Painting for Keeps

by Landra Graf

  “Hi.” His greeting came out a little breathless, and if anything, it made her smile bigger.

  “Hi, I found it.”

  He opened the screen door, stepping to the side to let her walk in. “You did, though it’s kind of hard to miss.”

  The buildings were a tangerine-colored brick, which had dulled and cracked over the years, thanks to the awesome Louisville winters.

  “Makes it easier to find. Also, it’s unique. These buildings don’t match anything else around here. It’s got a vintage vibe,” Aggie said as she stepped across the threshold and looked around.

  The screen door creaked shut, and then they stood in front of each other. There were so many things he needed to say, and instead, he picked the first thing that came to mind. “How do you do that?”

  “What?” She twirled with a chunk of her hair, wrapping it around her finger. What he wouldn’t give to be that hair.

  “You take negative things and turn them positive. It’s not something I’m very good at.”

  “I learned. Bad stuff happens, and you have to look at the ways those bad things can be good. Losing my place means the chance at a new experience, albeit, not at my usual pace. Is the apartment first floor or second?”

  Thank goodness she’d started driving the conversation because he found himself a bit helpless at the moment—a tongue-tied slave to his admiration of her. “Second floor, follow me.”

  As they started up the wooden staircase, he began extolling on the history. “This place was built in the nineteen-fifties. My grandmother bought this building and the one next door in the seventies and refurbished them into the apartments they are now. She basically made her income from this place and always kept at least one renter. I’ve got two in the other building, and I live in the downstairs apartment here.”

  The door was still open at the top of the stairs only a few steps off the landing. He walked in, hoping she followed. “There are two bedrooms, a bathroom, living area, and kitchen/dining area. There’s also a small balcony if you like city sounds.”

  She came around him and started to explore. He liked her cautious manner. Found it adorable, like a cat in new surroundings with her quiet steps and peering head. “Will you need to keep all your supplies in one of the rooms?”

  “No, I’ll move everything downstairs to my secondary studio. I tend to work up here when the light is good but divide my time between both places. No hardship, really.”

  “Everything is electric?” She looked at the stove, microwave, dishwasher, and refrigerator.

  “No, the stove is gas. My grandmother kept it so all residents would have a way to cook if winter weather got bad. I saw no reason to change it.”

  He watched her wander through the living room, moving around his things and running her hand along the fireplace mantle as she looked around. The actions sparked a peaceful vein in him; he liked her here.

  “The floors are natural wood. You can have rugs if you’re worried about cold feet. Also, the fireplace works, and I have extra wood at the back of the building you’re free to use.”

  “It is fall, isn’t it?”

  He laughed, “Well, it’s just starting, but yes. Don’t worry. I’m not good at keeping up with the seasons, either. Trix...my neighbor has had to come over and convince me to light a fire dozens of times.”

  “Is painting a really distracting profession?”

  He winked at her. “You have no idea.”

  Aggie stood there for a minute, unmoving and quiet. The awkward silence they’d shared before filled up space again.

  “So, are you interested in the place?” He wanted to see her smile again, to be as comfortable with him as she’d been in the café.

  “I am.”

  “Then let’s hash out the details over coffee at my place.” Damn, he sounded like a creeper. “I mean, would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Lead the way.”

  So he did, heading downstairs and into his apartment. Then he realized he hadn’t cleaned up in here. No, his focus had been firmly on the rental. “I apologize for the mess.”

  Mess mainly meant the clothes strewn around the living room, the amassed coffee cups with half glasses of cold, curdled java. A few probably could’ve been submitted for local school science fairs. He heard her footsteps behind him, a little ways back, which provided enough time for him to scoop a pile of papers from one of the kitchen chairs and toss it on top of another pile on the counter.

  “It’s all right. I’m sure painting takes precedence over cleaning. As it should.” There was a hesitance in her voice. Clearly doubt.

  “Yes, and getting ready for this show has been the worst.” He refused to look back at her. Censure was one thing capable of sending him in a spiral straight for hell. Instead, he kept busy with the coffee pot, rinsing out the re-usable filter, filling the pot with fresh water, measuring the grounds, and turning on the maker. Then the cups, cream, sugar, and stirrers...those little wooden ones Trix brought over. She’d seen them on sale.

  He finally worked up the nerve to face her, realizing he’d let the conversation go as cold as those day-old cups of coffee in the other room. She sat at the kitchen table. Not prying into his mail or touching the lazy Susan with his cow shakers. But the cow shakers were missing. He stepped forward, reaching for the turner, spinning it clockwise. Eyes glued to all the pieces, the moon toothpick holder, and the cat fiddle bowl with various odds and ends, but no cow shakers. They were his grandmother’s. Had he moved them?

  “You didn’t see a pair of cow salt and pepper shakers here by any chance?”

  Aggie shook her head with a little side-eye. Sure, he sounded crazy, but if he’d moved things without remembering, it was a possible sign of delusions, something much worse than his regular symptoms. Maybe a new neighbor wasn’t a good idea after all.

  #

  The apartment looked great, even if the neighborhood wasn’t ideal. Aggie imagined her furniture in the space and could picture herself settled and relaxing in front of a blazing fire. The image pleasant and refreshing compared to the chaos of her life over the previous weeks. Then Murph invited her into his space. She’d never expected neat and tidy, but his place proved a bit messier than her imagination.

  No judging at all, though. She refused to rate someone’s worth based on how clean their house was, even if her mother always did. Though, he certainly appeared a bit guilty about the mess. Since the question about the shakers, he looked agitated, worried, by the downward tilt of his eyebrows and wrinkles in his forehead.

  Then she noticed his eyes, not on her, but the roundabout in the center of the table, as if willing the shakers to appear. In group, they never shared their illnesses. Part of the whole no-judgment deal. They talked about their challenges, but never really spelled out their problems. Aggie tried to recall Murph’s story time and then let her words speak for her.

  “The shakers, want to talk about them?” Best way to solve problems. At least, that was what they’d been taught in group. Best way to reveal those needy parts of you.

  Nothing happened for another minute. Then he blinked. A good sign. “I had cow shakers. Right there, and now they’re gone.”

  She knew she got messed up in social situations, rejection, or when insecurities, which, thanks to her mother’s voice inside her head, was often, but something so small... “Maybe they are in the living room.”

  The smell of brewed coffee began to permeate the air and she inhaled deeply to calm herself. It’d be hard to live with him if things were always like this, not without becoming more involved. A strong woman worried about herself, took care of herself, not her too-cute, slightly unstable potential landlord. “Do you think they are there?”

  “What?” He looked at her, blinked twice, and really looked. Not a vacant expression and then he snapped out of it. “Damn, I’m sorry.” Rubbing his eyes, he walked to the coffee pot. “I probably scared the shit out of you. Fuck. This shit I deal with.”

  A coupl
e of brown mugs of steaming coffee later, he placed one in front of her and the sugar and creamer cows. The other shakers must have matched them. She doctored her coffee the way she liked it, two sugars and a splash of cream. Once she finished, Murph started in on turning his coffee into a sweet, creamed up frou-frou drink. His dirty blond hair lay in artful disarray, with his paint-stained khakis and a green T-shirt that said, I don’t want your Monet, honey. For being out of sorts, he looked horribly attractive.

  “You like sugar and cream in your coffee?”

  He stuck a stirrer in the cup and started to swirl everything. “Of course. I suffer from a psychiatric diagnosed disorder, but I’m not a masochist. Those who drink it black obviously like to torture themselves.”

  “Too true. So...you want to talk about what happened?” No sense in keeping it in. She hated holding things back, especially after the policy failed to work with her ex. Strong women confronted problems head-on with protective armor in place.

  “My problem? Surprise! Your potential landlord is bipolar, which manifests itself in impulse behaviors and fixations, with periodic depressive episodes, though those are less frequent. I’m very much a routine person. With the show, I’ve been breaking some of those routines and things have gone missing. It’s a small setback, and hopefully, it will clear up itself.”

  No doubt lack of routine played a little havoc with his meds. Most bipolars she’d met preferred prescriptions to keep themselves under control, along with other treatment methods. She wanted to ask more questions: what prescription was he taking? How was his diet?

  The nutritionist part of her, familiar with working with bipolar and other mentally impaired patients, wanted to help. At the same time, it would’ve been rude to ask and went against the whole Strong women—take care of yourself mantra she wanted to maintain. “All right, I’ve heard worse things, and you’re not a masochist, as you mentioned.”

  “Thank goodness. One strike in my favor, outside of my outburst, and again I apologize for scaring you. You’re still interested in the place?”

  “Definitely, but we have to work out some form of payment. I can’t live here for free. It’s not my style.”

  He nodded in agreement before taking a sip of his coffee. “I can respect that. What do you think is fair compensation?”

  Humor radiated from his gray eyes. No doubt he knew how inappropriate the question sounded, and for a brief moment, the idea of them together entered her mind, kissing, touching, and lying on her bed. She’d lie if anyone asked her if she found Murph attractive, since sleeping with a landlord fell into the “not wise” column.

  “A couple hundred bucks a month and whatever utilities.” She could stay professional and strong. Yes, she could, until she drank the coffee. A medium roast with a perfect mellow flavor, just the way she loved it. Waking up to a gorgeous man with coffee like this—

  “Would you be offended if I said I don’t want your money?”

  Her immediate reaction was to blurt out yes, but she held back and thought about it. The hesitation led Murph to keep talking.

  “Money’s great, but I don’t think I’d really be helping you. You need to save some cash, right?”

  She nodded in agreement.

  “Then let’s figure out something else, and I have a suggestion not untoward.”

  Aggie giggled.

  “What?”

  “Who says things like untoward?”

  “I do, and that’s the English degree talking.” He took another sip of coffee. “What if you paid me by posing?”

  Her own swallow of coffee nearly choked her and she coughed hard, trying to catch her breath. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s nothing like what you think. No nudity, completely tasteful posing.”

  No amount of brainpower could stop her from blurting out, “Why?”

  “Why not?” He seemed mystified by her objection. Did he not see her? The curvy figure she possessed always caused loathing. She worked her ass off to keep herself from ballooning. Her mother didn’t have the same problem. No, the woman blamed Aggie’s bone structure and natural way of keeping on weight on Greek ancestry courtesy of Aggie’s father. Something she couldn’t get rid of but maintained with a healthy diet—after she’d gotten over her bulimia.

  “Before I say yes or no, what are you asking for if not nudity?” Display caution, but don’t burn bridges. Another thing a strong woman did. At least, it made sense.

  “I need a model for a portrait painting. It’s just to get a body model. No nudity because I’m looking at faces, arms, and legs...certain poses.” His words were carefully chosen for her, and they did the job. She felt reassured.

  “How many sessions?”

  “Let’s settle on five and if you want to do more, we can, or if you don’t then it’s good.”

  Five sessions in two months seemed perfectly doable. “What about utilities?”

  “I’ll cover those. You can even leech off my cable. I don’t really watch television because I’m always painting, but I haven’t bothered to get rid of it.” So nonchalant, like it was no big deal to pay extra money for a service he never used. The life of an artist really was something else.

  “Okay. When can I move in?”

  “When do you need to move in?”

  She couldn’t help but smile, and he gave a grin in return. “How are you okay with all this?”

  “It’s not like you’re upending anything. I still have my place, my things, and I like to help. Ask Trix. She stayed here for a few months before I started charging her rent. Plus, you’re a friend and assisting me with my paintings. It’s a fair trade.”

  “Would moving in this next weekend be too soon?” She knew he’d say yes, but the possibility existed her request might turn his happy face into a frown. People changed their mind all the time, and she hated to impose.

  “This weekend is perfect.”

  With the verbal agreement solidified, only one thing remained. “Will you draw up our agreement on paper, and then we can sign?”

  “Afraid I don’t have anything put together at the moment, but a handshake is good enough for me.”

  A part of her wanted to argue, but instead, she’d settle for typing things up on her own and bringing it back over. Murph was proving to be very informal about nearly everything, which drove her a little nuts. After the mess her ex left her in, she couldn’t afford to have things up in the air. Security came from signed agreements, from legally-binding documents...holy moly, she was turning into her mother.

  “Then a handshake it is, for now.” She stood from her chair and thrust an open palm toward him.

  Murph put his coffee mug on the table, and his larger, paint-marred hand enveloped hers. The heat infused a sense of peace, rightness. Diving too deeply into those feelings would be a bad thing, at least, for the moment. She needed to stay on top of things, not fall for the first guy she met after Jordan. But she failed to stop the overwhelming gratitude welling up in her, the need to express it with more than a simple touch.

  Letting go of his hand, she stepped up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He remained still for a minute, the scent of his laundry soap mingling around hers, fresh and citrusy. She briefly thought maybe she’d crossed some unspoken boundary, but then, he wrapped his arms around her back and held her.

  “What’s this for?”

  She chuckled, fighting back the urge to cry. Crying is only if you want something. “For helping me, and being a friend when you barely know me.”

  “I know you.”

  “Like I said, barely.” Aggie let go, and he did, too. Stepping away, she dared a glance at him and tried her best to wipe away the visual effects the comfort his embrace gifted her with. She needed to leave before she asked for more things without thinking. “I’ll see you next Saturday.”

  “Yep, I’ll be here.”

  Chapter Five

  One week later, the security systems had been installed in both buildings, Murph cleaned out his suppl
ies from Aggie’s apartment, and fresh paint coated the walls. She’d be moving all her stuff in a few hours. He’d volunteered to help but received a firm denial. This was one thing she decided to shell out money on, a pair of moving guys and a truck. Then she’d also promised to bring over a typed agreement for her two months’ stay for him to sign.

  He laughed at the thought. She’d be shocked to know his lease agreements were loose facsimiles of what they should’ve been. Hell, he couldn’t remember if Trix ever signed one. The guy living above her, a friend of his grandmother’s, lived there for years and planned to remain until his heart gave out. No sense in putting in an agreement there. No, he rode the wave, and it treated him pretty good, most of the time.

  Right now, more than good. The painting of Aggie in the café sat nearly finished. The second one, of her sitting across from him at her table, ended up a two-sided picture where he painted her afraid and hesitant. Those facial expressions were locked in his mind, and he loathed it. Loathed how she’d looked at him when he got lost about the cow shakers. They’d been in his bathroom in the medicine cabinet, and how she frowned, recoiling at the idea that he’d want to see her body.

  She didn’t realize how beautiful all those parts of her were, and her body...an artist’s dream. The Renaissance painters would’ve given her millions for a chance to showcase the different facets she held.

  A knock came at the front door and he hollered, “Come in.”

  Patrick poked his head in. “How’s my soon-to-be-famous friend doing?”

  “Alive and great. What are you doing here?”

  Suit-clad and holding a coffee, Patrick strode into the apartment, leaving the door wide open. The foyer door lay in the same position, the screen the only thing separating the outside world from them. “You haven’t called since the break-in. I got worried, especially since you expressed concern about producing more paintings. Obviously, things have changed.”

  His friend’s gaze drifted to the two easels near the front window. Murph had pushed the couch back, setting up a small table and his painting chair. The track lights were positioned to give optimal light at all times of day, which increased a halo effect he’d put around Aggie’s hair in the first picture.