40. 40 - Zella
B right lights, music, people. Happiness.
It’s everywhere, so visceral I can almost see it. My fingers twitch for my sketchbook, desperate to capture everything I can see, to keep it close to me in case it never happens again.
I’ve never been as deliriously happy as I am right now, here with them.
Ryder tips another handful of pretty watercolors into my hands, and I cradle them carefully. “I don’t want to lose any!”
He nudges me over to the next stall, filled with silky bags in bright colors.
Well. It would be rude not to.
When I’m loaded down with more than I could possibly carry, Ryder confiscates my new bright pink bag, carrying it with complete confidence over his shoulder as we rejoin Enzo and Maverick. They’ve got their heads together, breaking apart as we stop next to them.
Maverick cups my cheek. “We have one more stop to make,” he says softly. “If you don’t mind?”
If I don’t mind ?
“All the stops,” I mutter, a tad feverishly. “I want to see them all!”
He laughs. “I think we’ve seen most of the stalls, but my friend has his own gallery just down from here. Want to go and see?”
I’m already pressing forward in my enthusiasm, and he grabs my shoulders, spinning me around and placing his hand in the middle of my back. “This way.”
The lively music fades as we move away from the main festival, pausing at the top of a little alleyway. My breath catches at the thousands of tiny candles flickering in the darkness, lighting a path, and I turn to Maverick. “It’s down here?”
When he nods, I take careful steps into the light, making my way down the path with them close behind me. I follow the little lights, enthralled, until we reach a brightly lit building. The candles reach all the way to the glass double doors, and Maverick pulls them open for me.
As we walk inside, I tilt my head to hear the music.
More candles flicker everywhere, making the bright space warmer and more inviting.
Only a few people move around the open space, their voices muted, and my chest tightens at the sad, somber notes playing.
Dozens of canvases fill the white walls, each one lit with a soft light.
And they all show the same two people.
“Maverick!” An older man calls out, and I turn with interest as Maverick steps forward.
The man excuses himself from the woman he’s talking to, squeezing her hand and moving over to us with his arms open.
“I’m so happy to see you,” he murmurs, as he wraps his hands around Maverick and squeezes.
To my surprise, Maverick squeezes back. His face is twisted with emotion, and he clears his throat as he steps back.
“Emerson,” he says hoarsely. “You know Ryder, and Enzo.”
“I do,” the man says, with a welcoming smile. He turns to me with an enquiring smile. “And who might you be?”
“I’m Zella,” I say softly. Emerson holds out his hand, and I take it. He cups his hands around mine, not shaking them.
“Zella…,” he says softly. Almost sadly. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“You too.” He takes another second before breaking our contact, but his eyes flick back to me as he smiles at Maverick. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
But Maverick is watching me too, his face settling into a slight frown as he shrugs. “I thought it was time. Zella enjoys art, and we came to the street festival. I didn’t want to leave without saying hello.”
“You do?” Emerson says brightly. He offers me his arm. “Please. Let me escort you around.”
When I look at Maverick, he nods reassuringly. “Emerson knows everything there is to know about art,” he tells me. “I think you’ll enjoy each other’s company. We’ll be here.”
Intrigued, I take Emerson’s arm, and he leads me to the first of the paintings. A woman in shades of green, yellow and blue, her face shadowed, cradles her stomach as she sits looking out of a window.
Emerson waits quietly as I take it in. “It’s beautiful,” I murmur. “You painted all of these?”
“I did.” We move on to the second painting. In this one, the woman cradles her child to her chest. It’s intimate, so much so that my chest tightens looking at it. “This is your family.”
Emerson pauses next to me. “You’re very astute. How did you guess?”
“The emotion,” I murmur. “There’s so much… hope. Joy, maybe? I can feel it. You’re very talented.”
Emerson doesn’t speak for a minute. When he does, I almost miss the catch in his voice. “Thank you.”
We move around the room, and I absorb the journey of his daughter as she progresses to a toddler, then to a little girl. Every stage of her life is carefully preserved in art, and the sheer love embedded in each painting makes my eyes glisten as we reach the final image.
This one… is different.
Hesitating, I turn to Emerson. He’s staring at the painting, but he’s not looking at it. He looks far away.
“What happened?” I whisper. He swallows.
“There was a fire,” he murmurs. Carefully, he reaches forward and traces his fingers softly over the face of the woman. She’s on her knees, her arms wrapped tightly around her child, her back bowed. “My wife did not survive.”
My own chest burns in sympathy, thumping, painful heartbeats. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”
He turns to me, a sad smile on his lips. “It was a long time ago,” he assures me. But now that I know, I can see it in the way he carries himself. Emerson carries his pain with him, etched into his heart, into every smile.
I wet my lips. “And… your daughter?”
“Both of them,” he says quietly. “My Aria too.”
Stepping back, I take in the room with new eyes. A journey, one brutally cut short. There are no more paintings after this one, no more memories to record painstakingly on canvas.
“It’s funny,” Emerson says quietly, and I turn to him in question, swallowing back my tears. “You have very similar eyes. Aria… she had such vibrant green eyes, too.”
He pulls a crumpled photograph from his pocket, smoothing it out before handing it to me. I take it carefully, looking down at the pale-haired little girl with the green eyes and toothy smile. Emerson is holding her, his face beaming and his arm wrapped around his wife.
My hands clench on the photograph.
A hand lands on my arm as I wobble. “Zella?” Emerson asks in concern. “Are you all right?”
Taking a deep breath, I nod, handing the photograph back. “She was beautiful.”
I try to smile, but it feels stiff on my face. When I turn, looking for my men, Enzo appears in an instant. “Prey? What’s the matter?”
They’re talking around me, and my head hurts. I hear Emerson’s apologies, and I want to tell him not to apologize, but the words are stuck in my throat, my thoughts on a panicked loop inside my head that I can’t quite catch.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I need… I need to go.”
Enzo lifts me, and then we’re moving away from the gallery with rapid steps. Maverick stays behind a moment, his legs eating up the distance between us as he catches up with Enzo’s rapid steps.
Maverick looks down at me with concern, blocking my view of the gallery as it disappears behind us. “I’m okay,” I force out. “You can put me down.”
“No.” Enzo keeps walking, and I tap his shoulder.
“Please,” I say quietly. “I can walk.”
He humphs, but slides me slowly down his body, holding onto me. I suck in the crisp night air, letting it expand my lungs as they surround me.
“Zella,” Maverick pushes. “What happened?”
Forcing a smile, I shake my head slowly. “I think… I just felt a little hot.”
Maverick feels my forehead, his own creasing. “We’ll take you home.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I had such a lovely evening, Maverick.”
His thumb brushes my cheek. “There will always be more nights like this, Zella. I promise.”