“That must be nice.” Penelope sighed. “Parts of my job can be done remotely, and I try to work from home as often as I can.”
“Yeah, working from home is a game changer.”
Their server returned, refilling Penelope’s coffee, placing a slice of cheesecake in front of her before handing Lucia a cup of black tea and a chocolate croissant.
Lucia’s stomach fluttered—she hadn’t even realized how hungry she was. The croissant was still warm, buttery flakes already sticking to the napkin.
“What made you enter the art world?”
“My father.” Penelope smiled. “He was a researcher, an artist, and well, too curious for his own good. He held various positions throughout my youth with the last one being the Head of Provenance at The Met.”
“Oh, wow. That’s impressive.” Lucia stirred another dollop of honey into her tea. “You used past tense. Is he…”
“No, he’s still alive. It’s…complicated.” Penelope’s smile dimmed.
Lucia nodded. This act, the pretense, it settled like a gigantic boulder in her stomach.
“How long have you been painting?” Penelope asked, shifting the topic to something Lucia finally could speak about honestly.
“I’ve always drawn or doodled, but it wasn’t really until middle school when I…I had the opportunity to really get into art.”
“Your parents weren’t supportive?”
“I don’t know.” She took a bite of her croissant.
“What do you mean?”
Lucia shrugged. “I never knew them.” She always tried for nonchalance when the topic of her parents came up, but the words still scratched up her throat, leaving her raw and battered.
Penelope’s expression softened. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
They ate in silence for a moment. Lucia broke off a piece of her croissant, letting it crumble between her fingers before taking another bite.
The air between them shifted: quieter, gentler. Outside, a car rolled by, tires whispering on wet asphalt.
“So, how did you get into painting? At school?”
“Yes. I had a teacher, Ms.Lake, she…she was awesome,” Lucia said. “The first one who saw me as more than the silent, shy girl sitting in the back.” She could still picture her, skinny and full of wired energy, constantly pushing her glasses up on her nose. And so incredibly kind.
“It’s hard to imagine you as either, to be honest.”
Lucia gave a half smile. “Time changes people.”
“Very true.” Penelope’s face sobered.
“She challenged me, and I don’t know. I’d longed for something that was just mine.” She shook her head. “Ms.Lake offered me access to the art room, before school, during lunch, after school. I lost myself in there.”
Lucia held Penelope’s gaze. “Most people think of beauty and maybe even excess when they think of art, but to me, it’s about survival. Or at least it was.” She braced herself—caught between the fear of being dismissed and her aversion to pity—but Penelope’s gaze held neither. Just steady interest. Her quiet attention made Lucia’s heart race.
Penelope nodded. “I’m glad you had such a supportive force in your life.”
“Me, too.”
A pause.
“Do you ever wonder how your life might have played out if you never met Ms.Lake, if you never picked up that paintbrush?” Penelope asked.
