface of water, she’s reframed as regal.
” His voice goes tight, husky, like he’s trying to hold his emotions at bay.
“There are two halves to her—a before, and an after, and I don’t know which is which.
But at the time I saw it, this divide is how I feel about myself.
There’s the me from before Margot died, and there’s the me after. ”
“Oh,” I breathe, aching as I blink back tears.
“Don’t you see yourself in that painting? How you paint in the stillness of the night, evolving into visibility and on the verge of putting your work on display? Ready to be crowned, to take ownership—to be known wholly as Danielle fucking Fan, artist. Not anonymous Fanny from Wintervale.”
I laugh, swiping at the water in my eyes with one hand and setting my cup of tea down on a small side table.
I’ve never had someone read me so cleanly, see me so clearly, and I shake my head.
“I think most people think it’s just parts of Montana, recast in feminine form.”
“Those people have no imagination. It’s more than that. You know it, and I know it.”
“Why did you buy it?”
“Because this was the first thing I laid eyes on that made me see color again in two years.”
He doesn’t say her name, doesn’t bring up the accident, but he sets his cup next to mine and takes me by the hand. Somewhere in the distance, I hear Dulce pad back to the main room.
Slowly, he spins me so I can see the easel in the corner already set up and waiting.
“I thought I was making this space for me, but it turns out, I think I was making it for you. You’re the first person I’ve seen in full, living color, and you make me want to live that way, too.”
I turn to face him and lift my gaze to his. There’s a warm, heady feeling buzzing in my body, and I tremble with it.
“Colby…”
He steps up, cups my cheek. The blue of his eyes glimmer like sapphires when he brushes a thumb over my lower lip.
“I want to kiss you, Dani. May I?”
I lean into his touch and wrap my fingers around his wrist. The steady beat of his pulse anchors me in the moment, and I decide to do what he’s urging me to—to own this and to reach for what I want.
Him.
“Yes.”
And then his mouth descends on mine, and my whole world goes up in fireworks.