Alvin answers my thoughts without me even having to pose a question. I pick up the brush and dip it into a blue hue. Lately I really feel the blues, like they’re speaking to me and are a part of me. I slide the brush against the canvas. It’s smooth, yet leaves behind a rugged line on the other side, the sides deeper blues as they hold the excess paint. I keep wafting the brush from side to side, and I don’t even know what I’m painting. The next thing I know I’m switching to a vibrant orange, then a midnight black, and I’m shading and smudging and creating some sort of a piece but even I don’t know what it means. I lose track of time, and when I finish, I don’t even know how long I’ve been painting.
“Wow,” Alvin says as he comes over to take a look. I’ve been so involved in what I was doing I don’t even recall when he left my side.
I’m staring at a canvas of different shapes and colors, nothing definitive about it. “What’s so ‘wow’ about it?”
“What isn’t? Look at your use of shading over here and the choice of color here.” He points to the respective areas. “This is so powerful. You’re holding in a lot of frustration and confusion, aren’t you?”
I set the brush down. “Are you a therapist now?” I didn’t come here for him to psychoanalyze me. I only came here to protect his work, and now I’m suddenly sitting in his spot and painting where he normally does.
“Of course not. But isn’t art therapeutic?”
He has me there. That’s why I used to paint. It got me through all the painful parts of high school and the challenging days of college. I don’t know why I really stopped. I packed everything up and moved to my house and that was it. The paintings I’ve done, my brushes, they’re all stored away like my memories.
“I guess.” I don’t want to involve myself in a long, uninhibited conversation about my life. We don’t know each other like that.
“Have you given any more thought to this job yet?”
I should have assumed that would come up at some point. The truth is, I hadn’t been giving it much consideration because I still couldn’t believe he offered it to me. “I don’t know.”
“You need a job. I’m offering one. What’s to think about?”
“I don’t even know what it all entails. What do you want me to do?”
He places his finger on the center of his chin. “Well, I need someone to help me set up shows. Sell my work. I know you can do that. You can probably sellmemy own pieces. And I like your work. Maybe at some point we can even do a project together.”
I hold back my arms from flailing. Did he say a project together? Like have my name on the same piece as Alvin Hamilton?
“Why not give it a shot? If you don’t like it, you can look for something else while you’re working for me. You can’t really go wrong with that, can you?”
He makes a valid point. I don’t even know where to start looking for a job at this point and this one is staring me right in the face.
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
I reach my hand out and he shakes it. I’m giddy but don’t let it show. I’m going to be working fortheAlvin Hamilton.
“Awesome. I’m happy to have you. Your first assignment is to go home and pop some champagne. I have some work to do here. Why don’t you leave your piece here to dry?”
“That sounds good.”
“First, though,” he says as he hands me a thinner brush he’s dipped in black ink, “you need to sign it.”
I’m shaking as I sign my name in the corner of the canvas.
I can’t believe this is real, and it’s like a part of me has been awakened.
19
Even though I’vebeen back to staying in my house full-time for a little over a week now, my cabinets and refrigerator are still pretty bare. I’ve either been eating out, dining with Alvin as we discuss my new job (yay!) and how to bring art back into my life, or visiting Kayleigh. Her mother-in-law isn’t so bad and it’s nice when I can provide a buffer for her. Even though she’s accepted Kayleigh and Donovan with their child-free life, she periodically sneaks in comments. A handful of times I’ve been able to switch the conversation and I’ll admit I’ve done a pretty good job.
I arrive back from grocery shopping, my trunk not nearly as full as it should be. I only stocked up on some staples and dinner for two nights. Alvin has an event on Friday evening, so I’ll order something in before I go. So this is enough for tonight and tomorrow night. I can go shopping again Saturday morning. Besides, the fewer bags I have to carry into the house, the better.
I pull into my driveway and park right outside the garage. I usually don’t use my garage for my car. It’s not attached, and if I ever bought a new house, I’d make sure of that next time. When it’s raining or super cold out, I regret not having an attached garage. I make use of it, though, storing my snowblower and my riding lawn mower in it. It’s only a one-car garage anyway.
I open my trunk and take two of the bags out, sliding the open loops down my arm. I do the same with the other two bags and carry the champagne in my hand. My hands and arms fully occupied, I have no choice but to back up slightly, balance on one leg, and use the other leg to slam my trunk shut.
I start to walk toward my front door and see Jimmy outside, his shirt off, trimming the bushes in the front of his house.
He sure looks good. I stand there for a minute as I take in the sun glistening off his sweaty back. I have to go in before he sees me.
