“What? I’m the most boring girl on the planet!”
“No way. You’re a pretty new girl in a hotbed of love triangles, the nuances of which would take ages to explain.” Beth started counting off points on her fingers. “You’re dating Nick. Renee likes Nick. Natalie likes Jake. Jake likes you. And around and around we go.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Do you like someone?”
“Me? No way. I’m not getting on this crazy merry-go-round. I’m going back to bed. But keep me informed.”
Even though it was impossible not to laugh at Beth, my amusement quickly faded when she was gone. The sun coming through the window behind me warmed my back and illuminated the stack of boxes I was painting. They were the only prop I could find.
Taking Mr. Chavez’s lectures to heart and painting in all different lights, I’d painted the boxes several times already as the light moved across them with the passing of time. I’d scraped the paint off my canvas twice now and started again, but I wasn’t satisfied with any of my attempts. No matter what, the lines blurred together. Not much different than my social life, really.
Thirty minutes later, I’d given it up in favor of a bowl of cornflakes. The smell of paint on my hands ruined the flavor though. I’d just dumped it down the garbage disposal when Natalie and Jake walked in the front door.
“Hey,” I said, hoping they wouldn’t guess that I’d been camped out waiting for them to get home.
“Good morning,” Natalie said. Then looking over her shoulder, she asked Jake, “Want some water?”
“That’d be great,” he said.
Jake sat on a stool across from me and leaned forward on his elbows. Our eyes met across the counter.
“I can’t wait till it cools down,” Natalie said, handing Jake a glass of ice water. “Running is so much harder when it’s hot like this.”
He made a sound of agreement as he drank.
“As opposed to when?” I asked. “I don’t believe it ever cools down here.”
Jake lowered his glass and chuckled. “I’ll check back with you on that in December.”
Natalie refilled her empty glass. “Winter sounds awesome right about now.”
“Yeah. And I won’t have to mow Grams’ giant lawn anymore. You ready to head over there, Lauren?”
I blinked at him. “This early?”
“If you can. It’s only going to get hotter and I have an acre to mow. Plus, I’m dying for a shower, but I’m waiting till I get all the yardwork done.”
“Will she even be awake?”
“She gets up early. All old people do.”
“Okay, if you give me a few minutes. I need to get my portfolio to show her.”
“Sure, go ahead,” he said before drinking some more water.
I glanced at Natalie as I left and saw her carefully peeling a banana, looking very unconcerned. The light coming through the window lit her red ponytail on fire and highlighted a few wispy curls that had come loose. Her creamy skin was flushed from her run and her tall figure looked lean and feminine in her running clothes. I must look so underwhelming next to her.
But there was nothing I could do about that, so when I went to get ready, I just cleaned my hands and threw my hair up in a bun before tying a bandana around it. I didn’t bother changing my jeans and green t-shirt, even though they had not escaped my art session without blemish. If anyone would understand a few smears of paint, though, another artist would.
I grabbed one of my sketchbooks and a photobook my mom had made of some of my bigger pieces that I’d had to leave at home—like the mural I’d painted on the side of our barn and all the landscapes in my cave gallery. She wanted me to remember them while I was gone. For encouragement, I think, and to remind me I wasn’t a complete novice.
Back in the kitchen, Jake was alone, putting his glass next to the sink. When he saw I was back, he looked thoughtfully at me.
Uneasy under his steady gaze, I asked, “Ready to go?”
“If you are.”
As we went outside, Jake said, “My truck is across the street at my apartment. Do you mind?”
“No, of course not. I’m the one who still needs to exercise today, remember?”
I glanced sideways at him and caught his grin. Making him smile could easily become an obsession. I tried to remind myself that he had this effect on a lot of girls, but it was hard.
We didn’t talk as we walked to his truck. He unlocked it and opened the passenger door to move a box full of papers to the middle so I could sit down. “Sorry,” he said. “My 2D design students just had their first test. As you see, I’m putting off grading them as long as I can.”
“Yeah. Tests in an art class are like a fly in the jam jar. You should be a cooler teacher than that.” I put my seatbelt on as he walked around and got in.
“Unfortunately, I’m required to be uncool. It’s no fun on this side of it either.” He pulled out of the parking lot and said, “But it’s a simple vocabulary test, so it will be easy to grade.”
“Unlike actual projects?”
“Yeah. Looking at the quality of a student’s work and measuring it against their potential and the expectations for the class, and concentrating it into a grade is the most challenging part of this job. It’s so subjective.”
“I’ve noticed that. I got a rude awakening my first year at the junior college back home. My high school art teacher loved everything I did. My college art teachers, not so much. At least, not at first.”
We were quiet for the rest of the short drive. The bright morning sun gleamed on his strong, tanned arm as he rested it in the open window, and the tang of his perspiration mixed with the fresh air, a surprisingly pleasant scent.
Soon he pulled into a long driveway. Enormous trees stretched their branches overhead. Shafts of light shot through them and stretched over well-tended beds spilling over with flowers. The house sat fifty yards back from the road and looked as if it had been there forever. It was painted white and had a big, red brick front porch that stretched the length of the house. Ferns and petunias hung from baskets under the roof, looking fresh and green despite the scorching summer heat.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, awe filling my voice.
“It’s a lot of work is what it is. And guess who gets to do it all?” Then he shrugged and smiled at me. “It makes her happy though.”
“I can see why,” I said as I got out of the truck.
Jake led the way over to the front door and knocked, but didn’t wait for an answer before he walked inside. “Grams, I’m here. I brought Lauren to see you.”
“Bring her back to the studio,” a faint voice called from a long way off.
“Come on,” Jake said, shutting the door behind us and leading the way.
The house smelled unmistakably of old linen and mulberry potpourri. Lace curtains dappled the light over the Berber carpet, and old figurines rested on doilies scattered amongst various side tables. I absorbed every detail, feeling the mantle of time that hung over everything.
Jake waited patiently with a slight smile on his face, until I had looked my fill, and then led the way through a dark hallway. We passed a vivid pink bathroom that smelled like lavender soap and several bedrooms with chenille bedspreads and more lace curtains before we got to a sun room at the end.
It was obviously an addition to the house, but a charming one with floor to ceiling windows all the way around. Easels and plants vied for space. A paint-splattered work bench stood at one end, holding muddied jars filled with mineral spirits and brushes. At one end, a quiet fan blew fumes out an open window. His grandma sat on a padded chair in front of a canvas, absorbed in her work. Jake and I faced the back of her easel, and as much as I wanted to see what she was working on, I didn’t dare peek without permission.
For a moment, we might as well have not existed for all the notice she took of us. She wasn’t even painting, just looking at the canvas with an eagle glare.
She turned her head and touched her brush to the canvas for one downward stroke, then dropped the brush on the table next to her. Her palette clattered as she dropped it too, and then she finally turned to look at us.
She stood up, untied the strings of her large apron, and draped it over her chair. She was an elderly woman with the purest white hair I’d ever seen. It was piled up on top of her head in an elegant bun with small, wispy curls escaping around her lined face. There was a slight stoop to her posture, but her big costume jewelry and flowing gypsy skirt belied her age.
With a quick smile, she held out her wrinkled, blue veined hand to me and grasped mine with surprising strength as I gave it to her.
Jake stepped to his grandma’s side. “Grams, this is Lauren.”
“What’s her last name, boy? Don’t you know how to do an introduction properly?” The words were a rebuke, but Jake took it in stride.
“Well, yes, but you already know her last name.” But his grandma just raised her eyebrow, only the slight angle to her lips hinting that she enjoyed teasing him. Jake shook his head and grinned. “Lauren West, this is Irma Bellfonte. She’s a testy old thing, but I love her anyway.”
“Thanks for coming to see me,” she said, ignoring him with the dignity of a queen. She tilted her head to the side, her eyes raking me up and down, just as if she was about to start a sketch to do my portrait.
I couldn’t help the slight lift to one of my eyebrows and the start of a true smile as the humor of it struck me. “I’m not very good at holding a pose,” I told her softly. “But I’ll do my best.”
“Ha,” she said – the crack of laughter masquerading as a word. Something on my hand caught her eye. She pulled it up towards her face for a better look. I looked to see what it might be, and saw that I had done a less than stellar job cleaning my hands, especially under my fingernails.
“Excellent. You’ve already been working this morning. Too many young people are indolent when they should be taking advantage of every hour given to them.” She sent a direct look at her grandson, heavy with meaning.
Jake laughed and said, “All right, I’m going. You two have fun. I’ll be slaving away in the heat. Don’t worry about me.”
I smiled at the way he was so good humored around his grandma. I didn’t have long to think about it though. Still clutching my hand, she pulled me over to a green vinyl couch.
“Let’s see what you’ve got here,” she said, taking the photo book from my hands.
She turned the pages in silence, looking at some longer than others, but never saying a word. I was encouraged that she nodded her head a lot and ran her fingers over the pages like she could feel the paint even though they were just photographs.
When she finally closed the book, I said, “Mrs. Bellfonte…”
“Please call me Irma. Is that a sketchbook you have there?”
I nodded and surrendered it to her. I tried again. “Irma, would you mind if I went and looked at what you are working on?”
“Please yourself.”
I stood and walked over to her easel. She was painting her jar of brushes, of all things, and it was incredible. She managed to capture the way the light refracted through the jar and the clear liquid inside. It was incredible to see the slight tint to the turpentine and the pigment that had settled to the bottom in a floating cloud, waiting to be stirred up again. “Is it done?” I asked her.
“Done? Hah. Paintings are never done. You just have to put them away or waste away your life. Now, I see you have done a lot of landscapes in New Mexico. Have you painted any since coming to Arkansas?”
“No, not yet.”
“Now’s as good a time as any. Jake won’t be finished with the yard work for a while. Why don’t you work on something? Here’s your sketchbook.”
“I didn’t bring any pencils or anything with me.”
She raised an eyebrow at me. “In the second drawer on the left there. Now, get busy. This light won’t last forever.”
I found some pencils and made myself comfortable in a deep arm chair in the corner of the room. The aspect of trees beyond the window beckoned me to trace their outline.
I heard the distant rumble of a lawn mower starting up. Irma settled in front of her easel again. Somewhere in the room, a clock ticked monotonously. But all these sounds faded as I worked to capture the loveliness of leaves in sunshine, the grace of spreading branches, and the embrace of roots and earth.
I would have remained lost to my work forever if Jake hadn’t moved into my frame of vision. He pushed the mower into view and I was distracted by his methodical passes between the trees. Instead of the beauty of nature, I obsessed over the lines of his strong body and the athletic grace of every move he made. Safe from curious eyes, I imagined what it would be like to be his. My heart pounded with my day dreams and something that might be hope if I was honest, which I couldn’t afford to be.
Jake stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow with the bottom of his t-shirt and looked around the yard for a moment, checking his progress. I glanced over and saw that Irma was gone, so I pulled my phone out, zoomed in on him, and snapped a picture. Feeling strangely exhilarated, I began a new sketch, using my photo as reference.
In a little while, the tinkle of ice in glasses distracted me. I looked over and saw Irma placing a tray down on the coffee table in front of her green couch. She’d brought lemonade, which looked cool and refreshing even though it was the color of sunshine.
“Go tell that grandson of mine that he’s done enough and to come in and cool off.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I found him watering some nearly spent tomato plants next to a shed in the backyard. He looked like he could use a good rinsing with the hose himself. From behind, sweat darkened the shoulders of his t-shirt and his legs were flecked with grass clippings.
I walked quietly over and picked up the hose. I pinched it in half and twisted it into a kink.
Just as I’d hoped, Jake turned the hose towards him instinctively to see why the water had stopped. In that second, I let go. The water gushed out at him and he gave a shout as he threw the hose away from him. He looked over at me with the funniest expression of surprise on his face. I was laughing so hard that I didn’t react when he picked the hose up again, and aimed it at me, using his thumb to increase its force as it sprayed me.
“Stop! No!” I ran out of range, but too late. He’d soaked my whole right side.
“That’s what you get,” he said, laughing.
“Hey, I was just helping you out. You looked hot.”
“Thanks. So did you,” he said, grinning and wiggling his eyebrows.
“That’s not what I meant. Your grandma wants you to come inside and cool off.”
He nodded, still smiling. “I’ll be in after I put the mower away.”
My wet t-shirt hadn’t bothered me much outside, but as I walked into the air-conditioned house, it clung, cold and clammy against my skin. Chill bumps broke out on my skin and I tried to hold it away from me. Fortunately, Irma’s studio was warmer than the rest of her house. I hesitated to sit down, but quickly realized that a little damp fabric wouldn’t hurt the vinyl.
“Is he coming?” Irma asked from the other end of the room as she inspected my drawings.
Oh crud!
“Yes. He’ll be here soon. Uh…what do you think?”
“They’re excellent. I’m not sure my grandson is that muscular though. I’m sure you pay more attention to that, however, so maybe I’m wrong. What classes are you taking?”
“Figure drawing and Painting.”
“Ah, I was never good at the figure. Of course, I never had much training in it, nor anybody to practice on. My Joe rarely let me draw him. I had to catch him sleeping in a chair. And of course, my children never stood still long enough to let the dust settle around them. Mostly I had to copy drawings out of books.”
“Yes, that’s part of our homework. We have to do sketches of hands and feet and torsos out of a b
ook. In the studio, we get to draw live models.”
“Ah, that would be amazing. Are they nude?”
“No. The school doesn’t allow it. I’m so relieved. Can you think of anything more awkward than having to draw some naked guy while trying not to actually look at – you know?”
A strange choking noise in the doorway alerted me to the fact that Jake had arrived. “I imagine it would be uncomfortable for him too,” he said, clearly trying not to laugh.
“Maybe not for the kind of guy who would agree to do it,” I said, determined not to be embarrassed. “Want some lemonade?”
He took a glass from the tray and dropped onto the couch beside me like he didn’t have an ounce of energy left. He drank most of the glass in one chug and leaned back, letting his head drop on the back of the couch. I took a drink of my lemonade, allowing one of the ice cubes to slip into my mouth. Crunching on it gave me something to do besides talking. Something I should clearly stop doing.
Irma walked over and dropped my sketch book on the table next to the empty tray. “Yes. I see the benefit of drawing the nude form – seeing the way the muscles pull taut and the joints tilt with nothing to impede your view. Joe would no more have posed nude for me than he would have swum in a creek full of leeches. Still, maybe someday your husband won’t mind.”
Jake leaned forward and reached for my sketchbook. I beat him to it and closed it before he could see my drawing of him.
What had Irma been saying? Something about drawing my nude husband. Oh, holy moly, this conversation needed to die.
“Nick wouldn’t mind. He’s pretty proud of himself,” Jake said.
“I’m not marrying Nick.” I told him, my voice choked with mortification.
Jake looked at me, his eyes direct and unwavering. “Interesting. That sounds like you’ve decided to end it. Unless you’re just stringing him along?”
I caught my breath. “I mean—I don’t know if I’m going to marry him. I hadn’t even thought about it.”
“I find that hard to believe. Not even once?”
“Not seriously,” I said.
He stood up and set his empty glass on the tray. “Maybe you should. Have you and Grams been having fun?”
Before It's Love Page 9