Twenty One
“?Wepa! Celia! Celia!”
She looked up from her laptop, alarmed by the edge in León’s voice from his studio room. They raced to each other, meeting in the kitchen.
“I sold one!” He waved his phone at her.
“Oh, León! Congratulations!”
He shoved his phone in his front pocket and picked her up by the waist, beaming as she laughed with him.
“The first sale! I can do it. I can make it out here!” He let her slide back down, then planted a firm kiss on her lips, bouncing her in his arms. His elation was contagious.
“Which one?” she asked.
He sobered. “The yellow.” The bouncing stilled. “I love that one. I’ll miss it.”
“She’s going out to see the world,” Celia consoled. “Her new family will love her.”
His mouth twisted, trying to smile, but she saw real pain lurking in his eyes. Then he took a deep breath. “Worth it. I can afford a few more months out here now. Three thousand dollars, how’s that for one painting?”
Her eyes widened. “That’s wonderful!”
Afford a few more months?
He paid no rent and ate for free. He did have expenses—and pride—but she could so easily give him whatever he needed. Would he really leave if he couldn’t sell more paintings?
“I’m so proud of you,” she said, instead. “This buyer is just the first.”
“It feels so good to know someone appreciates the work,” he replied, smiling again. “I hate losing the painting, but that’s why I do it, so they can go out and be seen.” He buried his face in her shoulder. “Thank god, this is going to work.”
“The first of many,” she said, holding him tight.
He pulled away to look at her. “You’ll help me make more? I know you’re busy now, but I still need you.”
“Of course I will.”
He could stand still no longer and released her so he could jump just a little, laughing. “I’m a successful west coast painter! How do you like me now?”
“As much as I liked you yesterday.”
He returned her grin.
···
Cash could speak loudly. Celia’s financial agent liquefied millions as they made the offer to buy the warehouse. It cost six million, much less than she’d feared. She asked for two million more in a renovation account and set about choosing a contractor.
The current gallery would vacate in two weeks after its final exhibition ended. The title would take two more weeks, a month to process, but her contract let her begin applying for permits. That would save so much time.
She pored over the provided blueprints, measuring and planning. The most work would be putting in two kitchens, a large one on the second floor and a smaller one directly above it, for herself. They would go near the large windows at the front. Bathrooms and showers at the back wall would also be work but not as costly. An old dumbwaiter, shown on the blueprints, could be replaced and made useful. As construction went, it wasn’t a heavy lift.
She lined up an architect and contractor. Her calendar filled, listing the earliest deadlines she could prepare for. She wasn’t in a rush and would make sure everything was done with appropriate care, but Celia lived to organize. She hadn’t enjoyed herself this much in years.
She hummed as she cooked, danced as she cleaned. The color-coded folders aligned neatly in holders on the dining room table filled her with a lovely warmth. She indulged in a bouquet of flowers, delivered to herself, and set them behind her laptop where she could see them.
“Celia, it’s four!”
León’s voice carried faintly through the kitchen from his studio. They spent more time in different rooms now.
“Coming,” she yelled, scrambling to add a few more numbers to her master spreadsheet. The projected costs weren’t ballooning as she’d feared, even with plenty built in for unexpected setbacks. She might even spring for a grant writer early, starting the search for possible funding. That cost would go into this column—
“Celia!”
She jumped. “Sorry!” Reluctantly she saved her work and pushed back from the table. She’d been on a real roll this afternoon.
She tried to banish the plans and figures from her mind as she went to León’s room. Sitting took a different focus, and she hadn’t been as present as she could have been the last few times.
Surprised, she saw that one of her overstuffed armchairs was in the studio, ready to be posed on.
“When did you move that in?”
León’s glance at her was impassive as he poked through paint tubes. “Around noon. You really didn’t hear me moving it? I could see you through the kitchen.”
She shook her head. “I missed it. I’ll be comfortable posing, huh?”
He smiled, finally meeting her eyes. “Maybe. I hope so.”
Relief spread warmly through her chest at his smile. She began pulling off her clothes.
His blank canvas told her this was a new painting. He directed her to lounge insolently, sprawling with her arms across the back of the chair, one leg crooked over the arm.
“What are you going for?” she asked.
“Wanton, defiant, a little weary. I want eye contact in this one, please. The focus will be on your expression.”
She rolled her shoulders, getting into the right frame of mind, as he returned to his easel. He snapped a few photos on his phone before picking up the palette. He’d been doing that now that she couldn’t always sit right when he needed her.
“Okay, look at me and think about the night you painted me,” he grinned. “That’s the energy, that predatory aggression.”
“But also weary?”
“Yes, please. Like you’re considering round two.”
Their eyes met, smiles growing the longer they looked.
Focusing on eye contact was tricky, with him disappearing behind the canvas every few minutes. She froze her expression into a lascivious glare, but let her mind wander, just a little, into types of grants. He painted, but his eyes kept coming back to her face, growing stony.
“Celia.”
“Yes?”
“Emotional honesty.”
“I know!” She concentrated again, and he went back to his broad sketching strokes. So soothing, the familiar sounds of the brush against the glass, bare feet rustling against drop cloth, the scent of paint.
“I saw you in this, that night when you painted me,” he said from behind the canvas. “War paint, I thought. Now you’re a warrior queen on her throne.”
It was a soft throne. She had to remind herself not to relax back into it.
“Remember?” he asked.
“Yes.”
This would be easier once construction was started. She’d have more time then. But she still had two weeks to get through.
“There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you, reina.”
“I know.”
His voice was sharp. “You know?”
She focused her eyes. He was leaning out past the easel, looking at her darkly. Um. She hadn’t really heard him.
“I mean…I’m sorry, León, it happened again. There’s just so much to think about.”
His lips compressed to a thin line. “I’ll just paint your body tonight. Your face is too distant.”
Her eyes widened. “I don’t mean to!”
He shook his head. “It’s fine, I can do it. Just…just sit still. I can do it.” He disappeared again, brush tinkling in the water glass like an angry bell.
“This is why you have to belong to me,” he muttered behind the canvas.
She did hear that but didn’t speak. Saying no didn’t work when he was happy with her. It would just make things worse to speak up now. Instead, she focused on her pose, stomping down the urge to fidget like a guilty child.
···
“What’s that smell?” León’s shouts could definitely travel.
“Beef stew,” Celia called back, stirring by her stovetop. “Andrew and the rest are coming tonight, remember?”
He surfaced in the hallway, relaxed and loose. The painting must be going well. She glanced at the floor behind him to see if he’d stepped in any and tracked it out. He saw and checked as well, but the floor was clean.
He leaned on the kitchen island and tilted his head side to side, stretching his neck. “We won’t get sitting time tonight, will we?”
“We might, once they’re gone. Do you need it?”
“I always need it,” he said, his eyebrows cocking at her.
She grinned. “Then yes, of course. Is it still the chair painting?” The colors across his hands, gold and orange, were usually a reliable indicator.
“Yes.” He went behind her to wash his hands, then stepped up to put his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder to look at the golden batter she was stirring.
“That’s not beef stew.”
“I’m making cornbread, too.”
“Are there feet in it?”
“No. The feet are in the stew.”
He chuckled and nuzzled his mouth to her ear. “It’s nice to have you home today.”
A shiver ran through her as his breath tickled. When things were good, they were very, very good. She almost couldn’t bear the happiness that suffused her. He made her feel safe, alive…loved?
Could this be the right time to tell him? He was relaxed.
“How long has it been since we swam in the pool?” he asked. “We could get in tonight after everyone leaves. Or just you, if you want. You’ve been so busy.”
She leaned her head against his briefly. “I’d like to swim with you.”
“That’s a date, then.” He gave her a squeeze and a quick kiss on the cheek.
She watched him amble back down the hall to his room. His pulled-back hair had orange paint in it.
She loved that. She loved him.
···
At the firepit, Celia held court, explaining the details of her plan. Having everyone focused on her, listening to her, wasn’t as uncomfortable now that she had things to tell. She’d gotten a lot of practice talking to people lately.
“The kids can live there for free, at least at first. I want rents to be a last resort. I’m trying to think of revenue streams, something more stable than selling art.”
“What are you going to call it, Celia?” Trevor asked.
“Well. It’s an artist colony, really, if a commercial one. But I keep thinking about an incubator. A place where little ones can develop safely. León says it would be incubadora in Spanish.”
Andrew paused before pushing a square of cornbread into his mouth. “Why Spanish?”
“The neighborhood. I want to fit in, to be welcoming. And, I’m half Filipino. Spanish could be more a part of my life.” She looked toward León fondly. “I’ve had help with the translation of my literature. Incubadora de Artistas, what do you think?”
“It’s a mouthful.” Kelsey stretched her feet to the fire, resting her hands over her slightly rounded belly. “You could do eggs in the logo.”
Celia grinned. “No eggs! I’ve got a company ready to work on a logo once I decide on the name. I need to get moving.”
“Get moving?” Andrew asked incredulously. “Has it even been a month since you started? And you already have construction going?”
“Not until next week. But I’ve bought a lot of beds and work tables.”
Kelsey looked at Andrew. “Are you really going to teach there? What about the college?”
“I can do both for a while, but Celia will let me set my own curriculum and schedule. Can’t get that from a college. I could fit in more classes each week.”
“So, teaching is your focus now?” Trevor asked. “What about your own pieces? I always thought the classes were just temporary. You’re falling into that trap, working instead of creating.”
“Teaching isn’t easy, Trev. It’s a skill like any other, and I’m good at it. I like it. Why not show these kids how to work clay and see what they can make? I still do pieces and can sell them in Celia’s gallery. It’s sort of perfect for me.”
“And me,” Celia said. “I hope we can find more teachers.”
“You’ll sell your pieces there too, right, León?” Andrew asked.
“Probably. I actually sold one at the exhibition.”
“Hey! Congratulations!”
“Celia, how will you get the word out to artists that they can live in your place?”
She heard León’s sigh, but he slouched down in his chair, chin on his chest as he stared at the fire, and she answered Kelsey instead.
···
The brisk, lapping pool was refreshing after an evening by the fire. Downslope, León heard the sing-song yips of coyotes. The waning moon peeked from behind a palm tree.
He hung against the wall, supposedly looking down over the city lights but repeatedly catching himself viewing Celia over his shoulder. She floated in the center, aqua light wavering on her skin. Her chest rose and fell, serene and weary, her vulnerable edge gone.
He had inherited her edge. She was busy, now!. How could he delve into her on a schedule? She was still posing nearly every day, but what if that changed?
Dammit, I need my muse.
She turned in the water, opening her eyes to find him looking at her. Her smile radiated satisfaction. What a sight, her hair slicked back wet, droplets running off her shoulders. His chest ached. Why couldn’t he be with her like this all the time?
She stroked over to hang on the wall with him. “This was a good idea. Thank you.”
“You should take more breaks.”
“So should you.”
He scooted along the wall until their shoulders touched. For a long moment, they both just looked out at the lights.
He wasn’t a selfish prick for wanting her to spend more time with him. He was in love with her, that was all. If he told her, would that be selfish?
“León,” she said next to him, still looking out. “I’ve been wanting to say something.”
His heart launched into his throat.
Her shoulders were tense, her jaw tight. Nervous! Could she…?
“I’m so proud of you,” she said, gazing outward. “Selling a painting. But when you say you can afford to stay here longer….”
Oh. Well, damn.
“I know you’ll sell more,” she hurried, “but even if you didn’t, I don’t want you to go back to New York. You can stay here no matter what happens.”
He swallowed. He wanted that too, but he couldn’t fail. He simply couldn’t.
At his silence, she continued gingerly. “I just want you to know there aren’t any conditions. I want you to stay. That’s all.”
His sweet girl. She was taking a chance. Not as big as he’d hoped, but maybe he had to be the one to say it first. Assuming she’d say it second.
“I want to stay, cielito. I can’t fail, though.” When her eyes fell, he reached under the water to put his arm through hers. “I’m not saying I’ll go if I can’t sell more. I just have to succeed, is all. There isn’t anything else.”
She controlled her face—the way he hated. “There’s us.”
His eyebrows lowered. “I’m going to have both. My muse and my career, I’m going to have everything. Just like you’re going to have your Incubadora. And that’s the end of it.” He softened the words with a wry smile.
She struggled to return it. “I’ll help. I just wanted you to know.”
“I do know.” He squeezed her arm against him, opening his mouth to reassure her with the thing he wanted to say. Then he shut it again. It was surprisingly hard to say aloud. Instead, he turned to pull her close for a kiss. He’d show her for now.