Maxwell finishes unloading the suitcase. “Today I implore you to open your minds. We’re here to talk freely. I’ve found with clients that a change of scenery can help with this, hence the park.” He hands us each a paintbrush. “As we talk, you two will be painting something of your choosing.”
“Is that required?” Hazel asks. I can practically hear her thinking,What does this have to do with luck?
“You’re not gonna like what I have to say,” Maxwell says.
“Great,” she mumbles.
“You’re gonna love it,” he says.
Hazel looks confused while Maxwell carries on. He directs our attention to everything he’s brought. “What we do and share today is up to you. I won’t force you to do anything. Now,” he says, “why is it you consider yourself unlucky and lucky? Hazel, let’s hear from you first.”
I scan the horizon for something to paint as Hazel takes a paintbrush between her fingers, spinning it as a distraction, like she’s weighing how much to share.
“Well, my family has never been very lucky,” she says.
“Never? Are there any moments you can recall?” Maxwell asks. “In work or life? Have you ever won anything?”
Hazel swipes her paintless brush against her palm. “The only thing I’ve ever won is a spot on a two-week-long jury duty.”
Maxwell nods. “What about your family? Or in relationships?” He smiles. “Or, I suppose, prior to your relationship now. Maybe your luck has changed.”
Hazel’s eyes lock with mine for a few long seconds before she quickly shakes her head. “Maybe. I don’t know. But we’re not here for me.”
Maxwell shifts his entire body toward me. “Logan, why do you consider yourself lucky?”
His use of present tense throws me off. “Well, good things always happened for me.” I reach for the easy examples first, along with a tube of yellow paint to keep my hands moving. “I’ve won a lot of giveaways and contests. I’ve met people purely by chance at times in my life when I unknowingly needed them most. I beat out thirteen other people for my job. My entire family has been fortunate enough to be comfortable in life.” I squeeze a blob of paint onto my palette. “Am I supposed to do this while I talk?” I ask Maxwell.
“I don’t need you to paint,” Maxwell says.
“Oh, okay.” I’m not sure if I should continue.
“I want you to paint,” he finishes.
Hazel and I catch each other’s eyes, and I can see in them that she’s amused.
“Right,” I say, adding more colors onto my palette. I let my hands take over with the mixing and painting as I talk. The strokes pour out of me as I dab light pink onto the canvas.
“Should we paint the bridge or…” Hazel asks, glancing around. “The skyline?”
“There’s no right or wrong answer,” Maxwell says. “If you see anything you like, paint that!” He holds a hand against the side of his mouth, like he’s letting her in on a secret. “The carousel and the ferries are fan favorites.”
Hazel grabs the tube of red paint. “Those seem harder than the bridge. What are you painting?” she asks me.
“All I have is a circle,” I say. “I’m seeing where it goes.”
“I’m so bad at art,” Hazel states like it’s an objective truth.
“You get to keep what you make,” Maxwell offers. “And you don’t even have to show us at the end if you don’t want.”
Hazel dips her brush into paint and attempts the activity. I think, more than anything, she just wants to keep busy. With the tip of her brush, she stabs at her canvas.
“Logan, I want to dig a little deeper into the people you’ve met in your life. You say it was by chance,” Maxwell says, picking up the conversation. “You happened to be in the right place at the right time, is that it?”
I nod. “I was. Each time. I met Mrs. Walker at an inn I stayed at.” Hazel looks up when I mention this. “She’s the reason why I’m in New York. I was looking to get out of my hometown, and she’s a Broadway producer. She knew of people looking for stagehandsand carpenters, and I fit that bill. She connected me with the right people, let me rent out one of the apartments she owns for a price I could afford.” I keep my eyes trained on my painting as I talk. “Meeting her changed my life. So did meeting Mr. Patterson.”
“Who’s Mr. Patterson?” Maxwell asks.
My audience has directed their full, undivided attention on me. All at once, this feels like a makeshift escape room we must paint ourselves out of. The brisk morning air turns hot, the trickle of sunlight streaming through the trees suddenly a spotlight.
