The Art of My Life

by Ann Lee Miller

  She’d thought he was talking about friendship. He sat up, gripped her hand, and lasered his eyes into hers. “Marry me.”

  Missy sucked in a breath. Shock registered in her eyes. Then she sprang to her feet. “No! “You’re overreacting to my moving to Peru. Your abandonment issues. You don’t want to marry me—”

  He vaulted to standing. “Don’t tell me what I want—”

  “Then I’ll tell you what I want. I want a guy who is crazy in love with me. Not a guy who settles for me.”

  “But I am crazy in love with you.”

  “I’m comfortable like the Tampa Bucs T-shirt you’ve been wearing for ten years.”

  His patience teetered on the edge of the dock. “That’s not how I feel when I’m making out with you—or even thinking about it.”

  “Just because you like kissing a girl isn’t a reason to marry her.” She paced in front of him. “One day you’d wake up and see me asleep on the other side of the bed. And you’d feel stuck. Like you’ve always felt about me.

  “Are you finished?”

  She stopped pacing, faced him, and crossed her arms. She nodded, her eyes clamped on him.

  “When you were a little kid, I loved you like another sister, but I liked you better than my own sisters.”

  Missy stared at him with a tight jaw.

  “The year you were fourteen, I was nineteen. I felt like a perv for being attracted to you. I stayed away, made Cal hang at my apartment. Then, you asked for a kiss on your fifteenth birthday. I wanted to kiss you more than take my next breath. I got away, just barely. It shook me up so much that I blocked out the experience until this year. Actually, I think it was a divine kindness so I could make it till you grew up.”

  The sky filtered into grays. He could barely see her eyes. She stood statue still, a tendril of hair moving in the warm breeze.

  “Everything changed the night I found you sitting on Cal’s dock box. When I watched you walk away, I thought… what I shouldn’t have been thinking about my best friend’s kid sister. But then I did the math. You were twenty.”

  A dock light came on behind Missy, casting her face in deeper shadow. She stood eerily quiet, siphoning away his hope.

  Sweat formed in his arm pits. He drew in a breath. “You spurred me to apply for law school and reconcile with my parents, God, Cal. You’re good for me.”

  “So are vitamins.”

  At least her voice had lost the angry edge. “I like your bossiness, the verbal ping-pong we do so well. I liked being there for you when Henna died.”

  Missy sighed, long and deep. “This is all very gratifying, Sean, but it’s too late. My ticket is paid for. I’ve mentally moved on.”

  He dropped his chin to his chest and plowed on as though she hadn’t spoken. “Then I saw your body.”

  He heard Missy’s sharp intake of air.

  “Oh, God, you’re so beautiful, Mis.” His hand ran down her arm to her elbow in a clumsy caress that left him grasping at air. “Talk about a motivator to get my shit together. That was a come-to-Jesus meeting if I ever had one.”

  Missy shifted her weight onto one leg. “You had a year to figure it out—”

  He took her hand, and she didn’t pull her limp fingers away. He cleared his throat. “I let bitterness poison my relationship with my folks, then Cal, and it bled into you and me. I’ve been a royal jerk to you. I… I want to spend the rest of my life becoming the man you deserve.”

  The pressure of her fingers tightened on his.

  “You were all about babies. I’m all about a career—possibly in politics. I won’t ignore my kids to chase a dream like my folks did. I had a lot to think about.” He rubbed his thumb across her wrist. “I’ve got three years of law school and maybe five years if I plug into the Florida political machine. I thought marriage was a long time away; babies, not even on my radar. But we can make it work—if we make decisions based on what’s best for the children. I—”

  “Is this a filibuster or can I say something?”

  The smile in Missy’s voice water ski-jumped him into possibility. “Only if it’s working.”

  “I quit dating after New Year’s Eve because I realized I wasn’t over you. I decided to move to Peru to get you out of my system. It’s only ever been you—”

  His lips mashed against hers, stopping her stream of words. He folded her tight against him. Her curves melted into his planes. His body remembered her birthday, and he let it….

  It was a good thing they were in a public place or somebody was going to lose their religion.

  He eased himself away from her, still clenching Missy’s left arm beneath his fingers as though she’d make a run for it. He dredged the ring box out of the pocket of his shorts. He tugged her over to the light and dropped on one knee. “I love you, Mis. Say you’ll marry me.” He popped open the box.

  Missy’s mouth formed an O. She gazed at the pearl ring surrounded by tiny diamonds. “You bought fish guts, dinner, and a ring.”

  “The guts were free. I bought dinner. And the ring—if you like it—will be paid for in twelve months.”

  Missy reached for the light pole, dazed.

  A smirk crawled across her face. “I’ll marry you in” —she counted on her fingers— “eight years when I fit into your schedule.”

  “I’m not waiting eight dang years to see you naked again.”

  “Oh?” Missy’s voice was all innocence.

  He slid the ring onto her finger and kissed her soft lips. Home. “How about a wedding before my family leaves,” he whispered into the orange blossom scent of her hair.

  She leaned back to look him in the eye. “They made a decision?”

  “My getting married should seal the deal.” His lips found her ear and nibbled. “How about eloping—make it easier on Chas.”

  “Chas gave up when he saw you kiss me at graduation. We could elope and invite our families.”

  He gripped the soft fabric covering her shoulders and peered into her eyes, suddenly as serious as he’d ever been. “Next week?”

  Silence pulsed between them. His breath caught, waiting for her answer.

  The pelican flapped his wings on the piling, but didn’t fly away, as if he, too, waited for her answer.

  “Sure, why not.”

  Chapter 30

  August 15

  I woke up this morning, and all the color had drained out of my life. Do I have a future of beige and cream and white? If color seeps back, will it ever be as brilliant as I remember?

  Aly at www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com

  Cal stacked paintings against the plate glass window of Aly’s Gallery. Magenta sun reflected off the glass, blinding him, and he pictured his foot stepping into the coil of anchor line lying on the Escape’s deck. If Aly rejected him, threw the anchor overboard, he’d be jerked to the bottom of the Intercoastal.

  He pulled the door open, and tiny bells tinkled overhead. He glanced through black sun spots at Aly sitting on a stool behind a cash register as he shuttled the paintings through the door and leaned them, face down, against the ledge separating the window display from the gallery.

  Air conditioning closed in on him as Aly moved around the counter and walked toward him. “Thanks for coming.” Her expression was wary and hungry at the same time.

  His lungs seemed to forget how to extract oxygen from the air he sucked in. He felt tossed back to the first time he saw her at fifteen, walking down the aisle toward him at Jesse’s wedding rehearsal.

  His knuckle grazed the pale skin on her cheek almost without conscious thought. “You’re so beautiful.” He felt awkward, stupid—things he never felt around Aly. He backed up half a step, tried a grin. “This is my favorite look of yours—the girly shirt, swishy skirt.” He fingered the crinkled silky fabric of her skirt. He yanked his hand away. “Sorry. It’s the artist thing, texture.”

  Aly gave him a nervous smile. “You look good yourself.” She ran her eyes over his damp hair he’d pulled into a pony
tail, his lime polo, plaid shorts, and flip flops—formalwear for a Monday evening. What she couldn’t see was a guy who was about to punt his heart and pray she’d catch it.

  Something familiar tugged at his subconscious, and his gaze honed onto a painting mounted on the wall behind Aly—one of the few watercolors he’d ever done, a surf scene. His attention jumped to the picture beside it, an oil of Henna’s house huddled under the Spanish oaks. His gut clenched. In the next painting palms shaded an infant Chase at a family picnic.

  His gaze flew around the room. Aly had put up a one-man show.

  She shifted from one foot to the other. “I rifled through your relatives’ garages and attics for paintings. I thought I’d borrow first, ask forgiveness later.”

  “And why would this be a bad thing? The only other one-man show I’ve had was years ago at Atlantic Center for the Arts.”

  “Well, it’s not like I get a lot of traffic through here.”

  Cal quirked his brows.

  “If you don’t count the UPS man, I’ve had twenty-five people come through since I opened.”

  He felt her failure as if it were his own. This was her dream. On the heels of the failed charter business, she must be devastated. He wondered if she’d go back to work at the bank. “I’m sorry, Al.”

  Aly grinned wryly. “Eight of them were family, and most of them came through twice.” Her voice sounded anything but discouraged.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  “The-Art-Of-My-Life Blog is topping thirty thousand hits a day and ended up generating a healthy mail-order business selling prints and posters. The UPS guy brings me coffee—”

  “Do I need to tell him to keep it to coffee?”

  “What? No.” Aly shook her head as though he were crazy. She strolled over to the counter and propped herself against it. “The thing is, Cal. There’s been a lot of interest in your work. A week seldom goes by without someone inquiring about the artist whose paintings border my blog. Since I opened the gallery, I’ve featured one of your pieces along with whatever I’m pushing that week.”

  Aly shoved herself away from the counter and walked through a doorway. “Did you know your mother kept every picture you ever drew from pre-school on? She’s got them filed in bins in the attic. I worked backwards through them. I stopped at middle school. I didn’t think you’d want your Power Rangers’ up for public display.”

  Aly’s words hardly registered. A second room filled with his work winded him. The back of the gallery held a bank of windows letting in natural light, now a milky maize streaked with rust. In the corner stood a pristine easel on a spotless drop cloth.

  “Someday, I’d like to have artists do residencies here to attract gawkers.” She walked back to her desk and sat down. “Have a seat. I have a business proposition for you to think about.”

  Cal sunk into an art deco chair beside her desk. He blinked away the memory of sitting across the desk from Aly begging for a loan.

  “I’d like to sell your art for you at fifteen percent commission. Some of your pieces lend themselves to posters or prints. When those start selling, interest will increase in your paintings. Paintings are big-ticket items I don’t expect to sell on the Internet. But people who fall in love with your work will travel to take a look at your paintings.”

  Cal stared at her dumbly. “I’m starting back to college in a couple of weeks.”

  Aly slumped against the back of her chair. “Maybe we could try it later, when you’ve got more time.”

  “You’re disappointed I’m going back to school?”

  “I thought you hated college. And you have enough art credits for an art major, you’re just missing the cores—which, I don’t think you need.” Aly sat back. “Sorry. I’m not telling you what to do. I was so excited about all the possibilities, I got carried away.”

  “You’re right. I flunked every core course I tried. No, that was the problem. I didn’t try.” He leaned the chair back on two legs. Aly’s excitement bubbled up in him. “I’ve been dragging my feet registering….” He plopped all four legs of the chair down. “Do you think I could make a living drawing and painting?”

  Aly stared at him trying to school the enthusiasm that shot from her eyes, fighting to keep her lips from twitching up. “Yes.”

  “I’m in.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really?”

  Maybe now he could do what he came here for. “Really.”

  Aly jumped out of her chair. “I’m so glad. I have a good feeling about this.”

  He stood, put his hands on her hips and pulled her toward him. “Hmm, stocking shelves at Winn Dixie or watching you in swishy skirts every day—which sounds like more fun?”

  Aly stepped back, and his hands fell away. The wariness returned to her eyes. “I didn’t mean you had to paint here. We can do most of our business by e-mail. And… and… I think one of us should move off the boat.” She sunk to her chair behind the desk.

  So, that was her answer. She didn’t want a pothead ex-con. He felt like an idiot for misinterpreting her proposition. She valued his art, not him.

  He stood staring at her, remembering how she tasted, how I love you sounded on her lips, how waking up beside her felt. He had to try.

  He narrowed his eyes and planted his palms on the desk. “I’ve got a proposition for you, too.”

  A spark of interest resurrected in Aly’s lifeless eyes.

  He spread the paintings he’d brought along the rear glass wall of the gallery in chronological order. “I’ve always communicated better with paint than words. Read me, Aly.”

  She switched on the lights.

  Her eyes whirl-pooled with emotions he couldn’t catalogue and spun him into a sea of desire. Fear tasted like turpentine in the back of his throat. He dug his hands into his pockets and waited.

  Through the gallery doorway he could see out the front windows. A kid pedaled down the sidewalk on his BMX bike. A primer-coated Ford pick-up rattled along Canal Street. A Mustang convertible, top down. A chalky vintage Beetle. Two teens dusted in dusk paused in front of the window. The guy snagged the girl’s hand, and they kept walking.

  Aly’s gaze swept the row of paintings—all with her as the subject—catching the progression. She felt Cal’s passion intensify in each painting. A wisp of hope fluttered to life from the dead place inside her. “Where did you hide these?”

  He cracked his knuckles. “Behind Fish’s crap in my folks’ garage.”

  She stood in front of the first painting, completed when she was fifteen. It was the only one she’d seen, the only one she’d sat for. Even though Cal’s skill at seventeen was hardly as well-developed as it was now, he’d captured the virginal quality about her.

  Her gaze slid over the other paintings, spotting the same essence in all of them. Could Cal really not hold her past against her?

  In a painting in the middle, she lay on the fold-out couch in Cody’s garage, half asleep. Her white T-shirt stretched tight across her breasts revealing the outline of her bra. Her hair spread out around her. The half-lidded look held no awareness of her sensuality, yet the picture oozed with it.

  Cal had painted the picture while he thought he was in love with Raine, weeks before he gave his virginity to Evie. He’d told her he’d stayed sober for a week so he could paint it. A week he spent wanting her. And she never knew.

  He’d painted Raine. Once. He’d never painted Evie that she knew of. And he’d painted her nine times, once for every year she’d known him.

  Cal cleared his throat where he leaned against her desk, arms folded across his chest. “I have a lot more paintings of you, but I just brought my favorites.”

  Oh.

  In the last painting, she sat in her bunk the night he almost kissed her. A tease of leg, a softness to the curves beneath her Gators’ jersey made her look beautiful, wanted. Her lips were parted, shiny, the focal point of the painting. Her eyes brimmed with desire for him. So, he’d noticed.

  She looked u
p at Cal. “I thought you didn’t want me.”

  He crossed the gallery in three strides. “My God, Aly. I’ve wanted you since I met you. I wanted you on Christmas when I showed you my tattoo. I’ve wanted you every day since you got caught in a thunder storm and spent that first night on the Escape. How could you think I didn’t want you?”

  “Herpes.” Her fingers whitened where they clenched her upper arms.

  His hands covered hers and gripped her arms. “I probably know the face of every guy you slept with. Do you think I can’t handle a disease? Give me credit.”

  She dropped her eyes from his. “I’m sorry… the guys—”

  He pressed his fingers to her lips. “I forgive you.” He laced his fingers loosely through hers. “I’ve been clean for eight months, working steady for three. I was planning on going back to school. I want to prove to you that you can take a risk on me. I love you so much.”

  “You’ve avoided me since you got out of jail.”

  He heard the hurt in her voice and hung his head. “I was terrified you wouldn’t want—me, that I couldn’t keep my hands off you, that I’d screw up any chance I had by rushing things.” His eyes met hers, pleading. “Love me, Aly.”

  Cal watched the emotions swirl through Aly’s eyes. He gripped her fingers tighter.

  “Forever.” The word rushed out with her breath, sweet and airy like cotton candy and wonder.

  He crushed her to him and held on.

  A divine finger flicked his scalp and pitched him back to the prayer he’d prayed in the ocean at seventeen.

  Aly.

  Chapter 31

  September 30

  Life is good. Anybody in Central Florida, stop by Aly’s Gallery in New Smyrna Beach at 7 p.m. for Cal Koomer’s one-man show.

  Aly at www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com

  Cal’s eyes followed Jesse and Kallie as they exited the gallery. Kallie’s smile, so like Aly’s, lingered. Maybe Kallie had finally decided he wasn’t Satan who would bury her children in the back yard. He loosened his tie and drained his Dixie cup of Scragg Groves’ orange juice.