6. 6
“I
t looks angry,” Walt says. He stares at the modern painting of a local artist.
“You think?” I look at the rapid, hard brush strokes and rest my arm around Walt’s shoulders. He isn’t wrong.
“Yes,” he says, his wild brows furrowed.
“I think you’re right. See this stroke?” I say, pointing to the piece.
“It’s dark. And mean.” Walt ignores my instruction. “I do not like it.”
“Would you like to move on?”
“Yes. Songbirds.”
My piece. I started painting songbirds when Coco came home. Our sister had been adopted out as a baby—as brothers, none of us even knew she existed until she was suddenly back. But once we discovered our sister, we all dealt with it differently. We love her and feel thankful to have her home—but we also feel loss for the time we lost.
Still, the joy outweighs the pain. And I express that with songbirds. In fact, I became a little obsessed. I put out three more pieces. One found a home with Coco, of course, and the other two eventually sold. This is the piece that Lars hasn’t sold, to his chagrin.
I push Walt along slow and steady, letting him take in the other work here. There are some really beautiful pieces—works that shouldn’t just be passed by but enjoyed.
The door to the gallery opens and I glance over as if I work here. I don’t—but most of the people who come in wouldn’t believe that. I do live right upstairs.
The top of a strangely full and deformed baseball cap comes into view. The owner’s eyes are covered with dark glasses, and as far as I can tell, focused on the ground rather than looking around the gallery. The curved figure, slender jawline, and tight jeans tell me this person is female.
Turning back to Walt, I steer his chair over to the bench I happened to situate right in front of my songbirds—this way we can sit together. Lars hasn’t noticed. If he had, he would have moved it by now simply to irritate me.
“I like the colors,” Walt says. His bottom lip protrudes out, but the corners raise up in a grin. He raises his stiff arm. His thin fingers clamp together in a claw and point to the painting.
”You know, you could take it home, Walt.” I rest an ankle on my knee and peer at my friend. I”ve offered him the piece more than once.
“No. Like it here.”
“I know,” I say—and I can’t help but grin. Walt loves it here and Lars hates it. It’s almost poetic.
“Someone else wants to buy it,” he says.
“Is that so?”
“That is so,” he tells me, his I-told-you-so tone in full mode.
I laugh and, in my peripheral, notice the girl with the cap walking several feet away, staring at the angry painting Walt and I just left.
“That one is no good,” Walt tells her, though I’m not sure she knows he’s talking to her.
“Whoa. Remember, art is subjective. Everyone gets to like what they like.”
He nods and gives me a small teenager-like eye roll. “No such thing as bad,” he says, repeating my words. He huffs out a breath. “Mine is always good.”
“Well, that’s true.” I pat his shoulder. There isn’t much Walt loves more than his own watercolors and paintings.
His eyes cross to the window, landing on our wishful studio across the street.
“I know, bud. One day.”
But I”m easily distracted as the girl pulls the cap from her head and ash-blonde hair comes spilling out. She shakes her head and splashes of blue catch my eye. The girl.
It takes me a second to remember that it”s Lane Jonas, not just the girl I saw the other day. I only ever listened to The Judys first album, nothing more—but I did watch as she got the runaround by a jackweed named Patrick. I blink, clear my throat, and force myself to look away. She isn’t here so that I can make her uncomfortable. She’s here for quiet, for peace, and maybe… it’s possible… she even likes art.
The thought makes me smile—but I still look away.
“Hey, Miles,” says a friendly voice.
I turn to see Dolores, Walt’s sister, at the door.
Walt groans as I turn his chair and he sees her too. I chuckle under my breath and wheel him over, ignoring the eyes of Lane Jonas.
“So unhappy to see me?” Dolores says. “Rude.”
“We just got started.” Walt groans.
“An hour ago! Besides, you have lessons tomorrow. You’ll see Miles so soon you’ll be sick of him.”
“True,” I say, handing off his chair to Walt’s younger sister and guardian.
Another groan leaves my friend’s mouth.
“Tomorrow. Okay, bud?”
“Say bye to Miles,” Dolores tells him.
”Bye Miles.” Walt moans, and I am certain the workers from his group home are wrong—Walt can”t have the intellect of a nine-year-old because he acts just like a teenager.
Dolores starts for the door. I hop over and open it up for the pair. A man with a black jacket and dark hat has his phone out and directed at the gallery. He’s outside, but I have no problem telling him to get lost—the people in this gallery work too hard to have their work ripped off.
“Hey,” I say as he steps out of the way of Walt and Dolores. “No photography or video of the gallery. No exceptions.”
“Right,” he says, shoving the device into his pocket.
I watch as Dolores walks Walt down to the handicapped parking space. Walt’s mouth is moving while his stiff fingers lift to point to the building across the street.
I’m not sure what else I can do. Lars isn’t budging. I don’t have enough credit to take out a loan on this or any other building. I’m thinking and zoning out when I notice the man in the dark jacket hasn’t moved on. He still stares at the gallery from the outside in.
I’m not inviting him and his camera phone inside, that’s for certain.
I’m ten steps into the gallery when I peer back at him. “I’m calling Nina,” I mutter to myself. My police friend will be happy to drive by. Maybe she’ll even yell at the guy. It’ll make her day.
I move forward, ready to pull my phone out of my pocket, but blonde, tiny, and curved is parked right in front of me.
Lane.
In motion, I’m unable to stop and we collide. Her hands hit my chest, and the lip balm she’s holding tumbles out of her fingers and onto the ground.
“Shoot. Sorry,” I say, bending on one knee to retrieve the thing. I reach up to hand her the pink gloss. Lane stares down at me, tears in her eyes and a small grin on her pretty pink lips.
My hand slips into hers. Is she crying? I saw her cry on that dumb show and it broke me a little. She’d tried to be honest, to be decent, to show respect to those men. They not only derailed her but did the exact opposite: making sure she was disrespected.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
She nods and one tear falls onto her rosy cheek.
A flash from outside has me remembering my purpose. But when I stand, there are more tears on Lane’s cheeks, and I can’t quite leave her side. So, I pull out my phone right where I stand, peering down at the woman.
“Nina,” I say, “there’s some punk outside the gallery taking photos. Can you drive by, maybe scare him off?”
“I’m a block away and I’ve had zero action today. I’m on my way.” She sounds giddy with the opportunity.
I smirk out a laugh with my friend’s response. “Thanks,” I say and end the call.
My eyes find the steel blue of Lane Jonas’. Her brows knit and another tear falls. “Thank you,” she says, though I’m not sure why.
I lean in without thought or apprehension. I cup her cheek and, in a very un-Miles-like fashion, I press a kiss to this sad stranger’s forehead.
There’s another flash from a camera just before spinning red-and-blue lights shine out the gallery windows. Good. Nina will scare him away. It’s her specialty.
“Do you need a drink?” I ask, sticking with my not-so-normal behavior.
Lane blinks, her blue eyes shining like glass. “I’d love one.”