The Art of My Life (36 page)

August 15

I woke up this morning, and
all the color had drained out of my life. Do I have a future of
beige and cream and white? If color seeps back, will it ever be as
brilliant as I remember?

Aly at
www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com

Cal stacked paintings against the
plate glass window of Aly’s Gallery. Magenta sun reflected off the
glass, blinding him, and he pictured his foot stepping into the
coil of anchor line lying on the
Escape’s
deck. If Aly
rejected him, threw the anchor overboard, he’d be jerked to the
bottom of the Intercoastal.

He pulled the door open, and tiny
bells tinkled overhead. He glanced through black sun spots at Aly
sitting on a stool behind a cash register as he shuttled the
paintings through the door and leaned them, face down, against the
ledge separating the window display from the gallery.

Air conditioning closed in on him as
Aly moved around the counter and walked toward him. “Thanks for
coming.” Her expression was wary and hungry at the same
time.

His lungs seemed to forget how to
extract oxygen from the air he sucked in. He felt tossed back to
the first time he saw her at fifteen, walking down the aisle toward
him at Jesse’s wedding rehearsal.

His knuckle grazed the pale skin on
her cheek almost without conscious thought. “You’re so beautiful.”
He felt awkward, stupid—things he never felt around Aly. He backed
up half a step, tried a grin. “This is my favorite look of
yours—the girly shirt, swishy skirt.” He fingered the crinkled
silky fabric of her skirt. He yanked his hand away. “Sorry. It’s
the artist thing, texture.”

Aly gave him a nervous smile. “You
look good yourself.” She ran her eyes over his damp hair he’d
pulled into a ponytail, his lime polo, plaid shorts, and flip
flops—formalwear for a Monday evening. What she couldn’t see was a
guy who was about to punt his heart and pray she’d catch
it.

Something familiar tugged at his
subconscious, and his gaze honed onto a painting mounted on the
wall behind Aly—one of the few watercolors he’d ever done, a surf
scene. His attention jumped to the picture beside it, an oil of
Henna’s house huddled under the Spanish oaks. His gut clenched. In
the next painting palms shaded an infant Chase at a family
picnic.

His gaze flew around the room. Aly had
put up a one-man show.

She shifted from one foot to the
other. “I rifled through your relatives’ garages and attics for
paintings. I thought I’d borrow first, ask forgiveness
later.”

“
And why would this be a
bad thing? The only other one-man show I’ve had was years ago at
Atlantic Center for the Arts.”

“
Well, it’s not like I get
a lot of traffic through here.”

Cal quirked his brows.

“
If you don’t count the
UPS man, I’ve had twenty-five people come through since I
opened.”

He felt her failure as if it were his
own. This was her dream. On the heels of the failed charter
business, she must be devastated. He wondered if she’d go back to
work at the bank. “I’m sorry, Al.”

Aly grinned wryly. “Eight of them were
family, and most of them came through twice.” Her voice sounded
anything but discouraged.

“
What are you not telling
me?”

“
The-Art-Of-My-Life Blog
is topping thirty thousand hits a day and ended up generating a
healthy mail-order business selling prints and posters. The UPS guy
brings me coffee—”

“
Do I need to tell him to
keep it to coffee?”

“
What? No.” Aly shook her
head as though he were crazy. She strolled over to the counter and
propped herself against it. “The thing is, Cal. There’s been a lot
of interest in your work. A week seldom goes by without someone
inquiring about the artist whose paintings border my blog. Since I
opened the gallery, I’ve featured one of your pieces along with
whatever I’m pushing that week.”

Aly shoved herself away from the
counter and walked through a doorway. “Did you know your mother
kept every picture you ever drew from pre-school on? She’s got them
filed in bins in the attic. I worked backwards through them. I
stopped at middle school. I didn’t think you’d want your Power
Rangers’ up for public display.”

Aly’s words hardly registered. A
second room filled with his work winded him. The back of the
gallery held a bank of windows letting in natural light, now a
milky maize streaked with rust. In the corner stood a pristine
easel on a spotless drop cloth.

“
Someday, I’d like to have
artists do residencies here to attract gawkers.” She walked back to
her desk and sat down. “Have a seat. I have a business proposition
for you to think about.”

Cal sunk into an art deco chair beside
her desk. He blinked away the memory of sitting across the desk
from Aly begging for a loan.

“
I’d like to sell your art
for you at fifteen percent commission. Some of your pieces lend
themselves to posters or prints. When those start selling, interest
will increase in your paintings. Paintings are big-ticket items I
don’t expect to sell on the Internet. But people who fall in love
with your work will travel to take a look at your
paintings.”

Cal stared at her dumbly. “I’m
starting back to college in a couple of weeks.”

Aly slumped against the back of her
chair. “Maybe we could try it later, when you’ve got more
time.”

“
You’re disappointed I’m
going back to school?”

“
I thought you hated
college. And you have enough art credits for an art major, you’re
just missing the cores—which, I don’t think you need.” Aly sat
back. “Sorry. I’m not telling you what to do. I was so excited
about all the possibilities, I got carried away.”

“
You’re right. I flunked
every core course I tried. No, that was the problem. I didn’t try.”
He leaned the chair back on two legs. Aly’s excitement bubbled up
in him. “I’ve been dragging my feet registering….” He plopped all
four legs of the chair down. “Do you think I could make a living
drawing and painting?”

Aly stared at him trying to school the
enthusiasm that shot from her eyes, fighting to keep her lips from
twitching up. “Yes.”

“
I’m in.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

Maybe now he could do what he came
here for. “Really.”

Aly jumped out of her chair. “I’m so
glad. I have a good feeling about this.”

He stood, put his hands on her hips
and pulled her toward him. “Hmm, stocking shelves at Winn Dixie or
watching you in swishy skirts every day—which sounds like more
fun?”

Aly stepped back, and his hands fell
away. The wariness returned to her eyes. “I didn’t mean you had to
paint here. We can do most of our business by e-mail. And… and… I
think one of us should move off the boat.” She sunk to her chair
behind the desk.

So, that was her answer. She didn’t
want a pothead ex-con. He felt like an idiot for misinterpreting
her proposition. She valued his art, not him.

He stood staring at her, remembering
how she tasted, how
I love you
sounded on her lips, how
waking up beside her felt. He had to try.

He narrowed his eyes and planted his
palms on the desk. “I’ve got a proposition for you,
too.”

A spark of interest resurrected in
Aly’s lifeless eyes.

He spread the paintings he’d brought
along the rear glass wall of the gallery in chronological order.
“I’ve always communicated better with paint than words. Read me,
Aly.”

She switched on the lights.

Her eyes whirl-pooled with emotions he
couldn’t catalogue and spun him into a sea of desire. Fear tasted
like turpentine in the back of his throat. He dug his hands into
his pockets and waited.

Through the gallery doorway he could
see out the front windows. A kid pedaled down the sidewalk on his
BMX bike. A primer-coated Ford pick-up rattled along Canal Street.
A Mustang convertible, top down. A chalky vintage Beetle. Two teens
dusted in dusk paused in front of the window. The guy snagged the
girl’s hand, and they kept walking.

Aly’s gaze swept the row of
paintings—all with her as the subject—catching the progression. She
felt Cal’s passion intensify in each painting. A wisp of hope
fluttered to life from the dead place inside her. “Where did you
hide these?”

He cracked his knuckles. “Behind
Fish’s crap in my folks’ garage.”

She stood in front of the first
painting, completed when she was fifteen. It was the only one she’d
seen, the only one she’d sat for. Even though Cal’s skill at
seventeen was hardly as well-developed as it was now, he’d captured
the virginal quality about her.

Her gaze slid over the other
paintings, spotting the same essence in all of them. Could Cal
really not hold her past against her?

In a painting in the middle, she lay
on the fold-out couch in Cody’s garage, half asleep. Her white
T-shirt stretched tight across her breasts revealing the outline of
her bra. Her hair spread out around her. The half-lidded look held
no awareness of her sensuality, yet the picture oozed with
it.

Cal had painted the picture while he
thought he was in love with Raine, weeks before he gave his
virginity to Evie. He’d told her he’d stayed sober for a week so he
could paint it. A week he spent wanting her. And she never
knew.

He’d painted Raine. Once. He’d never
painted Evie that she knew of. And he’d painted her nine times,
once for every year she’d known him.

Cal cleared his throat where he leaned
against her desk, arms folded across his chest. “I have a lot more
paintings of you, but I just brought my favorites.”

Oh.

In the last painting, she sat in her
bunk the night he almost kissed her. A tease of leg, a softness to
the curves beneath her Gators’ jersey made her look beautiful,
wanted. Her lips were parted, shiny, the focal point of the
painting. Her eyes brimmed with desire for him. So, he’d
noticed.

She looked up at Cal. “I thought you
didn’t want me.”

He crossed the gallery in three
strides. “My God, Aly. I’ve wanted you since I met you. I wanted
you on Christmas when I showed you my tattoo. I’ve wanted you every
day since you got caught in a thunder storm and spent that first
night on the
Escape
. How could you think I didn’t want
you?”

“
Herpes.” Her fingers
whitened where they clenched her upper arms.

His hands covered hers and gripped her
arms. “I probably know the face of every guy you slept with. Do you
think I can’t handle a disease? Give me credit.”

She dropped her eyes from his. “I’m
sorry… the guys—”

He pressed his fingers to her lips. “I
forgive you.” He laced his fingers loosely through hers. “I’ve been
clean for eight months, working steady for three. I was planning on
going back to school. I want to prove to you that you can take a
risk on me. I love you so much.”

“
You’ve avoided me since
you got out of jail.”

He heard the hurt in her voice and
hung his head. “I was terrified you wouldn’t want—me, that I
couldn’t keep my hands off you, that I’d screw up any chance I had
by rushing things.” His eyes met hers, pleading. “Love me,
Aly.”

Cal watched the emotions swirl through
Aly’s eyes. He gripped her fingers tighter.

“
Forever.” The word rushed
out with her breath, sweet and airy like cotton candy and
wonder.

He crushed her to him and held
on.

A divine finger flicked his scalp and
pitched him back to the prayer he’d prayed in the ocean at
seventeen.

Aly.

September 30

Life is good. Anybody in
Central Florida, stop by Aly’s Gallery in New Smyrna Beach at 7
p.m. for Cal Koomer’s one-man show.

Aly at
www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com

Cal’s eyes followed Jesse and Kallie
as they exited the gallery. Kallie’s smile, so like Aly’s,
lingered. Maybe Kallie had finally decided he wasn’t Satan who
would bury her children in the back yard. He loosened his tie and
drained his Dixie cup of Scragg Groves’ orange juice.

Jesse said something to Kallie in the
front seat of their car, leaned over, and kissed her. Seconds
stretched out.

Cal cocked his head back to the
gallery and his official one-man show. Maybe he and Aly should
babysit for their niece and nephew—little abstinence sentries—a
whole lot more often.

His eye caught on the painting of
Henna’s house. Leaf’s hot dog stand listed over a flat tire in the
front yard of the picture. Had he lost both of them? Grief knifed
through him. Henna’s words swept into his head as though she were
in the room. “I told you your ship would come in, and you’d be
sitting on easy street, pretty as a picture.”