Twenty Five
León was coming back.
Celia had to take a moment after reading the text. Actual nausea swept through her, sweat prickling at her hands and temples. She couldn’t trust him. She wasn’t sure she could trust herself.
But good god, she wanted to see him again.
She looked around her nearly finished loft space. She’d been assembling a nightstand when the text came, watching the crew paint the long back wall a cheerful apple green. Glossy black doors for the bathroom and little guest room had been hung this morning. Near the big front windows, new open shelving waited to be filled with her art supplies.
Construction. Decor. Planning. It was hard to break the habit of burying herself behind it.
He was coming back!
She was different. She could talk to new people without freezing; her contractor Carlos and the other hundred people she’d had to speak to had given her practice. She’d stepped outside of her comfort zone and taken charge. She wouldn’t be a fool this time, caving in to his charm.
Or was he different too?
She read the texts again. Kelsey had told the buyer to come tomorrow evening. León would be back by then, staying at Andrew’s. And tomorrow night, he would be here, in Incubadora.
She had to prepare. She abandoned the nightstand, went downstairs, and found Carlos to tell him the crew could have tomorrow off. A paid holiday, in thanks for getting so much done so quickly. She’d have to scramble to fix the schedule later, but she didn’t want drills whining while someone considered buying one of León’s paintings.
She barely slept that night, trying and failing to distract herself with thoughts of her project. She decided around dawn to hang all of León’s finished paintings, one after the other, down the length of the long central brick wall. They looked more impressive when seen together. Maybe it would help the sale. Okay, it was a bit much, but she couldn’t keep the canvases in her house forever.
Early in the morning, she carefully dressed up, did her hair, put on makeup. She drove all of the paintings to Incubadora, her nerves buzzing. León would be here in mere hours.
The shiver every time she thought that!
She wore white wool pants and sweater, so pulled out one of the just-delivered aprons, slipping it over her head and tying it behind her. She brushed her fingers over the embroidered Incubadora logo with a small smile. Protected, she lugged a ladder and laser level from the crew’s equipment on the second floor. Hanging the canvases would be easy, the rosy brick gallery walls already equipped with hangers and lights.
Before climbing up the ladder, she paused and looked around the hushed expanse of the ground floor. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the peace, the safety of sheltering brick walls on the precipice of transformation. She soaked in the moment, alone, the only expectations and voices her own. This was her place.
A lovely upwelling of joy filled her, a tingling rush like the softest brushstroke along her spine.
Then she stepped up on the first rung of the ladder. There was work to do.
She hung León’s paintings one by one in the order she remembered them being painted. Each one pricked her senses, reviving the time she’d posed for them.
The tender, vivid blue one that started it all.
She could clearly see León’s awestruck face when he saw her getting out of the pool, the silly way he’d darted back into the pool house as though to hide, then popped right back out to face her. He’d been frantic about her ever since that night.
The yellow painting should have come next but was already in someone else’s home.
She remembered León’s dance when celebrating his first sale on his new coast and his pained eyes as he realized he was giving it up. That sunlit girl with a geometric face like a sunflower, maybe powerful, maybe submissive.
The shadowy purple image of her reaching for the lamp.
He loved this one almost as much as the blue. He said it was supposed to be her inner self, untouchable, but she just remembered that first night together, turning out the light so he’d stop looking and start touching. He was always seeing things in her that she would never have thought of on her own.
The red painting, her seated cross-legged and telling him off.
It had been one of the first times she’d pushed back on his infuriating way of thinking of himself first. Oh, her irritation as he sat outside on her patio for hours! Not his first apology nor his last. He always seemed to know what he’d done badly but never did better the next time.
The leafy green goddess rising from the garden.
Had he seen her like this, then? A provider that offered herself but didn’t ask anything in return? The nobility in the profile wasn’t hers, she knew. Maybe this one had shades of his mother.
The orange painting of her lounging in the armchair, predatory, weary. Contemplating round two.
He’d finished it despite her head being full of plans and figures. He’d managed to give her the expression he’d described, somehow. She knew she hadn’t given it to him the way he’d wanted.
Five paintings, six if he’d still had the yellow. They made a rainbow of memories, a kaleidoscope of the changes she’d gone through.
Maybe he hadn’t changed. Most people didn’t. Maybe he would always bulldoze then run away when scared. Maybe it was better to look fondly at this art and let León go.
But she’d see him tonight!
Her caution was no match for the burning excitement in her veins. For a moment, she tried to banish the nerves, then laughed aloud. Tamping down feelings again? There were things she might never unlearn too.
She was ready for the next step.
···
The potential buyer arrived on time. León did not.
The daylight had long since faded, the brisk December nights as long as they got in Los Angeles. From outside, the warehouse must have looked ablaze with light.
“I’m Jaime Cook,” the steel-haired woman said with a polished smile, reaching to shake Celia’s hand as she entered. Celia introduced herself, not sure how to proceed without León. Andrew said León hadn’t said yes to the sale, much less mentioned price. Should she explain the paintings, tell the stories behind them? It seemed too personal.
“The artist isn’t here yet, obviously,” she said. “He should be coming, though.”
Ms. Cook didn’t look bothered, letting her gaze wander around the new interior. “The gallery moved out. Do you know what this place is now?”
“It’s a home for artists,” Celia said. “They can live here and work on their art without having to waste time on jobs. We’re hoping to help them get started in their careers.”
“We?”
“I’m the owner.”
The woman’s eyebrows raised. “But you’re the model for these paintings too, right? You were pointed out to me at the exhibition.” Her gaze lingered on the canvases. “His muse, I was told.”
The word tightened Celia’s suddenly dry throat. “I was his model.”
“I think he’s got a serious career ahead of him,” Ms. Cook observed, still absorbed in the artwork.
“Can I get you a drink?” Celia offered. Lord knew she needed one. Was León coming?
Ms. Cook waved a hand, dismissing the offer. She leaned close to the blue painting, inspecting the brush strokes. “The way he captures you,” she said, “it’s sophisticated, but raw and intimate. Intense.” She looked at Celia. “It’s clear you had a profound connection.”
Celia blushed. “You know how artists are.”
“I do. They’re often late like this too.”
There was no sign of the confounded artist, though the street outside was too dark to see his arrival. Celia decided she’d talk about the paintings after all, leaving out the personal details where she could. She headed for the far end to leave the blue painting for last.
Ms. Cook stopped at the green, though, arrested.
“Is there a story behind this one?”
“It’s a goddess of bounty, a provider.”
“It’s very serene. Not at all like this spiky red one.”
“He has range. He was always clear about what he wanted to portray.”
Celia looked at her watch. Come on, León!
···
León was outside on the street. He’d been rushing to get to the warehouse but stopped when he saw inside the windows.
Celia.
She was wearing white and it stopped him in his tracks, arrested by the long-missed sight of her, glowing in the vast room like a beacon.
As always, he longed to paint her, to remember this moment so he could recall it later. He’d vowed to not paint her at all, not until he could be sure he could do it without the possessive feelings. But seeing her, now…he would paint her in blacks, grays, and whites. Darkness around her, but the world lit up by the woman standing, shining, in the center.
Slowly he became aware of the room around her. The buyer was there, and all of his paintings were hung for display. She hadn’t needed to do that. Celia, his radiant Celia, was gently speaking about them in turn, more relaxed than she usually was in public. She had more confidence.
He had to go inside, but he just wanted a few minutes to drink in the sight of her. He was dreading seeing her expression when she saw him. What would it be? Happiness? Anger? Or worse, nothing at all?
By the time they stopped at the blue painting, he had himself more under control. The sight of her selling his painting to this stranger made up his mind. He had to stop it.
···
“This one was at night, floating in a pool.”
“So, it is water? There are a lot of possible interpretations. I think that’s why I like it so much. It feels honest, like the artist really felt each stroke.”
“He was describing this one to me before he even started.”
“That’s usually a good sign.”
Celia’s heart hitched at the sharp metallic click of the door latch, spinning to face it. With a whispered whoosh, the doorway swung out, its opening almost like a drawn breath, filling the room with an anticipatory silence.
León walked in.
She drank in his familiar form—a little thinner, maybe, a little more ragged. His black hair was tucked behind his ears, his jaw unshaven. He wore the same black hoodie and faded jeans, had the same way of leaning forward and stalking toward her. His serious eyes had the same riveted focus, seeking out hers and trying to read everything she was thinking and feeling.
Her heart was going to burst.
···
León watched her come secretly alive. She’d look composed to most, but he knew her. The slight hopeful upward tilt of her eyebrows, the slow intake of breath, that minute baring of her neck in his direction. She wasn’t angry. The knot in his throat faded, only to be replaced by a pounding rush from his heart.
He saw her cheeks redden and felt a fierce heat on his own. As he closed the distance, Celia waved a hand to the buyer, still watching his approach. “León. This is Jaime Cook.”
He managed to look at the other woman briefly as he joined them at his paintings, but his eyes were drawn back to Celia’s far too quickly. His heart lurched as she reeled him in, electricity flowing through the few feet between them. His Celia!
His? The familiar cold pain stopped him. She wasn’t his. The gulf between them was real.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Ms. Cook said. “You have something special here.”
“Thanks,” he said, throat dry. He’d like to get this done so he could talk to Celia. He sneaked a quick look at her. She dropped her eyes to the ground.
“I hope you’re still working together,” the woman said. “It would be a shame to only get five paintings out of this partnership.”
“Six,” León muttered. He drew a deep breath and turned to the other woman. “One sold.”
“I’ll give you five thousand for the blue painting.”
Celia inhaled in surprise.
León felt a tug in his chest, looking at the tender, vivid blue canvas that held so much of them. “I can’t,” he said. “Maybe someday.”
Ms. Cook shrugged. “Three for the green and two for the red?”
He ran his hand through his hair, looking down the wall at his depiction of the garden goddess. This decision didn’t claw at his heart the same way.
“Done.”
Ms. Cook’s chest swelled in satisfaction, and Celia’s proud little smile took his breath away.
“Fastest purchase I’ve ever made,” Ms. Cook said. “Will you keep me in mind if you do more in the series?”
León nodded mechanically, paused, then shook his head. “I will, but it’ll be a while. I’m not painting right now.”
Celia’s mouth fell open.
Her eyes dropped to his hands and widened as she realized they were clean, no streaks of color. She inhaled slowly. As her gaze lingered too long, her surprise rippled into a lovely, delicate flush that spread up her neck. Did she realize it meant he could change? Should he explain?
León realized how close he was to blurting out everything he felt, right in front of this stranger. Jesus, he’d been here for five minutes.
A knot tightened in his stomach. What would he even say? ‘Hi, I’m back, and I’ve changed.’ Ha! Why should she believe him? He needed time to show her. He had to get this right! Anxiety spiking into a sharp, sudden jolt, he forced himself to breathe. Flee, buy time, but be casual.
He shoved his hands in his front pockets, then swallowed.
“Do you have the contact details, Celia?” It was the first thing he’d said to her since walking in.
“Kelsey does,” she said, clutching her hands together.
“You can take the painting straight off the wall. There’s no packing or frame.” He watched confusion and uncertainty growing in her expression. “I’ll ask Andrew to help you deal with the others.”
Her cheeks were growing pale.
“Right, thanks,” he said to both women and turned on his heel, making the long walk back to the exit. His steps echoed in the wide silent space, and the door clanged behind him like defeat.
The chilly night seeped into him as he crossed the darkened street, away from the brilliant windows. He stopped and turned there, sure he couldn’t be seen. Pulling up his hood and burying his hands in his pockets, he shivered and stayed, watching Celia climb the ladder to take down the green painting.
He should have done that himself. He’d botched every decision tonight! How was it possible that after all his hours spent planning the right things to say, he’d barely spoken to her? Worse, within moments of seeing her, he’d envisioned her on canvas. Was he capable of control around her at all?
Inside, Celia handed down the painting. A light behind her head winked out as she moved on the ladder, the backlight igniting her hair into a halo. She was a flame lighting the room, graceful and dazzling in white. Her eyes on him tonight, her little blushes and quick breaths, gave him hope that she’d give him a chance to show he could be better.
Idiot that he was, he’d walked out, panicked and escaped again. He was really, really bad at this. He didn’t even have a way to see her again, no excuse to talk with her.
Forget having a solid plan. He just needed to see her again.
Celia looked up in genuine surprise as he opened the door and leaned in.
“I’m coming back here tomorrow.”
He ducked out, the door shut with a clarion clang, and this time he left.