Private Internship

by Kitsy Clare

  FLUID: My art is getting more fluid. Fluidity is not just about being watery and wet. It’s about not being scared to change, having the nerve to switch in midstream, to try new things and stretch yourself in ways you never dreamed possible. About being open to opportunities and not prejudging other people, or even yourself! About not being scared to love.

  MESS: I’m making spectacular messes in my paintings! Spatters, blotches, and misty shadows—things that would have triggered me into a horrific panic attack before. If Charles can work against the horrors and lies of his past, I can work against the terror of my childhood chaos and mess—my reaction to my mother’s hoarding and her total inability to function in the real world. Her inability to find true love doesn’t mean I can’t. Things won’t fall apart if I don’t have every last thing organized on my Google calendar or all of my dresses aren’t sectioned off by color in my closet.

  I close the journal and smile. Get out this week’s crop of work. I’ve already painted into my prints, and then digitally printed that round so they look computer made again, yet much more hauntingly cool. The crispness of the computer art plays well against the newly digitized painterly splashes.

  I paint into them for a second time to enrich them even more in a way that’s similar to how, when each year goes by, it creates another rich stratum of soil or another circular tier of bark on a tree.

  Wow. Standing back, I revel in the concrete evidence of my artistic growth. Last year, when I was fixated on Photoshopped floating jewels devoid of human touch or emotion, I would’ve never predicted I’d be doing this kind of risky expressive stuff. I giggle as I wash my brushes in turpentine, also reveling in the news I’ll tell Charles.

  My cell pings. Crap! It always seems to ping when my hands are dotted with paint. It pings again. Incoming call. Maybe it’s Charles. I better grab it. What’s another spot of paint on my cell in the bigger scheme of things? Hey, pretty soon my phone will look like Jackson Pollock spatter art.

  I pick it up and click it open. “Charles?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are we still on for tonight?”

  “Yeah, but, um,” he’s breathing hard like he’s been running, “I’m a bit unraveled.”

  He sure sounds it; his voice is shaking. “What happened?”

  “My art dealer came and had a mouthful to say about my new work. But that’s not it. The big news is that Ella Gaines’ mother is coming to my studio tomorrow. To see my new work, to talk.”

  “What? How…I mean, how does she know where you are and how’s she getting to New York so fast?”

  “I called her yesterday, Sienna. I left a message. I got my courage up after you and I talked and I guess she booked a reservation ASAP.”

  “Holy mother of God, Charles, so she called you back.”

  “Like, immediately.” I sense that he’s beyond overwhelmed, that his heart is racing, and I’d bet he’s pacing, too. “I want you to be there,” he adds breathlessly.

  “Are you sure? Don’t you want some priva—”

  “I want my girlfriend there, my heart.”

  Oh wow. He just said it—girlfriend, I’m his girlfriend.

  “Sienna? Will you? It would mean a lot.”

  “Of course, I’d be honored.”

  “Want to come out tonight? Or sooner?”

  “Um....”

  He must sense something’s amiss because he switches his focus. “How are you, Sienna? How was Rey’s? God, I’m so sorry that I didn’t ask you sooner. I just didn’t expect Ella’s mother to—”

  “It’s okay, Charles. It’s fine.” Fine, now that he remembered! I want him to see me as an equal, even if it seems farfetched. And I don’t want to ask him to, or have to remind him. But he remembered. And that is my big news. “Rey wants to put two of my pieces in a show called Rethinking Digital next spring. Isn’t that cool?”

  “Honey, that’s very cool! I’m so incredibly proud of you. I knew your latest work would attract attention from the upper tiers.”

  “You did?”

  “Absolutely.”

  His words intoxicate me without a drink. And I’m already soaring on a silvery-pink cloud from my work being accepted into Rey’s gallery and from Charles calling me his girlfriend. I’m about to explode from happiness!

  “I’ll be out there soon,” I promise. “Just let me clean up my paints and toss some stuff in an overnight bag.”

  “Thanks. Can’t wait to see you.”

  ***

  By the time I get out to the art castle, the sky over the East River is inky and the dank incoming wind rips right through my fall jacket. Tommy greets me at the front door with a relieved hug. “Hey!” I say, hugging him back. I forgot how much I like Charles’ loyal assistant.

  “So good to see you.” Tommy’s blue eyes appraise me like a favorite uncle might. “I don’t know what you did to Caz, but he’s been an angel lately. Except this afternoon.” He cringes. “Caz is really losing it. I’m grateful you showed up because I have evening plans.” I guess the memo that Caz wants to be called Charles hasn’t sunk in yet for Tommy. But it’s not my job to remind him.

  He’s dressed up in an impeccably fitted black suit with an aqua tie and matching pocket square. “Opera, Prince Igor,” he explains before skittering off into the night.

  I haven’t been to Williamsburg since the fateful night I quit, and making my way through the black-crusted labyrinth, I shiver from all of the memories—good and bad. It feels like I haven’t been here for months.

  Charles is, in fact, pacing in his office when I come in. He hurries over to give me a nervous hug. His eyes are bloodshot and his hair is mussed, and at first I suspect he’s been on a bender. “Are you all right?” I ask, surreptitiously sniffing his breath then holding him at arm’s length.

  “I haven’t been drinking but, no, I’m not exactly okay,” he confesses.

  “Understatement of the century, Charles. You look like a train wreck.”

  “I don’t think I’m up for seeing Ella’s mother.” He flops down in one of his expensive ergonomic chairs like a scarecrow with its straw guts all poking out.

  “Yes, you are,” I say point blank. “If you weren’t you wouldn’t have called her.”

  He rakes his unruly hair with his fingers. “How did you get so smart? You’re so damn smart.”

  “Thanks, but you are, too.” I grab him by the arms and haul him up. “Look, I’m not your babysitter, so you need to get it together, Charles Mitton.”

  “No, you’re not my babysitter, you’re my girlfriend.” When he gazes at me my heart leaps—even in his dilapidated condition, he does that to me.

  “Did you ask me if I wanted to be your girlfriend?” I know, I’m being a little bitchy, but he needs someone to give him a virtual kick in the butt. Plus, he needs to consult me, even if I adore the idea!

  He sighs. “Oh crap, Sienna. I did it again.”

  “Did what?” I know, but I want to hear him to say it.

  “Went and made a selfish unilateral decision. Didn’t I?” He snorts at his own shitty narcissism. “How can you stand me?” He wraps his arms around me, stares into my eyes, and brushes a finger across my lips. “Would you like to be my girlfriend, sweet Sienna? Because I’d sure like to be your boyfriend.”

  “Yes,” I say in his ear and then nip at it. “Yes!” We kiss long and hard, all the while stroking each other greedily.

  “I have an idea,” I say, after we come up for air.

  “Shoot.”

  “It’ll be hard, but let’s hold off lovemaking until after you meet with Ella’s mom. That way, you’ll be relieved, and you won’t be preoccupied.”

  He groans. “You’re torturing me. My balls will be bluer than hell by then. I need to touch your beautiful naked body.”

  I wonder if Charles has any idea how much what he’s said turns me on. But, somehow, I need us to do it my way. I need to know he can go through with talking to Ella’s mom, and come out the other side in on
e piece.

  I need to know he’s as strong as I am.

  Crossing my arms, I look at him with a sardonic grin. “Mister Mitton, I’m sure that by tomorrow your balls will still be attached and still be flesh-colored. Please? Let’s just cuddle tonight.”

  “You’re killing me!” He groans again, but carries me off to his bed, my overnight bag swung over his shoulder. He deposits me, fully clothed, on the quilt, and dives down next to me, also fully clothed.

  Oh my. I forgot how powerful his shoulders were, and how his warm, sexy body touching mine—even through shirts and fall sweaters—could power up the whole of the Big Apple. He strokes my cheeks. “Okay, if I play by your rules, you have to play by some of mine.”

  “Let ’er rip.” I run my hands through his shiny waves.

  “We’ll go to the greenmarket tomorrow and get organic treats to cook a fancy dinner together—you have to make something complicated, too.”

  Now, it’s my turn to groan. “Nooo! I know nothing about cooking. My mother was a horrible chef. I only know how to make burnt hamburgers and soggy macaroni.”

  “Not good enough,” Charles insists, pursing his adorable bow-tie lips at me like some uptight school principal. “Besides, you already made me some cookies. If you can cook once, you can do it again.”

  “True, but those suckers were burnt to black charcoal.” I sigh. “Okay, okay. I’ll try to make a gourmet dish, on one condition.”

  “Dare I ask?”

  “We have to take a cab to the greenmarket and back.”

  “Sienna, no.” He moves his face away from mine. His grin is gone, replaced by a troubled, faraway look.

  “Yes! You need to move past this, this....” I’m about to say shit, but I wouldn’t want my OCD neat habits to ever be called shit. After all, they helped to keep me in one piece for as long as I needed them.

  “Shit? There, I’ve said it for you.” His words shock me, but not as much as the ones that follow. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it for you.”

  “Do it for you, too. Use it, Charles. Use it.”

  His brown eyes change slowly from scared to determined. He knows what I mean. Use all of those dreadful anxieties to fuel the creative juices. Before we fall asleep in each other’s arms, I pull him close and murmur one more thing. “You’re going to do fine, tomorrow. It’s what you’ve needed all these years. It’s the one big thing that’s held you back from really being Charles Mitton again.”

  In response, he pulls me closer. That’s how I know he’s heard every word.

  18 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Grace Gaines is a heavyset woman in her late fifties. She’s graying at the temples and has deep crow’s feet but a good-natured smile. I escort her along the hallways and up toward Charles’ office. I’m not his intern anymore, but it’s Saturday, so Tommy has the day off, and I told Charles I’d do this much.

  Our cuddling last night seems to have helped him a lot, but I’m worried this morning he’s devolving into another tangle of nerves. He told me his stomach was hurting, and he was getting a tension headache. Not wanting to agonize over how he’ll be, I turn to Grace Gaines and smile. “How was your trip north?”

  “Thanks for asking, dear. You know, I’ve never been to New York, so it’s kind of a thrill. Despite the circumstances.”

  A thrill? I’ve never had a child, but I doubt the death of a young daughter is something you’d ever get over. I have no idea what to say to her. I sure hope Charles does because we’re almost to his office. “Here we are.” Pushing the door open, I smile uncertainly at Grace.

  She looks his way, at his wide, haunted eyes and gaping mouth. “Charles Mitton?”

  “Yes.” His voice is tremulous. “Hello, Mrs. Gaines.”

  Clearly she knows what to do before either Charles or I do. She hurries over and flings her arms around him, standing on her tiptoes, since she’s a good deal shorter. He hugs her back, and his eyes brim with tears.

  It’s so endearing and awkward, me standing there, watching all their raw emotion pour out, but it’s not about me, so I just let them be.

  Finally, they break apart. He collects his wits enough to invite her to sit while I fetch us all some tea.

  They both launch into talking over each other, but then he stops and lets her proceed. “Thanks for contacting me,” she says. “I know it’s an odd request for me to want to meet you. I understand why you didn’t want to back then, and especially after all these years.”

  “No, I mean, it’s okay. I mean, I think I understand?” he stumbles. It’s odd to see him so hesitant. He’s always so self-assured, at least around other people.

  She looks him square in the eye, with a motherly stare, as if he’s ten and not twenty-nine. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “But I should have been able to stop,” Charles blurts. “I should’ve been—”

  “No.” Mrs. Gaines shakes her head emphatically. “You had no warning. Ella just jumped out,” she insists. “I should’ve been holding her hand.” She again studies Charles, and to his credit, he doesn’t flinch or look away. “I want you to know I don’t hate you.”

  “I can’t help but blame myself.”

  “No, please stop. I forgive you. I needed to meet you so we can reach some peaceful resolution. I have a family,” she explains. “I married a lovely man and had three children after Ella. She’ll always be in my heart—she’s my little dove—but I think I had to talk with you about what happened and how I feel in order to move on, too.”

  Charles nods, and I see from the pained, animal purity in his expression that he’s finally forgiven himself. That she’s given that to him. Silently, I walk over and sit down in the empty chair next to him. He takes my hand in his. “This is my girlfriend, Sienna,” he tells Mrs. Gaines. His hand is trembling, so I give it a reassuring squeeze.

  “Yes, she was quite helpful. She steered me up here. This place is a real maze.”

  “Sure is,” I agree. “I didn’t want you to get lost in all of the hallways.”

  “Thanks, Sienna.” Charles presses my hand this time. “Mrs. Gaines, would you like to see some of my new work?” he asks, turning back to her. “It was inspired by your daughter.”

  “Really?” Her tone brightens, which makes my heart bleed. An art piece, even a glorious one, can’t possibly be an adequate replacement for a lost daughter. “Oh, I’d love to see it!” she exclaims. Her reaction surprises me.

  Today is surprising me a lot.

  As Charles leads the way to his studio, I remember my first times here—how the heavy metal shrieks blasted through his closed double doors, how Caz stared right through me as my terrified heart seemed to torpedo right out of my ribs. So much has changed. I haven’t yet seen his new work in person, and I’m intensely curious.

  First, he leads us over to the spun sugar sculpture of Ella. My breath catches. It’s twenty times more amazing in person. Her innocent face is upturned, her delicate arms spreading out hopefully, and her tiny sugar-spun chest is pumped with joy. “It’s called Homage to Ella Gaines,” he explains.

  Mrs. Gaines gasps. Again, I can’t imagine what she’s feeling, except that it’s written on her face. She starts to cry and grin all at once. “I love it,” she gushes. “It’s beautiful, and it even looks like her. She was always reaching for the sky. She was impossible to hold back.”

  Impossible to hold back. Ugh. I can’t get the awful image of Ella running into the street and colliding with Charles’ car from my mind, and I guess I’m the one who’s a train wreck, because I’m crying, too.

  By the time he’s finished showing us his work, we’re all in tears, but somehow it’s okay and not some kind of histrionic soap opera. There’s something liberating, even uplifting about it.

  And his pieces are unbelievable. There’s one with a spun-sugar replica of the smashed car in the middle with barbed wire around it, strung through with jagged sections of Jack Daniels bottles. Then there’s another of Ella with a wreath of spun flowers on her h
ead. She’s plaiting another spun flower wreath in her lap. Then there’s the broken-heart piece Charles had sent me an image of, and one with his shot-out windows, but, this time, they’re laced with barbed wire and spun-sugar flowers. And the window is smeared with red-sugar blood.

  There’s nothing jokey or game-ish about these sculptures. Nothing trendy or self-consciously clever. Each one tears at my heart, breaks it, and patches it together again, in a new type of strong, satisfying emotional order.

  It’s obvious how much blood and sweat and love Charles has put into each piece. Mrs. Gaines must feel it, too, because she gives him a super-long hug when we’re catching the elevator down to the waiting cab we called for her.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Charles says to her. His eyes are gleaming with a hard-earned peace I’ve never seen there. It makes him look older, yet even more striking.

  “Yes?” She turns, surprised.

  “I made a sculpture, cast in bronze, for you, of Ella with the wreath. It should get to you by next week, through my personal art carriers. Let me know when it arrives, will you?”

  “Ella, cast in bronze? Oh, that’s so generous of you! My word! My husband and kids will be beyond thrilled. Thank you, Charles.” She gives him one more motherly squeeze.

  “Thank you,” he says. “You gave me a gift, too. You have no idea how good it was to finally talk with you.”

  After the cab speeds her away, I look up at him and take his hand. “Your art dealer is freaking crazy if he doesn’t scoop all of your pieces up and offer you a show immediately.”

  He lifts me right off my feet and swirls me around. “That’s exactly what he did.”

  We kiss, deeply and with so much hypnotic passion that even after he puts me down it feels like I’m still floating in his arms.

  “Okay, Sienna,” he says huskily when we break away. “Ready to go shopping?”

  I’ve checked out his cookbooks and written a shopping list. “Yup, I guess it’s go time. Ready for your cab ride?”