Chapter 19
I’ve heard it can take years to build a clientèle on FroggoDoggo, but my business is humming along.
One of the nicest parts of walking these pooches is that I am getting a really good feel for this smart, surprising little town.
A walk with Johnny the terrier is how I discovered the contemporary art museum.
I don’t know how there is a museum right on the beach in La Jolla.
I’m no art lover, but I love a good view of the ocean.
I came in after Johnny’s owner canceled last week and returned a few days later to ascertain if there were any comfortable reading chairs. There are; I picked out a favorite, and today, my day off, I intend to enjoy.
“Admission for one.” At the ticket counter, I hand over my debit card.
The docent looks at me with raised eyebrows but takes my card. “Ninety-six dollars even.”
“Excuse me? I thought admission was twenty for residents.”
“Which you’ve paid twice in the last week. I know a regular when I see one. Buy the membership now, dear. Save us all some trouble.” She winks at me.
“But I’m not into the art. I’m here for the view. And…” And the company. It’s nice to enjoy a book with the hushed voices of other patrons in the background.
“And now you can come for the view year-round. No food or drink in the museum, dear. We close at four.”
“Thank you.” I shove my coffee cup into a bin before entering the galleries.
I am not a museum person. I do not have time to wander aimlessly around and think introspective thoughts. Because, hi, I’m working my tail off, and besides…it’s a boring, yuppy pastime for people who wear berets and dress exclusively in black.
But staying at home all weekend not thinking about who lives on the other side of my fence isn’t an option. Especially with the construction noise. Especially after what I said in the car.
I find my favorite chair facing the Pacific and pull out my Anne Perry cozy.
It will be a glorious afternoon. I’ll read my book.
I’ll pick up a to-go order of stuffed French toast from La Jolla’s most iconic restaurant, The Cottage.
By the time I grab my favorite dip and chips from the corner market on my walk home, Mike will be off to work at Superhero Escapes, and I’ll enjoy a quiet evening where I eat myself silly on my private patio while deciding which season of Starship Cruiser to rewatch. An all-around marvelous day.
“Beatrice Hero McKinney. What a surprise.” Mike, of course, is smiling down at me. “I didn’t peg you for an art lover. But I didn’t peg you for any kind of lover. Of anything. Or anyone.”
I don’t look up from my book. “How many times did you practice that line in your head? Did you have to write it down on paper first?”
His finger brushes against the membership lanyard hanging out of my bag. “I’m happy to be proved wrong.” He takes the empty seat next to mine. “Do you have a favorite piece here?”
“No. I come for the view. Since I don’t have one at my place.” It does grate that he has such amazing views, and never, not once, do I hear him outside enjoying them. Just endless hammering and sawing.
“But you must have walked through the galleries to find this chair, and something had to have caught your eye.”
I pointedly turn the page of my novel and settle further into my chair.
“This is one of the premier contemporary art collections on the West Coast, and you’re telling me you haven’t bothered to look at any of it? You just fell into the first chair you saw with your sad dime paperback?”
I squeeze my book just a little tighter but don’t look up.
“This museum has only recently reopened. It was closed for renovation for nearly a decade. There are people who are dying to see this art again, and you don’t even bother to look.”
I aggressively dog-ear my page before I put my book down and glare at Mike. “What are you even doing here, Mike? You lonely? Is looking in the mirror all day getting dull?”
“I’m meeting a friend, actually.”
“Oh! That’s precious. It takes a special person to have an imaginary friend as an adult. Tell me all about him. Is he a three-inch fool too?”
“She is charming, completely real, and an art lover.”
I snort derisively.
“What’s so funny?”
“Modern art. It’s a joke.”
Mike considers. “Sure. Surrealists had fun with that sort of thing. Very tongue-in-cheek. Not so dark as the dadaists. Still absurd, but more whimsical, humorous.”
I’m annoyed that he’s so articulate. “Not like that. It’s a money-laundering scheme. Anyone can throw paint at a canvas. I can throw paint at a canvas. I can hang up a blank canvas. I can sit at a piano and not play a note. I can tape a banana to a wall.”
“But you didn’t.”
I roll my eyes.
“They did, and they got you talking about it. Lavender Mist. White on White. 4’33”.
Comedian. All great art created by talented artists who started a conversation.
Roll those pretty blue eyes all you want.
Once you experience them in person, you’ll get it.
Especially Lavender Mist. It’s worth a trip out to the National Gallery of Art in DC just to see it. ”
“You are more desperate than I thought if you’re already dropping hints about weekend getaways. I wish I could lie and say I’m flattered, but really I feel like throwing up a little just thinking about it.”
“Mike!” A gorgeous woman with the most beautiful goddess braids I’ve ever seen throws her arms around Mike and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I had a meltdown outside. You didn’t tell me they have an Andy Goldsworthy.”
Mike winks at me as he hugs this woman. “It’s awesome, right?”
“It’s everything! I cried off all my mascara.” She pulls away and smooths Mike’s shirt. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No worries. I was catching up with Bea here.”
Her eyes light up when she sees me. “Who is this?” she squeals. “OMG. Introduce me!”
“Monique, this is my neighbor, Beatrice McKinney.”
“Hi. Bea.” I rise to shake her hand and try not to focus on how perfect she is, or how tiny her waist is.
Or that twinge of annoyance at how casually she’s touching Mike.
Because who would touch Mike that way? Not me.
Because I don’t want to touch Mike that way.
I don’t want anything to do with Mike outside of the pages of fiction.
“Bea, this is my friend Monique. We’ve known each other since—”
“Since forever. Since before the move to Texas. Hi! It’s so great to meet you! And a fellow art lover! All my other friends make fun of me. Tell me this is pretentious, bougie nonsense. But hello, how can you teach art therapy if you don’t practice what you preach?”
“Art therapy?” I ask.
“Yeah. Well, I’m applying to PhD programs this fall, but I’ve already fallen deep into the child psychology world.
The literature was overwhelming when it came to kids and art, and all good early modalities incorporate multisensory approaches to therapy.
Art’s a natural fit, and I’m rambling. Sorry. ”
Oh no. She’s smart, and she’s gorgeous, and she’s passionate. And I need to leave.
“You heading out?” Mike asks with a smug smile.
“No! Come with us!” Monique pleads. “I swear I’ll behave. Contemporary art is so fun, and the scope of it lends itself well to group discussions. And now I sound like a teacher.”
“No. No. I… I don’t… I can’t… I wouldn’t want… I…”
“Use your words, Bea,” Mike says. Insufferably.
“I’m not going to be a third wheel.”
Monique laughs. Full-throated. Tilting her head back. “I’m going to fix the mascara that I cried off. You convince her, Mike.” She runs off.
“I am not joining the two of you.” I shove my book into my bag.
“Why not? Monique is incredible.”
“Clearly.”
Mike tugs the lanyard with my membership out of my tote. “Didn’t think you were the jealous type, Bea.”
“I’m not.” I snatch the lanyard and pull it over my head.
“Prove it. Come with us.”
I’m in ratty jeans and an oversized sweater.
I dressed for comfort. I’m not wearing a stitch of makeup.
My hair is in a messy topknot of necessity—I’m long overdue for a wash.
And I hate—hate—that this evaluation is part of the mental calculus that I’m doing right now.
Stupid sonnets. I could have gone my entire life not knowing that Mike contained those depths.
But he does—they’re hidden away among all his cocky arrogance, but they’re there—and I hate that I find him—I mean, that part of him—attractive.
Maybe I’ll see a bit of that side with Monique and realize it’s no longer yummy when it isn’t clandestine.
Maybe this is my cure, and tonight I’ll find a way to return his sonnets, and that will be that.
He probably doesn’t even realize they’re gone.
I’ll be free of this weird push and pull. “You know what? Sure.”
“So, Mike!” Monique loops her arm around mine when she learns I’m joining them. “How’s life? How’s work? I heard you’re doing some voice acting.”
Mike shrugs it off. “Audiobook narration hardly counts.”
“It does when they want you to read all 154 of Shakespeare’s sonnets and his narrative poems.”
“Hey, speaking of,” Mike says, “did I leave my copy of sonnets at your place?”
Oh no. It’s worse than I thought. They’re serious. They’re probably secretly engaged.
“I don’t think so, but let me text Stacey.” Monique pulls out her phone, and moments later, it rings. “I’ve got to take this. Back in a sec.”
Mike and I stare at a twelve-foot-tall prismatic triangle.
“I don’t get it,” I whisper.
“You don’t have to get it. It’s still art.”
“It’s pretentious. It’s silly.”
“You’re pretentious. And silly.”
“Takes one to know one.”
Mike circles the sculpture before stopping to stand next to me once more. “Stacey is Monique’s girlfriend.”
“Oh.” I notice how the shadow of the sculpture is rose-colored on the opposite wall.
“Soon-to-be fiancée, I hope,” Mike adds.
When Monique returns, beaming, he says, “Have you asked her?”
“No sign of your sonnets anywhere.”