Seven
León stomped back to the pool house, angrily shutting down visions of smooth coppery angles.
He did not want to paint Celia!
Treading carefully around her anxious moods, seeing her timid doe eyes raised to him like he knew all the answers—she was too much work. Besides, teaching her took enough of his time. And even that was a risk! If he stepped wrong, and he would eventually, she could kick him out. She was trouble he couldn’t afford.
He closed the door behind him, a towel hung on the outside latch, and went straight to his latest painting, up against the tall windows overlooking Los Angeles.
It was shit.
He’d tried to show the majesty of the steel beehives in the distance, golden reflections bouncing around the basin, but the feeling wasn’t there. Somehow it just showed distance and isolation. Why?
He had to scrap this one too. He might as well be Celia trying to paint.
All right, he was grumpy because his paintings weren’t going well. He was distracted. He kept feeling Celia rattling around in that stark house, painting her repressed little apples.
Maybe going to the exhibition space with Trevor later today would clear his head.
Chafing at his lack of direction, he paced. He had the time. Why couldn’t he use it right? Maybe he should try floating in the pool at night like Celia, meditating or whatever. He hadn’t actually seen her out there once. Probably avoiding it because of him.
Why did she have to keep popping into his head?
Fine! He’d draw her! Maybe that would exorcize her and he could move on to something he actually wanted to do.
Today’s study of her was a starting place, but not what he should sketch. She was better in motion. The openness when she relaxed and turned to him during the first lesson—that had been a good moment.
He pulled out a pad and charcoal and tried to recall how she’d looked when he suggested she feed him. Her shoulders had relaxed. Her face had tipped up to his, baring her neck just the slightest bit. That slight turn, calmness in her lines, openness, warmth.
He couldn’t perfectly draw it, but at least he was working. He tore the page off and tried again.
By the time Trevor texted to say he was on his way to pick them up, he’d made at least ten sketches. They were close, but none were right. His frustration was back.
Wait, ‘them?’ Was Celia coming too? Why?
León made an effort to clean himself up. He was meeting potential exhibitors. He ought to look less scruffy. He shaved around his facial hair and pulled on a beanie. He wore his one blazer over a dark T-shirt. He really needed to get some nicer clothes.
He grabbed the printed sample cards of his work and went out through the side gate to await Trevor.
Celia came out the front door right as León reached the driveway. She was wearing a belted brown knit dress that reminded him of Andrew’s vision of her in bronze. Whatever. She looked okay.
She wasn’t going to speak, just shifting her weight from foot to foot and looking warily at the trees across the road.
“You’re coming too?” he finally asked.
She reached to fidget with her necklace but didn’t turn to him. “Trevor asked me an hour ago.”
“Why?”
Her whole body went still, and she turned stony eyes on him. “Why not?”
That dismissive way she could stare through him!
“Con permiso, mi reina,” he muttered, looking away as though watching for Trevor’s car.
“‘Excuse you’…what?”
Oh, she understood some Spanish? Well, it was LA. “Excuse me, queen,” he clarified, his voice sharper than he intended. He waited for a return challenge, but she only looked away.
Tires crunched on gravel as Trevor’s car came around the hairpin turn before her driveway. Thank god. Celia got in the passenger seat without a word. León sat in the back behind her, where he couldn’t see her.
“Glad you came out, Celia,” Trevor said. “I think you’ll like this gallery.”
If she replied, León couldn’t hear her. “What’s this showing like?” he asked. “Is it juried?”
“No,” Trevor said, “just one curator. It’s going to be a pretty big event.”
The car’s tight turns swayed León to the side, where he could just see Celia’s face, staring straight ahead.
“It’s multimedia,” Trevor continued, “covering several large rooms, with a gala on opening night. The works will only be up for two weeks, but there ought to be some deep pockets there the first night. Plenty of collectors.”
“You think I have a chance to get in?” León asked.
“Your work is good, and New York always has cachet,” Trevor said. “I’m just introducing you, though. Knowing the right people pays off. Andrew could network, but he seems content to teach. Not me. I’m going to have them calling me for work rather than having to hustle for it.”
“They already call you, Trevor,” Celia said.
“Bigger people. Vogue is going to call me,” he said confidently.
The gallery wasn’t far by LA standards, and Trevor dominated the conversation as they navigated traffic, naming people it would be handy to meet. León asked questions about framing and catalog requirements. Celia contributed nothing.
Trevor summed up the location as they drove through. They were between the Arts District and Boyle Heights neighborhood, straddling a boundary of the urban renewal battle. Handy for pulling from both populaces, León figured. The artists could ride the bus from the cheap side, and the rich could drive from wherever they lived. Up in the canyons, apparently.
The gallery was similar to that gin bar, a cavernous converted warehouse. A brilliant forest of ceiling fixtures pointed at mostly-bare brick walls. Pieces had come down in preparation for new ones coming.
As they waited for the curator, León watched Celia’s gaze wander around the space. Although she couldn’t stop fiddling with her necklace, she was wearing that deadpan mask she wore around people she didn’t know. Irritating!
A notice near the front desk advertised the upcoming exhibition, with “Last Chance” printed across it. Celia motioned at it, turning away to Trevor.
“They’re closing?”
“Oh, yeah. They’ve done well here, but there’s been opposition from the neighborhood to galleries in the area. Gentrification, you know. They’ve been renovating a smaller gallery downtown.”
“Is that why this show only runs for two weeks?” León asked, crowding forward, back into her line of sight.
“Yeah. They’ll have a longer one in their new space right away, but this show will be big. They have the whole space to fill.”
Celia’s gaze wandered over the brick walls and lofty ceilings. León watched her eyes try to light up, but get snuffed out by that damn control of hers.
“Hard to believe they”d let go of such a cool space,” she said.
The curator appeared, and Trevor made introductions. Celia listened sedately as León listed showings he’d had in New York and produced the sample cards of his best paintings. She was handed a few as they were passed around, a gentle blush rising on her chest, but her face was like stone.
Why had she even come?
Her prim silence was infuriating. She was so appealing when she opened up. She would have charmed this curator without saying a word. Instead, she looked at his cards blankly, even though he could see small telltale signs of interest. Was she even aware she was stuffing the feelings down?
To learn to paint, she’d have to break through that reserve.
León was politely invited to join the exhibition. They had space for three paintings and gave him the delivery date. He did his genuine best to respond enthusiastically. This did matter to his career.
Trevor and the curator began discussing an artist they both knew, and though León knew he should join in, he couldn’t concentrate with Celia bottling up reactions right in front of him. He bowed out of the conversation and took her by the elbow, walking her to the few hanging artworks.
“Tell me what you think of this painting,” he said, biting off the words.
That at least got an expression out of her, if only the usual doe-eyed trepidation.
“It’s nice,” she said, wary.
“No feelings about it, then?”
She glanced wistfully back at Trevor, then faced down the painting.
It was shades of white with a stripe of yellow running horizontally across it about two-thirds of the way up. Organic, like marble with a vein of gold. Simple.
“It’s cold,” she said. “Subtle. It looks like stone. The gold up high looks top-heavy, like the bottom half is too fragile to hold it up.”
He wasn’t letting her get away with that. “None of those words describe feelings.”
“I don’t know, then!” she hissed, shaking her elbow loose from his hand.
He shook his head. “Maybe this one is a bit advanced.”
“And I’m not,” she finished for him. “Fine, what does it make you feel?”
“Optimism,” he said firmly. “That shock of yellow through the neutral whites and grays is like a burst of joy, like seeing someone you love come through a door. I feel calm, relaxed, balanced, then excited because that burst of unexpected happiness interrupts the peace.”
She stared at him. “That’s the story?” Her eyes turned upon it again, doubt written across her face.
“The artist may have meant something else,” León said, “but that’s the feeling I get. The viewer is an active participant in art. As long as I feel something, it doesn’t matter what it is. But good painters, yes, they can communicate something specific.”
She shook her head, her brow furrowing. He moved her to the next one.
This one should be easier since it had a recognizable object. It was broad swipes of grays, darker at their edges, creating a mosaic look. The geometric shapes combined into the form of a chair. León instantly saw a kaleidoscopic view of reality, a mundane object viewed through a shattered lens. He felt intrigued, with a childlike curiosity about what else one could see through this new prism.
“What do you see? What does this make you feel?” He watched her face as she struggled to perform the task.
“Tiles. A mosaic. Um, it’s comforting?”
She was trying so hard. “Why comforting?”
“Because it broke, but the pieces are glued back together stronger. It’ll be okay.”
Good girl. Seeing something he hadn’t didn’t make her wrong. It just mattered that she’d found an emotion in it.
Her eyes on his were both frightened and relieved, waiting to hear that she’d done well. He turned to her.
“How do you feel right now, not about the painting, but just in your body?”
“Worried. I don’t know if I got it right.”
“No, in your body.”
She closed her eyes. Seeing her soften eased León’s temper.
“Heart is beating faster,” she said. “And I feel jumpy, too much energy.”
“Good. You’re getting better at this.”
Relief flooded her, the tension leaving her shoulders, her face thawing with the warmth he’d been waiting for. She opened her eyes again and inhaled sharply, suddenly realizing how near he stood. She stole back a step.
“Let’s do another,” he said.
She stiffened instantly. Dammit!
“What is it?” he asked.
“What is what?”
“You, tensing up for no reason. We’re just looking at art.”
She frowned. “I’m not tense.”
“You’re lying,” he snapped.
Her eyes flared with hurt.
Well, she had to hear it! “If you’re not honest about your emotions, at least with yourself, none of this will work. None of this—” he waved a hand at the paintings, “will make sense because honesty is the only thing that matters here! You have to put honest emotions into the painting, and the viewer has to be honest about what feelings they get. That’s the connection, the whole point!”
“Let go!” she growled.
He looked down and found he’d grabbed her elbow again, so released her with an exasperated noise. Her fierce little face was proof that his words were getting through, at least!
“This locking away of emotions you do,” he bristled, “I can’t tell if it’s on purpose. It’s hurting you. It’s stopping you from being…being pretty, being real!”
“Pretty!” Her cheeks flamed.
“Not pretty. Human, genuine. You have no idea how different you look when you’re being honest and open. It’s night and day!”
She lifted her chin and stepped back, putting a cold distance between them. He saw the shutters go down over her face, literally saw it.
“Our arrangement was painting lessons. That’s all! If learning how to feel out loud is part of painting, fine! But it’s nothing to you if I’m pretty doing it. I’m trying!”
She wasn’t hearing him.
“I know you’re trying,” he said, lowering his voice. “I didn’t say that right. I’m sorry. It’s not your appearance I mean. I can see the tension when you’re nervous, and when you say you’re not nervous, that’s not true.”
Her eyes flashed, her chin lifted defiantly. “You think that’s better? You’re still calling me a liar.”
“I mean…be honest. Just be more honest!”
“The opposite of a liar?”
Jesus, the edge in her voice! His hand flew wide again, and she flinched. “I don’t mean you’re deliberately lying! Or maybe you are. What do I know?”
He hadn’t meant to shout, but she’d raised her voice first! Did she want to learn from him or not?
Trevor materialized between them.
“Hey, guys,” he said quietly. “Um, what’s happening here?”
León opened his mouth to tell him, then clamped it shut. Damn.
Celia shot Trevor a glance but quickly turned her flushed and angry glare back to León. Their breaths came hard, and León realized his hands were balled into painful fists. Dogged, he returned her glower, his own face hot.
She had to understand what he was telling her. He couldn’t work with her as she was.
“Yeah,” Trevor said slowly. “So, let’s go, then.”
Celia turned on her heel for the door, head held insultingly high. ?Reina! León paced after.
The car ride was silent and tense. Trevor met León’s hard eyes in the rearview mirror too often.
“I’m not sure what you two were arguing about,” he finally said, “but you weren’t loud, not until the end. I don’t think anyone noticed.”
“We weren’t arguing,” Celia said through tight lips.
“We were, too,” León replied. “Be honest.”
And that was the end of the conversation.
León exited the car as soon as it stopped at Celia’s, gave Trevor a wave that potentially meant thank you, then slammed the car door and stalked into the backyard.
As he closed the side gate, he heard Trevor, faint but clear. “Are you okay? Is this not going well?”
León stopped. What would she answer?
“I made him mad somehow,” she said. “I’m not learning fast enough, I think.”
“You don’t have to let him stay,” Trevor said. “He can always go back to Andrew.”
Oh no, he couldn’t! León reopened the gate, then froze.
Celia was out of the car, bending down to talk through the window. That knit dress hugged the backs of her thighs, and all he could see for a moment was that lovely line down her back, hugging the lush curve of her backside, then sneaking back low under her leg. It begged to be drawn.
His breath caught in his throat.
He turned at once, heart pounding, and stomped to the pool house before they saw him. Okay. Okay, maybe he had some inspiration going here.
Hell. He might want to paint Celia.