Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Grace was grateful for a distraction the next day, after she’d spent hours replaying that moment in the cave, reliving every second when Rafael’s lips had been on hers, every smile and lingering glance.
As desperate as she was for things to go back to normal between them—for Alma’s sake, for her own—she hadn’t been able to resist him when they were in such close proximity, talking of lovers and art.
She needed to get it out of her head. Thankfully, she’d invited all her students for a little field trip to an artsy café in the city center where she’d be able to concentrate on something else for a few hours.
It wasn’t a mandatory event, and except for Marco and his mother, she was unsure how many would show up, but when she arrived on Thursday evening, she was surprised to find that eleven other students had come, which she considered a miraculous turnout.
The café walls were covered in pieces from local artists with no consistent theme or style.
There were landscapes and portraits and fantastical images of angels and demons.
It was a lot to take in, but her students seemed excited to wander around and view all of it while they chatted.
“I honestly never cared that much about art,” her student, Elyse, said as Grace joined the class at a counter-height table. “But now I’m intrigued. I know there’s still so much I don’t know, but I like to look at it, at least.”
Grace smiled. “That’s really the only qualification you need. An appreciation for the work.”
Grace chewed the tip of her thumbnail and looked up at the small sketch she’d been admiring on the wall.
It was a little drawing of the Alhambra in pencil.
She tried not to think of the day she’d spent there with Rafael.
No, she was not supposed to be thinking of him.
She’d basically attacked him with her mouth after saying they should just be friends, and everything was too confusing.
She’d already had her heart broken once this year. She needed to keep her mind on the art.
“Hola, Profesora,” Marco chirped cheekily from where he stood on the other side of the table, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “This is my mother, Lucia.”
Grace stuck out a hand to the woman hiding behind Marco. She was petite and shy, her big eyes peeking out from behind shaggy dark bangs. Her resemblance to Marco was entirely evident in the shape of her face and her button nose. He even had her little chin dimple. “Encantada, Lucia,” Grace said.
Lucia simply nodded, her lips pressed together.
“I made her bring pictures of other paintings,” Marco said, rocking on his feet. “There were some I’d never even seen before, and they’re so good. At least, I think they are.”
“Oh, I would love to see them,” Grace gushed, trying to sound as friendly as possible. She could tell Lucia was uncomfortable.
Marco whipped out a tablet from his bag to pull up the images, and Grace gave Lucia another reassuring smile. Of course, it must be terrifying to share your work with a stranger, especially when it seemed that Lucia didn’t really share her work with anyone anymore.
“This was a long time ago,” Lucia said slowly.
When Marco handed Grace the tablet with the first painting pulled up on the screen, Grace let out a breath.
“Wow.” The word hung in the air as Grace stared at the photo.
The painting was similar in color to the other one Grace had seen, but this time it was a half-eaten loaf of bread on the kitchen table.
Once again, the focus of the piece was done beautifully, but it was the background that captured Grace’s attention.
There were blocks and other toys on the table, a chair with a sweater flung over it.
There were dirty dishes that looked like they’d been left after someone had finished eating and a highchair covered in bits of food.
Lucia’s soft brushstrokes made every object seem like it was almost glowing from within.
For a moment, Grace forgot where she was.
She felt like she was in this room. In this kitchen, at this little table.
She could almost hear it—the clinking of silverware as someone came around to clear the remaining dishes, the water running in the faucet and the happy screams of a child playing in the next room. It felt warm and real and alive.
Despite the realism, though, there was something that seemed almost like magic, something that turned a dirty dish into a relic of comfort and peace.
It was the color, maybe, or the texture of the dish.
It was the way the painting captured the angle of the sunlight and made every object look like you could reach out and touch it.
Before she was ready for him to move on, Marco reached out a finger and swiped the screen to show the next picture.
It was another still life, but it hinted so much at the motion of life, at the frantic morning that had led to this scene.
There was a pitcher of juice on the counter in the foreground and a glass with lingering pulp pressed against one side.
In the background was a stack of dirty dishes and crumpled cloth napkins.
On the other side was a pile of papers that looked like mail that was somewhat covered by a burnt oven mitt.
It was all so beautiful, Grace couldn’t tear her eyes away.
It transported her back to her childhood and life with her grandmother, to the days when Grace would be begging to go somewhere or for Gram to play cards, but she would be stuck at the sink washing dishes before sorting through the mail and folding the laundry.
“I’m so bored,” Grace would complain, not considering that Gram was doing everything—taking care of all the chores so that life would run smoothly, so she could eat and do her schoolwork without worrying about anything else.
Grace chipped in when she got older, of course, but even then it took her a long time to appreciate everything Gram had done to make her comfortable, to be her parent.
Grace’s mom was living with her boyfriend, dropping by every couple of weeks to kiss her daughter on the head and tell her she was pretty.
Grace’s dad was MIA most of the time, off on another bender.
But Gram had stepped up and loved her so well.
She’d been there for her until the last moment, and even when she was sick in bed, it was Grace who Gram had worried about.
Alma and Raf might have teased her about saying thank you too much, but with Gram, she’d never said it enough.
She could feel the tears welling in her eyes.
She started coughing just to excuse herself from Marco and Lucia for a moment and took a long drink of water while she wiped her face.
She’d been doing better lately. She hadn’t cried nearly as much, but grief was a funny, never-ending thing.
It was always there, sometimes dormant, but it could flare up in an instant.
“Sorry about that,” she said, returning to Marco and his mother. “These are amazing, Lucia. I absolutely love them, and I’m not just saying that because you’re Marco’s mom. Do you still paint?”
Lucia shook her head. “I took a lot of classes when I was young, and I loved it, but it was a long time ago. It’s easy for life to get in the way of this kind of thing.”
“I keep telling her she should take it up again,” Marco said, nudging his mother in the arm.
Lucia glanced over at him, her eyes full of adoration. “Ever since he started this class,” she said haltingly, considering each English word, “he’s obsessed with the idea.”
“Well.” Grace took the tablet in her hands again and stared at the pitcher. “I have to say, I’m inclined to agree with him.”
The rest of the evening was lovely. Grace talked with her students about art, of course, and about their classes, but also about their lives—where they were from and their families and their plans.
They asked her questions about Chicago, too, about what made her want to come to Spain, and if she did any kind of painting herself.
“I’ve tried,” she said, huffing a laugh. “It did not go well. I’m more of an observer.”
As things were winding down and students said their goodbyes, Marco approached her again. His mother had left early, claiming she wanted to let her son have a good time with his friends and his boyfriend, who had joined them toward the end of the night.
“Thank you for that,” Marco said. He chewed on his pinky nail as if he was nervous.
“For what?”
“For, I don’t know. Agreeing with me? Encouraging my mamá?
Since my dad passed, I think she cut herself off from a lot of things that brought her joy, opting to wallow in her misery instead.
She’s getting better now, I’m sure. It’s been hard for all of us, but she hasn’t picked up the things she once enjoyed.
She’s been too busy taking care of our family—my grandparents and my aunt. She doesn’t do anything for herself.”
Grace knew what he meant so keenly. She knew what it was like to try to return the favor to someone who’d given you everything, how it could never be enough. And she knew what it must be like for Lucia, too, trying to find herself and her passions again after her world had been shaken to its core.
“I hope she will take up painting again,” Grace said quietly. “I’m glad you’re encouraging her, and I‘ll help however I can. Truly, her paintings are fantastic.”
“I thought she was good, but I’m glad you do too. She’s an artist. I can’t believe I didn’t even realize it about her until now.”
Grace stared into the distance. “It’s funny sometimes—the things we miss about the people we love. She’s lucky to have you,” she said.
Marco shrugged. “I’m lucky to have her.”
“Yeah.” Grace smiled. She was happy for Marco in a way that swelled up in her chest until it hurt. “You’re both lucky, I think.”