Ash follows my gaze and taps a finger against her skin. “I took this road trip out to California, spent a week sleeping on the beach with...someone who was special to me.”
“Was?” I bite my lip. “Sorry. Not my business.”
“No, it’s okay.” Ash looks at me seriously, though her mouth is softly smiling. “Yeah, was. She and I aren’t together anymore.”
She. Whatever shriveled inside of me earlier uncurls now, stretching out its twisted limbs. She! Well, it isn’t definitive proof, but…
“I got this tattoo on our last day there…” Ash shrugs, offering me a lopsided grin. “She broke up with me the next morning.”
“Oh…” I cough into my hand, in a weak attempt to quell my self-congratulatory joy at Ash’s coming out. Nice to know the old gaydar is still functional. “I mean, I’m sorry. That must have been rough.”
“Hey, at least I didn’t get her name inked on my arm. Haven’t made that mistake yet.” Smile fading, she peers at the wave and stars for a moment, looking thoughtful. “And even if I had, it wouldn’t matter. All of these experiences made me who I am today—good, bad. Ugly and beautiful.” When her eyes meet mine, they’re full of shadows. “How about you?”
“Me?” I blink, uncertain.
“Do you have any tattoos?”
“Oh.” I cough again, nervously. “No. I want one. But my last…partner hated tattoos.” Just say it, Molly. God, if you can’t come out to a lesbian, who can you come out to? “She was a bit of a snob.”
Ash’s lips part, as if with surprise, and she gazes at me for a still, silent moment. Then she laughs, raking a hand back through her close-cropped brown hair. “I take it she’s out of the picture now?”
“Um…” I think of the lilies—which Georgie has, I hope, disposed of, and the deleted cell phone message. I think of my empty house and empty heart. “She’s far out of the picture,” I whisper, staring down at the kitchen floor. “Like…thousands and thousands of miles out.”
Ash’s brows narrow, but she doesn’t pry. Instead, she rests her hand gently upon my shoulder and watches me until I meet her eyes. “Well, then… Maybe it’s time you got that tattoo?”
I smile. “Maybe.”
When my cell phone buzzes this time, I jump, and Ash’s hand falls, regrettably, to her side. I glance at the number quickly and give Ash an apologetic smile. “The museum again.”
“Don’t let me keep you.”
“Oh, but…” I frown. “Are you hungry? I could grab some stuff for you from the house. Fruit or salad fixings or—”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Thanks for the offer. But I’m a big girl, Molly.” A wink, and my knees wobble beneath me. “Plus…I saw that there’s an ice cream place around the corner. Frozen dairy products are my Achilles heel.”
“Oh, God, mine, too.” I smile at her, and then stand there awkwardly for a moment longer than necessary before I take a step toward the living room. “So, I guess I’ll see you tonight? Around six? To shop for a bike.”
She grins. “Right.”
“If I’m going to be late, I’ll—”
Ash points at the phone—still buzzing—in my hand. “You have my number.”
“Yeah.” With a grimace, I press the phone to my ear and wave good-bye.
---
I bang on Terry’s office door for a full minute before he lets me in.
“All right, evasive action,” I say, shutting the door closed behind me.
“Don’t tell me we have to apply for another grant, Molly.” Terry falls into his chair and slumps over the desk. His shirt is wrinkled, and his mouth is fixed in a hopeless frown. His black hair is sticking up all over his head, and with his crooked glasses and baby face, he resembles nothing more than a miserable little boy. “I don’t know if I have it in me.”
“Leave that to me.” I sigh, chewing on my thumbnail—another pet peeve of Juliette’s. With perverse satisfaction, I tear the tip of the nail off with my teeth, and then discreetly dispose of it in the trashcan. “Remember all those pie-in-the-sky plans we had when we were young and optimistic?”
“Was I ever young and optimistic?”
“Once upon a time,” I tease him, poising on the edge of the desk. In truth, Terry is only a few years older than I am, not even 40 yet. “We had all these schemes about revitalizing the museum. Local exhibits and gala events and catered nights of music and poetry…”
“Um, Molly? Let me refresh your memory.” He sits up and looks at me glumly. “We need a lot of money. Like, more money than either of us will earn in ten years combined. I really don’t think poetry—”
“Obviously, we can’t fundraise all the money that we need to restore the wing. But we could earn some of it. Then the grant won’t have to be so monumental. Then maybe it’ll get approved. Maybe—”
He grips his head in his hands and nods slightly. I can’t tell if he’s agreeing with me or on the verge of passing out.
“Terry, are you—”
“Do it.”
“What?”
“Just do it, the…” He gestures helplessly, wincing at the fluorescent lights. “The gala thing. Whatever. I’m desperate. Use me like a puppet. Just get me some damn Advil, will you?”
I spring from the desk and tap him gently on his messy head. “We’ll straighten all of this out. You’ll see.”
“I hope so. Because until we do, I’m going to have Impressionistic nightmares every night. Drowning in a pastel pool of water lilies…”
My smile fades when I hear the word lilies. But I paste another smile on quickly, because Terry just might drown in woe—pastel-colored or otherwise—if I don’t keep up a sunny disposition. Despite the fact that I’m feeling far less than sunny.
I feel cloudy—at best.
---
I stand in the bright, empty gallery and breathe out, long and slow. Then I turn in circles and inhale the colors all around me: Alizarin Crimson, Vermilion, Cadmium Yellow… With quiet steps, I move toward the Georgia O’Keeffe on the south wall, my favorite painting in the entire museum—and my most triumphant acquisition.
Georgie teases me that I only love this piece because of its yonic lines. And, to be honest, that might have something to do with it. My eyes love to follow the floral curves and sink into the cool hues: purples and blues and soft, muted greens.
The colors fold into one another so smoothly, as if they can’t help but meld together, can’t help but combine their individual beauties to form this one transcendent whole.
I exhale.
And then it hits me.
These are the colors I should paint on the walls of my house.
Maybe, if I were surrounded by colors that soothe my heart, I wouldn’t feel quite so brittle and alone—save for Mona Lisa’s sometimes cuddly but more often indifferent feline company.
I smile at the painting now, eyes widening. It’s perfect… I’m so excited by the prospect of reinventing my living space that I skip out of the gallery and hurry to my office to grab my shoulder bag. I still have half an hour left of my lunch break, and there’s a Home Depot around the corner. I’ll go pick up some swatches, start to put together a plan.
I’ve never been a Home Depot kind of girl—lesbian stereotypes aside—but I’ll brave any wild, foreign landscape in a hunt for hues. In my undergraduate days, when I was a naive art major with dreams of becoming a world-traveling painter, I used to spend days blending shades, trying to capture the precise green of a Granny Smith apple, or the hazel of my lover’s eyes. I never really felt as if I had succeeded, always felt something like a fraud… So I became an art historian and abandoned the artist calling, more or less. My perfectionist nature is far better suited to my current line of work—though, when I made the difficult decision to trade paintbrushes and wonderful-smelling pigments for grant-writing and collection management, my bohemian heart cracked neatly in half.
It’ll be nice to pick up a paintbrush again, even if it’s of the roller variety.
I run from my office, through the gallery, and past Georgie’s desk.
“Hey, Molly! Wait!”
Inwardly groaning, I spin on my heel and offer Georgie a weak smile. “What’s up?”
She rises from her chair and comes around the desk to face me, her short blond curls bobbing over her forehead. “I hate to ask and—I don’t know—possibly upset you, but I didn’t want to presume…”
“Presume what?”
“Well, those flowers… Um, they came with a note.”
My stomach falls to my feet. When I swallow and, several moments later, repossess the ability to speak, my voice sounds odd: flat and hollow. “Throw it away, please.”
“But don’t you want to know—”
“No. I just…can’t. I’m trying to put all of that behind me, and if I read it…” I sigh so hard that my shoulders droop and my bag slides from my shoulder. I heft it back up with a faltering smile. “Please, Georgie.”
She gives me a doubtful look, biting her lip. “All right. If you think it’s best…”
“Thanks.” I smile more brightly now, pushing all thoughts of Juliette into the background scenery of my mind. “I’m heading out to choose some paint colors for my house. I won’t be long, but if you need me, just call.”
Georgie’s blue eyes widen, and she grins encouragingly. “Awesome! Have fun!” She glances around the empty entryway with a slanted mouth. “I’m sure the place won’t fall apart if you’re a few minutes late returning from your break. I mean, the floors are just groaning from all of the foot traffic in here. But I can probably handle it.”
I mirror her smirk, breathing out. “Yeah. What have we had—three patrons all morning?”
“Two. The other one was the electrician. Power went out in the east wing, but he got the lights back on—after three hours of expensive manual labor.”
“Great.” If I sigh again, I might make myself faint for lack of oxygen, so I just frown and wince, loosening my tie around my neck. Another bill to stretch the already stretched-to-the-max budget. “Just…don’t tell Terry about it, okay?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it!”
When I step through the museum doors into the sweltering summer sun, I dig my sunglasses out of my bag and march determinedly toward my VW with its bike-ornamented nose.
I’m going to enjoy the next thirty minutes if it kills me.
---
Ash is sitting on the front stoop of my house when I pull into the driveway after work, a large sketchbook resting across her thighs. She’s wearing an orange tank top with tight-fitting black jeans tucked into purple high-top sneakers, and a pair of black-rimmed sunglasses is drawn down over her eyes. I can’t tell whether she’s looking at me or staring at something far more interesting behind me as I climb out of the car and stride toward her, waving my arm in a wide arc.
“Hey, Molly. How was work?” she smiles, shutting her sketchbook and tucking her pencil into the spine as she leans back on her arms, stretching out her long legs before her. In one smooth motion, she shoves the sunglasses onto her head. Her grey eyes sweep over my length from head to toe—slowly, brazenly—and her lazy smile widens. “Foil any art heists? Discover any long-lost masterpieces?”
Blushing, I duck my head, pausing a few feet away from her. “No. But I did expose a multinational art counterfeiting ring and was awarded with the key to the city by the mayor.”
“Not bad.”
I laugh. “You’ve been watching too many movies about the glamorous secret world of museums. In actuality, it’s incredibly boring. Paper pushing, numbers crunching…”
“But you’re surrounded by beauty all day long. That’s got to feed your soul—as an artist, I mean.”
Surprised, I stammer, “Oh, I’m not an—”
“You told me you painted.” Her dark brows lift, challenging, even as her smile softens. She places the sketchbook behind her back and pats the step, urging me to sit down. I do—ungracefully, taking care not to touch her leg with mine.
“Hey.” Ash bumps my shoulder, and I look at her, feeling very raw. “Once an artist, always an artist,” she says, gazing at me pointedly, her breath warm on my face. Again, her scent overwhelms me—peppermint and wildflowers.
I bite my lip and glance away, because I don’t know how to respond. I turned my back on painting years ago. It seems like sacrilege to lay any claim to creativity now.
The moment of silence stretches between us for an uncomfortably long time.
Finally, Ash breathes out and rises with her sketchbook tucked beneath her arm. “Anyway…” She grins down at me and offers her hand. I take it and rise to stand beside her, smiling despite my uneasiness. “Listen.” She removes the sunglasses from her head and sticks them into her belt loop, then rakes a hand through her hair. “I hardly know you. I don’t mean to—”
“It’s okay.”
“No, I mean…” She sighs, staring intently into my eyes, her mouth drawn up into an apologetic curve. “I just hate to see people give up on their dreams. That’s all. And,” she adds quickly, shaking her head, “maybe that isn’t the case with you. I shouldn’t assume. But, you know, if you ever want a refresher course…” She tilts her head down toward me, lips parted.
“A…refresher course?” I swallow.
“In painting.”
“Oh.” My heart starts beating again, though its rhythm is distractingly erratic. “Right. Um, thanks.”
“The offer’s there, whenever—if ever—you’re ready.” She grins, gesturing toward the dirt road that leads to the cottage. “I’m only a jaunt away.”
“Jaunt?” I laugh softly. “Did you take a scientific measurement?”
Ash nods, making a crook with her arm, encouraging me to weave my hand through. I wobble a little as I take her elbow lightly: I feel so vulnerable in her warm, welcoming presence, so open and seen, so apt to say something foolish...
“So,” I begin, in a pathetic attempt to change the subject, “ready to pick out a new set of wheels?”
“God, yes,” she sighs, then turns her head to grin at me as we walk together toward my VW. “I was so dependent on that thing. I feel like I’ve had an arm cut off.” She chuckles to herself. “I feel naked.”
Don’t think about it, Molly! Don’t picture her—But of course I do. I picture Ash naked…and then I turn Quinacridone Red all over again.
---
I realize, after spending half an hour in Wheelin’ & Dealin’ with Ash and the chatty hipster shop owner, whose nametag reads Dan, that my knowledge of bicycles is equivalent to a triceratops’ knowledge of text messaging.
Precisely zero.
I can ride a bike, more or less, though I haven’t sat astride a seat since I was in junior high. Back then, bikes were little more than excuses for accessorizing—handlebar tassels, plastic flower-covered baskets, those obnoxious, tinny-sounding bells. I used to ride laps around the baseball field with my neighbor Kylie—not because I enjoyed riding, but because I had a huge crush on Kylie: two years older than me and a reckless tomboy of a girl.
But Kylie, for all of her boy jeans-wearing and potty-mouthed swagger, was as straight as an arrow. No, straighter. When she started dating football jock Mike Quimby in ninth grade, I dragged my pink Huffy into the shed, and it never saw the light of day again.
I eye a bubblegum pink ten-speed now with barely concealed disdain.
“Hey, Molly, what do you think of this one?”
Weaving through the rows of chrome, I meet up with Ash beside a vintage-styled bike with a decidedly non-vintage finish: it’s painted in zigzag stripes of purple, silver and black.
“Custom job,” Dan says, patting the faux leather seat. “Won’t find another one like this anywhere. Built it myself, and my paint guy did all the fancy work.”
I have to admit: “It’s spectacular.”
Ash grins at me and gives Dan a palm-smacking high-five. “Ring her up, then. I’ve found my two-wheeled soulmate.” She smoothes her han
d over the shiny handlebars, leaning near, as if to whisper in the bicycle’s ear. “I think I’ll name you Xena.”
I laugh softly as Dan leaves us to go write up the purchase order. “It really is a beautiful bike, Ash.”
She toes up the kickstand and wheels Xena down from the platform. “And I never would have found her if it weren’t for you.” Her eyes meet mine, and a shudder lances through me, but I quell it, remembering the circumstances of her losing her original bike.
Shrugging apologetically, I follow after Dan with Ash trailing behind me, the bike wheels softly clicking as they roll over the shop floor. “Please don’t thank me. I could have crippled you for life. Or worse. God.” I start to dig my wallet out of my bag. “I mean, I’m glad you found a bike that you love, but—”
Ash catches up with me and rests a hand on my arm; I pause, watching her, my credit card in my hand.
“Everything happens for a reason, Molly.” Her smile is so warm, so inviting, that I find myself leaning toward her. “I’ve always believed that. I know it’s true.”
“I…” I think about my disastrous relationship with Juliette. I think about my failed attempt to become a professional artist. I think about my vacant rooms and the galleries of the Normal Art Museum, empty of patrons. And I sigh. “I just have no proof for that.”
“No?” Ash’s mouth curves into a slow, sly grin. “Well… You will.”
---
I shove aside the paint chips layering my desk and prop my head up on my hand, gazing blearily toward the partially shaded window. There’s a book from Terry about writing Knock ‘em Dead grant proposals on the floor beside my foot, resting atop a pile of mail that Georgie gave me when I came into the office this morning. But as I gaze down at the mess of paper now, the words blur, and my eyes, despite my halfhearted opposition, drift closed…
And I fall into the dream.
Drawn to You Page 4