I nod. “Yes, you are.”
Discreetly, she rolls her eyes.
Beside her, Mary bites her bottom lip, gaze darting between her boss and her guest.
I sniff.
In full truth, if anyone is honored, it’s me. Etta and Mary have been nothing but kind and friendly to me since I got to the Nivora, above and beyond the call of their job duties—even above and beyond the call of the fat tips they’ve been receiving. I’ve come to think of them as friends, albeit the friendships are as fresh as wet paint. Still, I’m grateful for them, and I’m glad to have them near while I despair over my art. It’s a comfort to know that at any point I can simply turn, and people I’m coming to care about will be near.
At home, I would often seek out Iverson in the same way when working on a problem, and while it’s not a one-for-one comparison, Etta and Mary hold their own against the memories of his comfort. Even if Etta has spent the last thirty minutes trying to banish me from the lobby while Mary alternates checking in guests and watching us bicker.
“Do you think it needs more blue?” I ask the room at large, returning my attention to my painting.
“I don’t think it needs anything but for that ugly red blotch to be removed,” Etta replies with a fair bit of sass. Touchy, touchy.
“The red stays,” I insist with no real conviction. My eyes have been catching on the jarring square of color all morning, and I’ve been wondering how accurate it really is. If not red, though, then what? What shade would be true to life instead? With no answer, I leave it and focus on the things I know how to fix—a shadow here, a highlight there, a wonky tabletop in the foreground.
As no guests currently make use of the lobby, Mary leaves her post to stand next to me while I do my best to make a curved line straight.
“I’m not changing the flag,” I reiterate. “But I am open to any other suggestions you might have.”
She shakes her head, and her hands go up in surrender. “Oh, no, I could never. I think it looks incredible. Every time we see it, I’m amazed you’ve managed to somehow make it look even better. I can’t imagine how you’ll improve it from here, but I look forward to seeing what you deem perfect if not this.”
I resist the urge to sigh. I already knew asking her for feedback would be fruitless. I do not get to be annoyed when I created the scenario I knew would be annoying.
“Thank you,” I murmur, remembering the modicum of decent manners my parents taught me.
She shrugs my manners away, then… hovers. Nervously. Right over my shoulder.
My hand freezes on the canvas, and my head turns slowly toward her. “Did you need something else, Mary?”
She shifts from one foot to the other, twisting her fingers in front of her. “I wouldn’t call it aneed,” she says.
Patient, patient, patiently, I remove my brush from the painting and give her my full attention. “Did youwantsomething?”
She hesitates, saying nothing, then she bursts, saying everything so quickly I have to ask her to repeat herself without speed. Sheepish, she does. “I was wondering how things are going with your husband. We know you’ve been going out with him some, and we were curious if that meant you’d be leaving us soon.”
Aha. I see. I glance at Etta, wondering if this “we” Mary speaks of includes her. The older woman raises her eyebrows in a clear indication for me to get on with the answer.
I suppress a smile. They totally consider me their friend, too.
As a token of our mutual friendshipping, I update them on the happenings with my husband, starting with an expandedexplanation of our wedding, and ending with his current dedication to not only courtship, but the self-reflection journey he’s undertaken.
“Ohhh,” Mary says. “Sothat’swhy he’s been in the hotel gym all afternoon!”
My paintbrush droops, and I blink. “He’s been what?”
“Your lover boy has been on our treadmill for the last hour,” Etta informs me. She taps her fingers thoughtfully on the lobby counter as her eyes narrow on Mary. “We weren’t going to tell you.”
Suddenly, her insistence that I return to my rooms makes a lot more sense.
“Why is he runninghere?” I ask.
“He’syourhusband,” Etta reminds me. “Shouldn’t you know?”
Well… maybe.
I shrug. “He’s also a boy. The ways of boys are a mystery to me.”
