Wow, deliverymen made a lot more money than I had assumed. Then, I remembered Joe wasn’t normally a deliveryman. Normally, he was an artist. He was only a temporary deliveryman, helping out a friend.
Wow, artists made a lot more money than I had assumed.
“It’s amazing,” I said. “A compound. Wow. You’re not a cult leader, are you?”
“A cult leader? Who would follow me? I do have two friends who live in one of the two bungalows. Jenny and Paul. You’ll probably meet them eventually. They have a tendency to show up during dessert time.”
Oh, thank goodness. There was going to be dessert. I was so glad I came.
“You want a tour?” he asked.
I wanted a tour. We started with his house, which had all the original furniture from whoever had lived there before. Comfortable armchairs and overstuffed sofas and maple tables and chairs, all in immaculate condition, filled the house except for a large sunlit room in back, which was Joe’s studio.
“You’re a real artist,” I said, honestly surprised. A lot of people I knew had claimed they were artists, but they usually just made dangly earrings or sage bundles or moon water. Joe was a real artist. A painter. His studio was bright and airy, with rows of paintings on canvas on the floor, leaning against the walls. In the center of the studio were two easels with paintings at various stages of completion.
One of the paintings was red. The other was blue.
“You know what?” I said. “Those look a lot like…”
“The Pillars of Creation in space.” Joe rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his eyes. “Would you believe that I’ve had those images in my head since before the Hubble Telescope existed? When the photos came out, I was blown away. I’m not saying that I think the universe was speaking to me, but art is an odd alchemy of magic and skill. A lot of mystery behind it. Where do the ideas come from? The visions that make us need to create? It’s one of the things I like about being an artist. The mystery. The unknowns. It’s like leaping before one knows what one is leaping into. Do you paint?”
“Oh, no,” I said, still lost in thought provoked by his words. I had never thought of art the way he described, but I could see now that he was right. Art must be exactly like that. The mystery of creation. The unknowns. My biggest fear was the unknown, the things that I had no control over, the maybes of what might be around the corner, of what my future would look like. But there was no fear in art. Instead, the unknowns were awe-inspiring. Like a word from above that had to be followed. Normally, I only got that kind of calling telling me to eat sugary, processed foods. I wondered what it would be like to have a calling to create beautiful works of art.
“I’m not a painter,” I said. “I painted the bedroom once, and my husband Steve showed me where I had screwed up, and we had to hire a painter to fix it. Otherwise, I did finger painting with my son Jamie when he was little.”
“That’s lovely, to finger paint with your child,” Joe commented. “What about in school?”
I shook my head. “Not much that I remember.” Then, I did remember something. “But I used to love Playdough. I played with it for hours. Much better than playing with Barbies.”
Joe smiled at me. “How about we finish the tour with some of the other buildings?”
We walked outside and made a circular tour of the compound. The first building was the bungalow where his friends lived. There were flower boxes on the windowsills and a charming flower-lined rock path leading to the front door, which was rounded and painted lavender.
“It’s like Snow White’s house,” I commented.
“Jenny has a thing for Snow White,” Joe said. “I would take you in, but they’re away for a few days, and I don’t feel comfortable going inside without their permission. Not that they wouldn’t give me permission. They love to have people over. Paul is an award-winning bread maker, and he always has new breads to taste. Jenny is an artist and has a very successful Etsy shop. She’s more than happy to show you her wares. Maybe when you come next time, they’ll be here.”
The next building was one of the shacks, which, inside, turned out to be a state-of-the-art kitchen, complete for a professional bread baker. It was immaculate and state-of-the-art.
“I love fresh sourdough with butter,” I blurted out, staring at the row of ovens.
“Paul makes great sourdough, but I would suggest trying his baguettes. A little ham, pickles, and butter on one, and you’ve got a sandwich that’ll make you swoon.”
My stomach growled, and my hand flew to my abdomen. “Excuse me,” I said, embarrassed.
“Don’t be. That’s on me. Of course, you must be starving. I’ll start on the ziti just as soon as we’re done with the tour. It shouldn’t take too long.”
It was just like Joe to be generous in that way, to pretend that not an hour before, I was stuffing my face with bear claws, and there was no earthly reason I should be hungry.
“You know what?” he said. “I have some of Paul’s sourdough in my kitchen. I can make some appetizers with it. Goat cheese and fig sauce on a slice of sourdough is unreal.”
My stomach growled again at the thought of it and wondered about Joe. He was unreal, too. Everything he said, every word out of his mouth, made me feel better about myself and the world. He made me think that there were no problems, no issues that couldn’t be overcome, that everything I felt or thought was perfectly reasonable, that I should never feel guilty or self-loathing, and that I should only be imbued with rock solid self-confidence and the knowledge that everything was going to be just fine.
Joe might have become my favorite person in the world at that moment. Maybe I loved him. I stood in place and took stock of my physical state. Was I turned on? Was my uterus whirring into action? Was my inner womanhood throbbing with unspoken desire, like I read in romance novels?
Not so much.
But I was feeling happy. Content. I was feeling comfortable. Safe.
