Two
Squinting against a bright hot light, León awoke in an unfamiliar room, sun pouring onto the bed through a skylight. He blinked, rasping an unshaven cheek off the pillow. Where the hell was he? Not Andrew’s, not a hotel or—wait, this was that lady’s house. Celia’s.
He breathed as last night came back to him. He’d been sick, then Andrew showed him to a dark guest room to lie down for a bit. He must have fallen asleep, and they’d just left him.
León took stock, scooting out of the bleached sunbeam. He’d kicked a blanket mostly off during the night but was fully dressed. His phone was half under the pillow. A bottle of water baked on the nightstand. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until he saw it there.
On the white dresser sat a precise array of things obviously meant for him. Towels, hair ties, a ridiculous number of medicines, and even a toothbrush new in its packaging. A small garbage bin huddled next to the bed. Someone had thought of everything.
He didn’t need all that stuff. He was fine. He wanted to leave.
He texted Andrew, hoping he’d spent the night too, but was told he’d just finished teaching his morning ceramics class. He’d be back at Celia’s soonish.
Ugh. Well, how hard could it be to kill time up here?
He huffed a sigh, then paused. Why was he so impatient?
Closing his eyes, he ran through a little mental exercise he used before painting. His art required emotional honesty, so he practiced it. What was he really feeling?
Tranquilo.Stop and be present.
He felt irritated. That usually meant he was fighting himself. On what?
Well, he wasn’t actually fine; he was embarrassed. Being sick at a stranger’s house—that was awkward. Weird and intimate. Should he apologize? It wasn’t really anyone’s fault. Probably he should start taking the shellfish thing more seriously. And Celia, there was no way she could have known.
Okay. It felt embarrassing but was no one’s fault. Hopefully, they could just shake hands on it and never bring it up again.
He felt better. He wanted to get moving.
The distant clinking of crockery said León’s host was up and about. He ventured out, following the sound.
The kitchen was as stark and bright as the guest room, the few items sitting out as white as the countertops. There were no upper cabinets, and the wall of windows and greenery outside at least softened the room a little.
Celia was on duty at her stove top, standing ready in front of a steaming teapot. She was back to giving him those serious eyes and nothing else. She’d acted human when he got sick. Was that over?
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
He hitched himself up onto a tall stool at a kitchen island wider than a pool table. “Embarrassed about last night,” he said, “but not sick anymore.”
Her wooden face allowed no reaction. It was strangely irritating.
“I owe you a huge apology,” she said, eyes steady.
“You don’t, though.”
She swallowed, and León eyes followed the motion. As her shoulders inched back and her chin tipped up a fraction, he felt his tension ease. She was good at keeping her face straight, but his craft was seeing bodies, how their shapes and movements told stories. Clearly, she didn’t agree with him about the apology.
“I’d rather we just never spoke of it again,” he said. When she opened her mouth to counter, he stepped over her. “Andrew says he’ll be up here soon.”
Silence. She looked distantly through him, once again the little queen. How subtle she was with that dismissal, glazing over as though he wasn’t there at all!
He looked her over more closely, noting a faint rosy flush rising on her cheeks, the only color in the white room. Even her clothes were a dark gray. Why all this neutrality? He opened his mouth to ask.
“Tea?” she asked, stepping over him.
Without waiting, she bent to a cabinet in the island, coming up with a cardinal red ceramic teacup. She chose one for herself in royal blue.
Surprising! Andrew had made these vibrant cups. They were clearly his style. What other colorful treasures did she have hidden away?
Celia poured steaming tea, then pushed the red cup across the island to him.
His gaze stole along her arm to the balanced little tableau she made, head bowed over the stove before her, radiant windows at her back, one hand reaching to slide the cup to him. An almost saintly figure, the light behind her a halo, her arm offering a feminine benediction.
She didn’t fit, though. There was nothing celestial about her at all. She was roundly mortal, sturdy and dressed in charcoal. Backlit ringlets of sober brown hair were turned to gilt, tendrils brushing her neck. He could imagine leaves twined in it. Her skin was burnished olive, not the bloodless porcelain of a madonna.
The moment fell apart as she turned her face from his scrutiny and straightened a knob on her stove that didn’t need it.
He breathed out. Wow.
He had to paint today by whatever means necessary.
Celia’s jaw clenched as she forced her gaze back to his and tucked her hands behind her. “I owe you a huge apology,” she said again.
Jesus, she had a speech ready! And she intended to give it too. Just look at her. “If I accept your apology, will that move things along?”
She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him. So, she made expressions sometimes?
“I put shrimp stock in the cabbage dressing,” she said. “I’d usually use anchovy paste, but I had fresh stock and didn’t think. I’m sorry for not warning you. It was irresponsible.”
His knee was bouncing. He stilled it and sipped deliberately at the tea. “And what exactly is shrimp stock?”
Her hand stole forward, fingers just touching the stove in front of her. “I simmered shrimp shells and heads,” she said, “then strained the liquid to use. It adds more flavor to a dish.”
He swallowed. “Shrimp heads. Gross.”
“It’s a way to use up scraps,” she said, showing some legitimate interest for a change. “You make stock from the bits you can’t eat, then use it in other dishes. Like, beef bones. People call it bone broth now, but it’s just stock.”
“You boil the bones?”
“Or feet. Feet are the best.”
“Feet!” His stomach stirring, León shifted on the chair and rubbed his forehead. “I want to talk about something else.”
Cheeks flushing, she looked around the quiet kitchen as though a new topic would materialize. It kept its secrets. “Is there anything I can get you?” she asked.
“Fresh air.”
He jumped down from the stool and found the sliding glass door among the other windows before she could assist, taking a few queasy steps onto her patio. The light breeze against his skin was a relief.
Forget food. Think of something else.
The tall buildings of distant downtown were brighter but harder to see. The magical sunset last night came back to him, the exact oranges and blues vivid in his mind before he realized how mundane this backyard was now. In regular daylight, it was just grass, sloping down to pool and fence and hazy view. That lawn had felt way steeper last night, a dark menacing climb while trying not to retch.
What a range in twelve hours. No wonder he was itching to paint. This yard had moods!
Hmm.
Even if the magic only happened here when the sun was low, there was room in her backyard for an easel. Certainly, more promise here than at Andrew’s. It would take a few nights if he could only paint at sunset, but he could capture something real up here.
Celia was following him out, clutching both their teacups. She stopped next to him, looking as he did at the view.
She was hard to read. Why was she so stiff? Maybe she didn’t like him. Most people liked him.
He had to ask. He had to paint.
“There is something you could do for me,” he said, “if you’re really offering.”
Her head swiveled to him, her grave eyes meeting his directly. Her hand, holding the tea to him, froze just out of reach.
“Of course I’m offering.”
“I’d like to paint that sunset,” he said. He motioned at the grass in front of them. “Here, with that view.”
Did her face soften just a bit? “You mean, right here?”
She would let him, he could tell. “If you’ll let me.”
“Of course,” she said. “Yes.”
“What if it took a few nights?”
“Absolutely.”
“This week?”
“Tonight, if you want. It’s the least I can do after poisoning you.”
Her gaze was still composed, her mouth solemn, but León thought that might be a joke. He smiled in case it was.
She looked down, saw she still held his tea, and extended it again.
He took it, then clinked his cup lightly against the one she held. A small gasp escaped her as the fine ceramics rang together like a tiny bell. Then, wonder of wonders, she gave him a small, shy smile.
A noise at the side of the house made them both look.
“Hey, no one answered the front door,” Andrew called, entering through the side gate. He was followed by a lean man a bit older than all of them. “I brought Trevor too.”
Trevor was nearly as tall as Andrew, pale-skinned with curly salt-and-pepper hair and stubble. He raised a hand to León in an easy wave but quickly glanced past to Celia, his calm blue eyes studying her through dark-rimmed glasses.
León turned back to see Celia focused on the newcomers, her face alight, relieved smile wide. She sidestepped him and bounded to greet the two men.
León chafed his shoe against the patio, looking back at the view.
···
Celia’s heart leapt at Andrew’s voice. Oh, thank goodness—reinforcements.
“You holding up?” Andrew asked Celia with a kiss on her cheek as soon as she was within reach.
She grasped his open hand and nodded, relieved but guilty. She should be able to manage her anxiety over new people without help.
León approached, crossing his arms as he drew near. He was still staring at her! His sulky dark gaze had made it hard to talk all morning.
“Sorry to miss dinner yesterday,” Trevor said, leaning in and hugging her shoulder. “The photo shoot went long last night. Did I miss anything?” His mouth twitched as he tried to hide a smile. Andrew must have told him about the shrimp debacle.
Celia looked up solemnly. “I almost killed a man, Trevor.”
He laughed. “I heard.”
Andrew threw an arm around León’s neck, hauling him into the circle. “He looks fine to me.”
León grinned. He wasn’t so intimidating next to Andrew.
“Trevor knows of an apartment,” Andrew said as he released León. “Want to drive over? You can talk galleries on the way.”
“Hell yes!” León said. “Let me grab my stuff.” He galloped inside.
“You want to come, Celia?” Trevor asked. She shook her head. “Tired from talking with someone new?”
This time she nodded. “He looks at me. A lot. It’s hard to say things when he’s staring.”
“In a creepy way?” Trevor asked, frowning.
“No, just…focused.”
“León’s a visual guy,” Andrew said. “If he’s actually leering, I’ll smack him.”
What more could she ask for?
“I could have spent the night here too,” Andrew said, straight-faced.
“You didn’t offer,” Celia said, mildly.
Hoodie in hand, León swept outside. “Let’s go! That clock is ticking!” He stopped still as all three turned to face him, then actually bounced on the balls of his feet. “But!” he said. “But! Here’s the thing. I need to be back here before sunset. Celia’s letting me paint her view.”
The three men all turned to face Celia. She’d just explained that it was hard when people looked…oh, let them work it out. She schooled her face, wiping away all expression. León’s face soured.
“So, I’m driving León’s gear up here?” Andrew asked, holding out a hand to Celia. “I’ll keep you company while he paints.”
She reached to touch his fingers briefly. He’d be inviting everyone else next.
“It’s just the easel,” León said, pulling on his hoodie. He was going to get hot in that.
“And paint, and brushes, and probably lots more,” Trevor grinned.
Andrew rubbed a light sheen from his smooth bronzed head. “Are there ribs left from last night?”
“Not many. I was going to put them in chili. Do you want that?”
“Yes!” Andrew rubbed his hands together happily. “I get dinner and my living room back!” He looked around at her pool house. “Any chance we can leave the easel in there until León gets his own place?”
Celia looked at the small glass-walled building. There was plenty of room inside. Space, she had.
“You could use it yourself to paint when León’s not up here,” Andrew added, sweetening the deal.
“No, she can’t!” León said.
“I have my own!” Celia said at the same time.
León met her eyes over their shared outburst.
“You paint?” he asked, his eyes doing that searching thing again.
Face blank!
Trevor put both hands in his back pockets. “Celia paints, draws, models….”
“It’s her art list,” Andrew said, as though that clarified matters.
Both men were enjoying León’s wide-eyed confusion.
“Fine,” León said. “I’ll bite. What’s an art list?”
Andrew leaned in while Celia clenched her teeth.
“Celia’s learning to make every type of art there is,” Andrew explained. “She’s taken most of the classes at the college by now, right?” He looked at her but didn’t wait for a nod. “I met her when she took my ceramics course.” He counted on his fingers all the different things Celia had tried. “Poetry, woodcarving, architecture, you name it.”
León shook his head, looking like he was waiting for a punchline.
“And she poses,” Trevor added. “That’s how I met her.”
“You cast me off for Kelsey as soon as I introduced you,” Celia said.
“She’s commercial. I need commercial. You’re much better as a life model.”
Okay, it was a little funny to see León’s doubtful eyebrows keep rising. So, he couldn’t see her as someone who posed nude for art classes? Guess he didn’t know everything.
“You?” His glance was frankly unbelieving.
“Yes.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, nodding slightly. “Why the art list?” he finally asked.
Unexpected question! Celia froze, no answer coming to her. León waited, eyes unwavering, and the pressure to speak built unbearably.
“I don’t know,” she finally said.
He grinned. “Bullshit.” And he kept waiting.
One heartbeat, two. No one had ever asked why.
“I’ll tell you later,” she said.
Wait, she’d said what?
Andrew gave her a pat, then turned to Trevor. “Let’s beat traffic.” They began the walk back to the side gate, and León followed after one last smirk at her.
“Hey!” he called from the edge of the lawn. Celia looked up, wary about his capricious enthusiasm. “That chili, can you leave out the feet?”
Andrew hauled him up by the scruff and hustled him through the gate, closing it behind them.
“Man, quit teasing her! Can’t you see she’s—” Their voices faded.
Finally, a free breath.
She shook out her hands, bent to touch her toes, then looked at the glinting pool. She could swim after she cleaned, exercise away her nervous energy.
Celia gathered the cups and stepped back into her kitchen.
She stopped. One cupboard door was wide open, all of her teacups on show.
León! He was the only one who’d been inside. He’d been snooping! How like a man to sneak a look but forget to close the door behind him.
He pried, he teased, he interrupted. And he stared way too much! What a far cry from her friends, who were polite and gentle with her!
But.
Celia closed the cupboard and set the used cups in the sink.
Andrew and Kelsey and Trevor knew about her art list, asked if she’d made anything good, if she’d enjoyed it. But none had ever asked why she did it. They never pried, waiting for her to be ready to confide.
Was she really going to tell León? He seemed to care about painting. He might understand.
A shiver washed down her and she closed her eyes.
Her dad, looking back from the top of a bridge, holding out a hand. “You don’t have to live like that,” he said.
She’d been eight when her dad took his life. She hadn’t been there, of course, but her imagination had supplied that image, and it stuck.
One of the two safe people in her life went away, and then the second one was no longer safe, crushed by single motherhood and rage, and Celia the only target left.
She’d stopped talking for a year or so. There had been no language for what she felt, so she gave up language, and feelings seeped away the longer they went unexpressed. At first, she was praised for being quiet. Later, when they wanted her to talk, there was a power in not speaking.
The bond between Mom and her in-laws withered. By the time Celia was old enough to have questions about her heritage, she couldn’t ask her Filipino grandparents. They’d both passed a few years after their son, and another part of her was erased.
She found ways to cope. Working hard left no room for feelings, so as she grew she worked and eventually started a little business. She could talk to clients like a normal person. She was useful.
When the wealth happened to her, it stripped all challenges from life. What was left to strive for when she could just buy everything? Without work, she was useless. She wasn’t equipped for unlimited free time with her thoughts, and her father’s gloom crept into her, bringing shame and guilt with it. She searched quietly, desperately, for distraction. Buying Mom a house six hours north took up a year, but even that task ended. Travel killed a lot of time, so she did that.
Then, the Louvre. She’d walked into the rooms of statuary, smooth nude marble bodies standing about like angels in a cemetery, but so alive. She could almost feel the warmth from some of them. She could have pinched their skin, if allowed, and felt it give.
Awe had overwhelmed her. The thoughts and feelings of artists long dead were so strong that she could hear them. That statue of a girl on tiptoe, whispering a secret, its sculptor was telling her about fragility, fear, and hope. It filled her poor, wasting heart.
Maybe art was what she was looking for! This might be her language if she could learn. Could she draw the contours and textures of her story? Dance her body awake? Weave her way backward, cautiously, into frayed feelings?
She dove back into demanding work, making her art list and taking each class, but still failed. She could learn techniques but couldn’t put her soul into the material. Her sculptures looked like clay, not flesh. They didn’t express her, didn’t shout ‘Celia’ to the world. The darkness crept back, stronger.
Why the art list?
It was that or the bridge.
Her phone chimed, startling Celia back to the present. A call. Mom. It was always her; her friends only texted in their group chat. Celia let it go to voice mail for once.
How long had she been staring at the cups in the sink? Their afterimage swam before her when she closed her eyes.
She couldn’t tell León all this. It was too much, and she didn’t have the language.