Five
The bang of the side gate told her it had begun. León was moving his stuff in.
Celia leaned against the wall in her hallway, arms crossed, hanging back to peek at León and Andrew as they carried boxes into the pool house. The coolness of the wall against her temple steadied her bones with its solid support. Her home, her bastion, wasn’t changing. Just her backyard.
She wasn’t freaked out. This was fine. She’d invited him.
The faint rumble of the sliding door on the pool house punctuated every trip the men made. Big canvases walked into the pool house, seemingly on their own, backs turned toward her so she couldn’t see if they were painted or bare.
He would teach her how to paint.
A smile sneaked past her misgivings, faintly touching her lips.
Even though it was scary, I invited him. Good for me.
She turned and slipped back into the seclusion of her bedroom. There was no reason to hover while they worked.
Good or not, it felt weird. Maybe she’d stay indoors until she toughened up and got used to the weight of eyes on her from this new direction. It would be hard to find time to swim, but León wouldn’t be here every minute, right?
She just needed to stay busy. Was there anything to do until Tuesday? A drawer that needed organizing, a rug to be cleaned, or…why was there never anything to do in this house?
Cooking was tempting, but they could see her in the kitchen if they looked. Besides, she had only herself to feed until mid-week. She needed something to lock her away in a room for days.
She’d just have to clean something that didn’t need it. Something big. A whole room, probably. Her craft room would do. She hadn’t gone through it in a month, anyway.
The floor-to-ceiling reorganization took her through the first night and into the next evening.
Her mother called twice, deflating her with complaints, but she used her tools to forget—label maker, drawer dividers, little white hooks one could hang anything from.
The third morning dawned.
Tuesday.
Common, ordinary Tuesday. Celia drank tea, watched Kelsey and Andrew exchange gifs in the group chat, and stiffly tamped down her anticipation each time it flared up. Except for neglected cups of tea going cold and her phone screen blanking out when she stared too long, it was just another day.
She didn’t dare care about this. She didn’t dare not care.
Poor León, coming in to teach her when she was wound tight.
She’d already laid her supplies out very carefully in the craft room, prepared with acrylic paint from other projects, a tabletop easel, and a stack of cheap painter boards. She’d opened a fresh pack of brushes. Two water glasses, in case one got dirty quickly, some rags from the bin.
She cooked to distract herself. Potato soup was quick to throw together and easy to leave on a simmer.
Staring into the pot of soup got old too.
Fine.
She stole into the craft room, admitting her impatience. It was early—but not too early—to practice. She could at least show León that she knew how to mix colors.
She settled on painting an apple. Her gradients and shading weren’t flawless, but they were precise. It was very round, red, with a shadow on one side and a highlight on the other, just like she’d made in her beginner class. The apple didn’t look much like art.
She probably shouldn’t have her hopes up like this.
She brushed off the depressing thoughts her basic apple had engendered. This could be the baseline, something to measure her new skills against. It had a place if only to show how much improvement she made in the future. And she would! She was ready to learn.
Celia vowed to put herself fully in León’s hands.
She heard the sliding door open at noon and stuffed her excitement down as hard as possible so he wouldn’t know how ridiculous she was.
“I’m in here,” she called. The room seemed smaller, the walls leaning in at her. Oh lord, this was it. She wasn’t ready.
He followed her voice into the craft room. “You have a space to paint in here? Oh, good.”
She turned to respond.
Oh my.
No hoodie for once. His worn white pants and shirt were covered in smudges of every color. His hair was tied back, but locks had come loose and been thoughtlessly pushed behind an ear. He had an orange paint smudge on his temple and yellow on his neck. He looked like a real artist.
This was a mistake. She’d be wasting his time. He’d be judging her amateur attempts with professional eyes.
Those eyes were as dark and eager as ever, scanning the supplies she’d prepared, her washable clothes, her face. He’d shaved at some point, but new black stubble framed an easy, cheerful smile.
She swallowed hard instead of smiling back and saw his expression falter.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re nervous. That’s fine. We’ll use that.”
How could he tell things like that? Could everyone tell, and just not say anything?
“I’m not nervous,” she said. “And how would we use it?” She picked up a long-handled paintbrush to turn in her hands.
León chuckled. “My dad used to come into my room and yell at me when I had trouble painting. On purpose. All so I could paint about the injustice of tyrannical fathers.”
“That sounds awful.”
“It worked, though. Strong emotions are easier to paint.”
He looked past her at her apple. “I see you know some basics. We’re not doing technique today, though. We’re going to paint a story, not objects.”
She was never going to be able to do that.
At her silence, he reached out and gave the end of her paintbrush a playful tug. His hands had paint on them, too, orange and amber. Celia saw with surprise that she had red paint across her own knuckle.
She would try. She had to.
She stepped aside and let him approach her supplies.
He started filling her palette with colors in quick, practiced motions. He handed her a brush, then stepped back, letting her approach the fresh canvas board. Then, backing off, he stood a short way behind her. Maybe a little too close.
“You’re nervous. Excited.”
She took a deep breath, looking at the canvas and not at him.
“Yes,” she admitted. It was hard to say.
“It’s a good strong emotion. Which of those colors seems the most nervous to you?”
She looked at her palette, feeling a tiny bit of panic rise. What color represented nerves?
“Faster, Celia,” he barked quietly.
His near voice made her jump. She pointed at the yellow.
“Why yellow?” he asked.
“Lightning is yellow, that’s like being nervous.”
“Lightning is usually blue and white in nature. It’s only yellow in kids’ drawings.”
She hesitated, then pointed to the blue. “So, blue?”
“Why blue?”
“Because you….”
“Close your eyes,” he said. Celia complied. “How does your body feel right now?”
Feel? Lord, she was failing at everything he asked. “I’m not sure how to answer.”
“Hot? Cold? How do your hands feel?”
“My hands? They’re normal. Maybe a little cold?”
She could hear him move behind her, then felt fingers on her wrist. She opened her eyes to stare straight ahead, trying to not stiffen up.
“You feel a little hot, a little damp,” he said.
“So…red?”
He chuckled behind her. “We’ve got work to do here,” he said, removing his hand. “Okay. Let’s start at the absolute beginning. You’re going to paint yourself on the canvas, but all you can do is make colored lines.”
His hand reached toward her canvas board, the only part of him visible from behind her, describing in the air what he wanted her to do.
“The lines can go up and down, side to side, curved or angled, but no objects, no circles or squares. Pick any color, no judgment, and make a line to represent you at this moment.”
Deep breath. Red was the last color mentioned, so she went with it. A little hot, a little damp. A single straight line, up and down, in red.
“Good. That’s you, right here, right now. Clean the brush, please.” She followed the direction. “Now, let’s make your line nervous. Pick another color. Yellow is fine, whatever color you feel is best.”
She hesitated, then went for the blue. He’d said blue for lightning. She felt rather than heard him sigh faintly behind her.
“Let’s make a nervous line,” he directed. Celia hovered the brush near the canvas but went utterly blank. “Do you feel nervous in your whole body, alongside the red line? Does it cut across your line? Does it zig zag? Is it a lot of little lines?”
The last one sounded the closest to what she imagined nervous might look like. She painted shorter blue lines, cutting across the red line, slanted upwards.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said, voice warmer. “See how nervous might look? Cutting into you? It breaks up your shape, like feeling nervous can break up your body.”
Relief. He approved.
What next? She waited, but he left her hanging, saying nothing. The tip of her brush trembled, and she focused on stilling it as the silence grew uncomfortable. What was he expecting from her?
“What should I do?” she finally asked.
His voice behind her was calm, giving no clues. “What feels right?”
Hell.
She cleaned the brush, stalling. What felt right? What did that even mean? With no cues about what else to do to her line, she slowly mixed an orange and drew another straight line to the left of the red one.
“And what is that?” he asked.
“You,” she explained. “You’re making me nervous standing back there, so I put you in it.”
“Why am I orange?”
Um. “It’s the opposite of blue.”
“And why am I the opposite color from nervous?” His voice sounded amused.
“You’re not supposed to make me nervous,” she explained. “I mean, I should be the opposite of nervous because you’re trying to help me.”
“Actually, I’m purposely trying to keep you a little nervous.”
Like he had to try.
“Well, then…I’m red, and you’re a person, so you’re orange, which has red in it.”
“You’re getting literal again.”
Ugh! Without cleaning her brush, she dipped into the black and painted a thick line across the top of the orange.
He chuckled behind her. “What’s that strong line about?”
She breathed out hard. “I ruined it.”
“No,” he said low, leaning in, “you painted that for a reason. That’s good! So, why?”
“I….” Why had she done it? “I don’t understand what you want, so I crossed you out.”
He laughed. He wasn’t mad?
“That’s legit!” he said. “That could be fear, or frustration, or anger at me for not being clear.”
Fear, maybe. She didn’t do anger.
“Are you still red?” he prompted. “Do you have other colors?”
She motioned as though she’d clean the brush again, then changed her mind and added a black line near a blue one, crossing her.
“I’m crossing myself out for not getting this.”
“Sure, frustration can be in more than one place.”
She drew a breath, cleaned her brush, and chose a yellow, stroking it over the orange just to the side.
“I’m yellow now too?”
“You’re encouraging me, it makes me less nervous. So, you’re not as scary.”
“And why yellow?”
“I like yellow.”
He laughed, and a slight chuckle rose up in her too. This wasn’t remotely like her old classes, but she could begin to see what he was expecting.
He finally came to her side and took the brush and palette from her. “Look at what you did. You told a story on the canvas about emotions.”
She looked at her rudimentary primary colors. It looked like a child’s drawing. Worse even. Just lines.
She glanced sideways at him, and he flashed a reassuring smile.
“Okay,” he said, “it’s not going into a gallery, but the important thing is what it represents. Especially this.” He pointed at the black. “That was spontaneous expression. That’s a good thing.”
She smiled weakly.
“This is your study,” he continued. “You made a sketch of where the painting might go. I will interpret your sketch using technique, so you can see what it might look like complete. If it were me painting it, of course. Your style will be different.”
He put another canvas board on the easel from the stack she had ready, then cleaned her palette knife. He quickly mixed colors and swiped a slightly curved slash of red down the board, another one in orange and yellow, then added teal and charcoal slashes going upwards across them.
The difference was astounding.
“But it’s so professional!” she said. “That could be a real painting. Almost like Japanese calligraphy.”
“Does it look nervous?” She shrugged weakly. “What might you think it represents?”
“Energy? Movement?” she ventured.
He leaned in. “Calm energy?”
“No, not calm. Definitely not calm.”
He set down the tools, turning to look at her. “You just made your first abstract painting, telling a story about emotions you felt.”
“Well, you did.”
He shook his head, tucking loose hair behind his ear again. A smudge of red was added to the orange already there.
“I just interpreted your story,” he said. “You’ll get to that stage soon enough. For now, let this sink in a bit. Think it over.”
She looked up at the clock, shocked to see how much time had passed. It had seemed like minutes. Done already? It had been hard, but she liked it. She wanted more.
···
León smiled at the dismay painted so blatantly across her face. Expressions! She’d done better with those than he expected.
She was obviously practiced at keeping her face still and slipping into shadows, but her body reacted against her will. He’d quite enjoyed all her tiny gasps and shivers as she painted, keyed up and distressed. The delicate rosy flushes along her neck as she struggled to put those feelings into the brush were enchanting.
He’d enjoyed the lesson more than her—that was clear. He’d give her a break.
“Should we switch gears? You’ve been nervous for long enough. What if we try recognizing emotions?”
She stiffened immediately. That social anxiety of hers must be hell.
What relaxed her? He thought back. Drinks. Food.
“But first,” he said, “I’m a little hungry. Do you have anything made?”
She turned to him and melted, simple and artless, every tense line softening in subtle relief. The sight was fascinating. Her face tipped up to his, baring her neck just the slightest bit. It transformed her.
“Do you like potato soup?” she asked.
He grinned and held out a hand toward the door.
The process of serving the food calmed her. She was much more relaxed by the time they each had a hot cup of soup before them, sitting at her kitchen island on the tall stools. He asked how she’d made the soup, meaning to disarm her, but her enthusiasm about the process beguiled him instead. She glowed as she explained.
No wonder she liked feeding everyone when they came over. All that planning and skill, genuinely enjoyed, needed to be shared. She acted like she rarely got the chance.
“Okay,” he said, pushing away his empty cup. “I’m not thrilled there are feet in there, but it tastes good.”
Her smile was nearly merry.
“Thank you,” she said, twisting her fingers together, looking down at them in her lap. “You’re being very nice.”
“All a part of the service.”
She didn’t look back up. “No, I mean being kind, asking to eat. You didn’t have to do that.”
Kind? His own cheeks felt a little warm. “Well. You were sort of wound up, weren’t you?” She nodded. “You spend a lot of time wound up, I think.”
Her shoulders tensed, but she looked up at him. Her face was slipping back to serious.
“I do okay,” she said.
He shook his head. “I want to teach you something I do. It can help.”
Her shoulders straightened, at once eager and tense. “Help paint?”
“Help everything. Here, stand up.”
As she stood, he reached out, positioning them across from each other, one arm’s length away. He dropped his hand, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and went still. Finally, he exhaled, and his shoulders dropped.
“You did this the other night,” she said, voice soft. “Before you started painting.”
“I do it a lot,” he agreed. “Now, follow along. Close your eyes. Relax. Tranquila.”
“What does that mean?”
He peeked through slitted lids, checking what she was doing. Her eyes were closed, her shoulders down, but she wasn’t trying. “It means ‘be calm.’”
Her brow furrowed, not tense but concentrating. Jesus, no one should have to work so hard just to feel! In his family, emotions had been so rampant that the struggle was to keep them from boiling over.
“Think of a calm place,” he said. “Do you have one?”
Her brows furrowed in thought. “Floating in the pool at night, I guess?”
“You swim at night?”
“Sometimes.”
Getting off track. “Fine. Imagine you’re in the pool. How does that feel?”
“I….” Light anxiety crossed her face, and she stopped.
Great. Celia needed to be led step by step. “I’ll help. You’re floating. It’s dark. You’re alone.”
Her face softened. When concentrating on a task, her defenses seemed to fall away. It soothed his irritation. Maybe she could do this.
“How do you feel? Warm or cold?” he asked quietly.
“Warm.”
“What do you hear?”
“The water, lapping.”
He paused to let her really imagine it, watching to see how long she could go before thinking. When she fidgeted, he leaned in.
“Is there a scent?”
Her face lifted lightly. “Chaparral.”
“What do you see?”
“Stars. Palm trees.”
“Your breaths are slow,” he said softly. “Your heart is quiet.” She nodded, lips barely parting. “Do you feel—”
Her phone chimed.
She startled along with him, opening her eyes and pulling the phone from her pocket. Without looking, she rejected the call and put the phone on the counter.
“Sorry,” she said.
“It’s fine. Shake it off. We’ll—”
The phone sounded again, louder now that it was out.
“Do you need to take that?”
She looked down, away, jaw tight. “Sorry. One minute.”
Her fingers moved over the phone, and she retired with it toward the couches.
“What?” she answered. “I know. I know. The mechanic’s number is in the binder I made you. Did you call them?”
Too bad about the distraction. She’d been getting the hang of it.
“They’ll pick the car up and bring you a loaner, Mom. It’s all covered.”
She’d turned partly away, phone hidden from him, but a bright red spot bloomed on her near cheek.
“I am helping! This is what the binder is for. You just call.”
Her breath came faster, and a muscle in her jaw jumped as she ground her teeth. There was no way she could miss these signs of emotion in her body! León grinned, stepping closer.
As she turned glassy eyes to him, he patted his cheeks, then pointed to her.
“Red,” he mouthed happily.
She stared, bewildered.
“Hot,” he whispered, touching the back of his fingers briefly to her cheek.
Mouth falling open, she touched where his fingers had brushed. Then, she lowered the phone slowly.
“Just feel it,” he whispered, his hands gently rising and falling with her breaths. Her rapt hazel eyes didn’t close. He exhaled and lowered his shoulders.
“Tranquila,” she whispered back, then copied him. Her breathing slowed, and her cheeks faded. As her eyes softened, another of those shy, pretty smiles slipped out.
“Celia Rose!” The voice from the phone was audible to both. She stiffened again and raised the phone back to her ear.
Damn, she’d been getting it.
“Oh no,” she said, her voice suddenly anxious. “LA is too long of a drive for you. And I have other plans.” She frowned ferociously. “I’m going out of town for a few weeks.”
She was?
“No, I’ll be forty-two.” Her face was aflame again. “Forty-two, Mom.”
She’d never sounded so assertive in front of him. Nice to see she had it in her.
“You can try, but I don’t think there’s cell service where I’m going.”
Maybe he shouldn’t be standing here listening.
“I will have a great time. Goodbye!”
Celia ended the call, breathing hard, then turned wild eyes back to him.
“What are you feeling right now?” he asked, elated for her.
She scanned the room, round eyes searching as she ignored his question.
Maybe now wasn’t the time. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You were on the phone. I just got excited.”
Shaking her head, she closed her eyes, her hands clenching tight. Her face drained of expression, going wooden.
Ah, that was too bad.
“I should get some cleaning done,” she said.
He nodded, seeing the familiar blankness solidify its hold on her.
“I’ve got laundry, I think,” she said. Her eyes were shuttered, shoulders as tense as he’d ever seen. “Do you have any clothes you’d like washed?”
Really? One distracting phone call and she was back to her poker face? Teaching her to paint was going to be a slog, worse than he thought. He didn’t have time to break through all that armor.
“No, I’m good,” he said. “See you in a few days, I guess.”
He left her standing where she was.