Painting Kisses

by Melanie Jacobson

  “Thanks.”

  “Lia? I was wondering, would you want to hang out some time? Somewhere that isn’t here, I mean?”

  Ten minutes before, I would have said yes, but what if this was about pity now? I looked down at the brush and ran my fingers over the bristles, forcing the excess thinner out. “I don’t know,” I said, looking up. If I’d seen relief in his eyes, that would have become a permanent “Never.” But I caught disappointment, like I’d yanked away his steak after one good bite. And that changed my answer. “Okay, yeah. Let’s do something sometime.”

  “Cool.” With a small wave, he retreated to his house.

  It wasn’t sealed with a kiss or anything, but it felt good anyway. No more guessing games. With him, at least. We were going on an actual date, calling it a date, and doing it because we both wanted to.

  I stooped down and fished out a Vosges bar. There was a whole new guessing game to play now.

  * * *

  When I rolled into the diner the next morning, Tom took one look at me and frowned. “You look like someone dragged you through the canyon by your hair. What happened?”

  I touched the messy top knot I’d wrangled after stumbling out of bed. “Nothing. I didn’t sleep much.”

  “Chloe?”

  “No.” Oils. And canvas. And ideas. And I’d worked until two in the morning, alive with the feeling that I could never have enough paint or time to get everything out. Six a.m. came extra early after a late night. “I was working on a project. Lost track of time.”

  “Lost track of your comb is more like it,” he said, and I had to grin.

  “Shut up and flip some more hash browns. I’ll get my work done.”

  “Yeah, but I think you might make some people lose their appetites looking like that.”

  “There has to be a rule against you harassing me about my appearance. I’m telling Ramona.”

  He snorted. “She’d shove you in the bathroom with a hairbrush and lipstick. Good luck.”

  I grabbed the coffeepot and stuck my tongue out at him before making my first round of the tables. By early afternoon, I had to admit that the late orders and unfilled mugs customers had complained about hadn’t been my finest work, but it hadn’t been due to lack of sleep. My mind kept wandering to the painting, and my whole body wanted to walk out and throw myself at it, to explore what using sap green and viridian for the facing mountain would look like.

  When I finally shoved my apron in the laundry bin, Tom was frowning at me. “You gonna be okay tomorrow? Because you were not fantastic today.”

  “I like that you can scold me and fuss over me in the same breath.”

  “I don’t mind people having a bad day. I do like to know how many I should expect.”

  “I started painting again, that’s all. And sometimes it gets hold of me, and I lose track of other things. I’m almost done with the painting. I’ll be more on the ball tomorrow and back to normal when it’s done.”

  “When is that going to be?”

  I brushed a hand through my hair and thought about the canvases at home. “Don’t know. Maybe four or five days. This one’s coming fast.”

  “Would it come faster if you had more time to work on it? You could take a day or two off. You’ve earned a vacation at this point.”

  True. I’d taken only a handful of days off in the whole three years I’d worked there, and that was pretty much only when Dani had been called in unexpectedly to her work and needed me with Chloe. I hadn’t taken time off for me mainly because no work meant no pay. But the painting was paid work. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t want me to come back while I’m scatterbrained?”

  “I’m straight up telling you that you should go paint. You look happy. We’ll survive for a couple of days if it’ll help you finish your paint stuff.”

  I couldn’t pass that up. The painting was good, better than anything I’d done in New York, and I had no doubt Daddy Warbucks would cough up my old prices for it. Victoria would be ecstatic with her commission, and it would pay for missing a few days at T&R a hundred times over.

  “I think that would be good,” I said. “You sure it won’t leave you in a tough spot?”

  “How often have you covered for the other girls or Caden when they needed time off?”

  Fair enough. “Great. I’ll be out until Friday.”

  He nodded. “Go make yourself some nice pictures.”

  “They’re not nice, exactly.”

  “Then make some pictures that make you happy, and I’ll see you in a few days.”

  I blew an air kiss at him and scurried out while he hollered after me, “I’m telling Ramona!”

  But my mind was too far into the painting to spare any thought for his empty threat. Ramona would only laugh, anyway.

  Chapter 13

  The next day when I explained to Dani that I’d taken time off work to finish the painting, she grinned. “It’ll be confusing to be in the house with you at the same time during the day for more than an hour, but I guess I can handle it. Chloe and I are going to get up to no good. Have fun painting.”

  The satisfaction written all over her face that I was deep inside my art again reminded me of cats and canaries, and it made me wonder if after years of pushing, Dani had decided to push me over the verge I’d teetered on by secretly giving me the supplies, like the brushes.

  It wasn’t a totally crazy thought. She’d know what I needed from back in the day when our playroom had become my “studio” at home as we outgrew toys. She’d seen my art stuff everywhere until the day I left for college, had watched me scrimp to buy the exact brushes that someone had sent me. It wouldn’t be that hard for her to remember them. But it would be incredibly hard for her to pay for them.

  Then again, I’d never heard pennies scream as loud as the ones she pinched, but even with her ruthless control over her budget, there was no way she could have afforded a set like that. I asked anyway. “Did you send me the stuff, Dani? Like, as a way to get me to paint again?”

  She laughed. “I’m a good sister, but I’m not a rich one. And why would I send you a basket of food? I’m sure it was Griff. He was trying to tip you off to his secret benefactor status with that fancy steak dinner. Chloe can’t stop talking about it. Sounds like a fun night.” Her voice was wistful, and the familiar pang of wishing I could take her bullets but knowing I couldn’t pulsed through my chest. I wasn’t sure whether the touch of sadness in her face was about her wanting to give Chloe fancy restaurant experiences herself or about the mere fact that she was missing out on any of Chloe’s experiences. Probably both.

  “It’s not Griff,” I said.

  “Can’t be anyone else.”

  “It has to be someone else. Let me tell you a sad, sad story.”

  Her eyes widened as I explained how wrong I’d gotten it, and then they flashed with a look I couldn’t decipher. Before I could ask her about it, her eyebrows lowered in a sure sign that she was thinking hard, and she asked the question I’d been puzzling over since Griff had left. “Then who is it?”

  “I only have one theory, but it freaks me out a little. Could Daddy Warbucks be behind this?”

  “It’s not even pocket change to him, probably. But there are too many other variables. Like why would he be taking the time to send you this stuff? And why would he send you a flower book? Or watercolor brushes when he wants you to work in oils? And more importantly, how would he know where to find you? I mean, is he sending couriers to drop things at our house now? It’s creepy. Call Victoria. See what she thinks.”

  “Yeah. I have to talk to her about shipping my painting anyway.”

  “So it’s done?”

  “It’s close.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Come on down.” I led her to the garage so she could look.

  She walked in and stopped stock still, as if absorbing the size of the canvas for the first time. “Whoa.”

  She shifted so she was directly in front of the painting
but as far back as she could get, and then she said nothing, only stared. I let her look while I tidied my paints, but her silence wore on me after a couple of minutes. The piece was different from anything I’d done but was still so clearly me. Did she dislike the change so much that she couldn’t find words to say something nice?

  When I couldn’t invent any other busywork, I braced myself for the expression she wore when she didn’t want you to know what she was thinking, but I’d had our whole lives to figure out that it meant she was holding back something big, heavy, or deep.

  The expression on her face was wide open, and she reached up to wipe away a tear when she caught me staring at her. “I’m so going to kill you,” she said.

  “What?” Definitely not any of the top ten reactions I’d expected.

  “I didn’t know, Lia. I didn’t know you could do this, and now I’m so mad that you haven’t been. And how could you not be? How could you not be doing this every minute of your life? This is amazing.”

  My eyes stung. “I didn’t want to until now. I didn’t know this was all in there.”

  She ran over to me and hugged me, squeezing so hard I had to wiggle to create space to breathe. She leaned back but kept her hands on my shoulders so I couldn’t duck away from her hard glare. “You should be doing this and only this and never anything else. I’m dropping my classes to a half load so you don’t have to babysit as much, and you should call the diner and tell them they’re never, ever going to see you again because I’m chaining you to your easel.”

  I pulled her hands from my shoulders but kept a firm grip on her wrists. “Drop your classes and I’ll be the one doing the murdering. If you don’t want your daughter raised by her eccentric artist aunt and eating food out of boxes until her growth is stunted and her skin glows cheesy mac orange, you’d better keep your classes as they are.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, and I squeezed her wrists in warning, jerking my head toward the painting behind me. “If I do one more of those, I don’t have to work for the rest of the year. Warbucks will pay thirty thousand for it, and once he sees it, he’ll pay more for the rest. And I’m doing seven more. So stop stressing. If I can get a second painting out, I’ll know I can handle the commission, and I promise I’ll quit T&R. But you will not under any circumstances drop any of your classes. Do you understand?”

  Her mouth had dropped open at the price tag on the painting, but she snapped it closed and nodded. “I understand, all right. What I just heard is that Redbox is your treat forever now, Moneybags.”

  I let go of her and sighed. “You’re always so high maintenance.”

  A grin split her face, a pure happiness untinged by exhaustion for the first time in months. “My sister’s a genius, and I get to see it all happen.”

  “I’m so uncomfortable with this gushiness. Go somewhere else.”

  She laughed and headed back into the house to get Chloe, who darted into the garage to hug me a few minutes later before they set off for the children’s museum.

  I picked up the phone and dialed Victoria’s number. “It’s almost done,” I said when she answered.

  “Can you text me a picture when it’s finished?”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “Of course I do. It’s just been so long since I’ve seen a Leandra original, and I’m parched for it like a fish in the desert.”

  “I’ll send it. But it’s time to talk about shipping.”

  “I’ve already checked in with a friend who owns a gallery in Park City and arranged everything. He’s going to send his guys to handle it if you let me pass on your address.”

  “Speaking of addresses, did you give Daddy Warbucks my address for some reason? Or give it to his secretary for billing reasons?”

  No,” she said, her voice alert to the worry in mine. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because those anonymous gifts keep coming. I wondered if he was behind it somehow, but he doesn’t know where I am.”

  “He’s got resources. I found you fairly fast. It would be even easier for him.”

  The idea of him sending gifts to me at my work and at my home made me shiver. It smacked too much of Dr. Evil, secretly monitoring me from his lair, but I reined in my imagination. He might be the only person with the actual resources and some kind of passing interest in encouraging my art for his own purposes, but it still didn’t explain the gift of the food. It wasn’t him.

  “I think trying to figure this out might make me crazy.”

  “As long as you channel the craziness into your art, that’s fine with me.”

  “You have a one-track mind, Victoria.”

  “It’s what makes me spectacularly good at what I do.”

  I laughed and hung up on that bit of brashness, but my smile faded as I put the phone away and eyed the paints again. Who was behind the gifts?

  Chapter 14

  When I showed up for work on Friday, Tom met me with an expectant look. “Well? Get all this art out of your system so you’re ready for hash slinging?”

  “Yeah, I’ve repented of art. I live to serve.”

  “All right, your royal fanciness, you can start with Mr. Benny. He’s been asking for you.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. And he’s not the only one. Dog Guy has been in here every day you’ve been gone, acting like he’s not looking for you. Not fooling me though. Asked me on the first day where you were, and I said you were taking some time off. He tried to be all casual and ask until when, but I’m not in the habit of enabling stalkers.”

  I wanted to hug him for his gruff concern, but I patted his arm instead so he wouldn’t bluster. “I don’t think he’s a stalker, but it’s kind of weird he’s been in here every day. I’ll handle it.” By which I meant I’d stay out of sight as much as possible when he showed up. His help had unlocked a new direction in my painting, yes, but now that I’d figured out which direction to go, I didn’t need him spinning me in a thousand other directions instead with stolen kisses or stares so intense they would make Tom blush.

  Even the possibility that Aidan might come put me on heightened alert through the morning. Every time the door swished open, the muscles in my arms and neck tightened until I saw someone else step into the diner.

  “It’s nice to have all of you here,” Tom said. “You work better when your brain shows up too.”

  “Tell that to Mr. Benny,” I said. He’d already complained about my tardy refills twice.

  “Ignore him. Glad you’re back.”

  A tiny bit of guilt gnawed at me. It wasn’t dedication to my job that was keeping me focused; it was lack of anything else to distract me. If I’d had a new canvas to fill at home, I couldn’t have given my customers the same attention. But I didn’t have a new painting. The inspiration that had burst out to get the first piece done had dried up just as fast. I’d been so sure my creative flow had been set to full blast, but when I’d looked over my preliminary sketches for my second piece, apathy had yawned open inside of me like one of those bizarre Florida sinkholes that ate whole houses.

  When Aidan walked in, I didn’t see him so much as sense him. A low-level electricity charged the air and announced it was him the second the door opened. Tom puttered at the grill, same as always, but it was there—almost like static.

  Aidan made his way to his booth—when had it become his booth?—and sat, waiting. I hefted the coffeepot and made sure to stop and top off a few mugs before his. He watched me, the side of his mouth quirked up ever so slightly like he thought he was on to me.

  It wasn’t an act. I didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to try to sort through the complicated thoughts that knotted together worse than my twine ball every time I thought about Aidan and kissing and Aidan. I liked kissing him. But I didn’t like losing track of everything else, even for a few moments when it happened. Losing track of reality was fine when I was painting, not when I was kissing. I’d lost too much of myself when I’d drowned in Donovan. Aidan had th
e same magnetic pull, and I hated that even though I could see it clearly this time, it was hard to resist the tug.

  “What number are we on today?” I asked when I reached him.

  “Thirteen.”

  My eyes flew to his. “Tom said you’ve been in the last few days. You should be past that.”

  “Nope. I’ve been eating the specials, waiting for you to show up so I could move down the menu. Did Tom tell you I’ve been asking for you?”

  “He mentioned it.” I busied myself with fishing my order pad from my apron pocket, a distraction as transparent as the window next to Aidan.

  “Ask me why,” he said.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you told me to. And last time I checked, Tom was my boss, not you.”

  “She doesn’t even listen to me,” Tom barked from the grill, and I heard a rusty chuckle from Mr. Benny.

  Aidan pursed his lips and studied me for a moment. I nudged his menu at him, an unsubtle reminder to give me his official order. He pushed it aside. “Will you ask me why I was asking for you?” He made the request sound very polite.

  I nudged the menu back.

  “Please?” he added, sounding like he was trying not to laugh.

  “Aidan, why were you asking for me?”

  “Because I wanted to see you.”

  I blinked at him. “That’s it?”

  He blinked back. “Yes. Isn’t that a good reason?”

  “I thought with the dramatic buildup that you were going to tell me you wanted to return a million dollars that fell out of my pocket at Pine Peak or maybe ask me for a kidney. But you just wanted to see me?”

  He looked taken aback. He must be used to women treating his interest in them as equivalent to getting a million dollars. I tried not to roll my eyes, and behind the grill, Tom flat out laughed at Aidan’s expression.

  “Men come to see me all day long, Aidan.” I waved the pot in front of them. “I’ve got their coffee.”

  That prompted a few more laughs from the other guys, who gave up acting like they weren’t listening, but I reddened when I realized I had their attention. I braced for what Donovan would have done at being publicly embarrassed—lashed out with an insult or turned dark and brooding. But Aidan didn’t look upset at all. Instead, he became still like Chief had right before he’d tried to pounce on a chipmunk at Aidan’s jobsite the other day. Then Aidan smiled, and his eyes gleamed in a way that I immediately knew was more dangerous than Donovan’s quicksilver temper. It was a thoughtful gleam, like he was puzzling something out and had finally found a corner piece.