The Art of My Life

by Ann Lee Miller

  Jesse said something to Kallie in the front seat of their car, leaned over, and kissed her. Seconds stretched out.

  Cal cocked his head back to the gallery and his official one-man show. Maybe he and Aly should babysit for their niece and nephew—little abstinence sentries—a whole lot more often.

  His eye caught on the painting of Henna’s house. Leaf’s hot dog stand listed over a flat tire in the front yard of the picture. Had he lost both of them? Grief knifed through him. Henna’s words swept into his head as though she were in the room. “I told you your ship would come in, and you’d be sitting on easy street, pretty as a picture.”

  Jackson shook his hand. “You’ve got some serious skills.”

  Cal cracked a smile. Dad trying to be “cool” was always a treat. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Starr hugged him. “I couldn’t be prouder of you, sweetie.”

  Cal breathed in the scent of love and acceptance that had always eluded him.

  Mom ran a knuckle under her mascara. “The Mayor shook my hand and told me how pleased he was that I grew up to be happy.”

  “And he bought another painting!” Aly slid an arm around Cal’s waist. “Linda Reader, Katie Jessup and six other people bought pictures, too.”

  Starr’s smile crowned him, a pontifical blessing.

  Jackson pushed the glass door open for Starr. “See you guys later.”

  Aly flitted from his side, and Cal’s eyes galvanized to his father’s hand sliding over his mother’s black dress into territory that might warp Cal for life. Geez. What was with his family tonight?

  He coughed and jerked away. His gaze smacked into Fish and Missy who had walked around like the two-headed amoeba all evening. No way was he going to get his brain around his best friend and his kid sister having sex. At least not anytime soon.

  “I can’t believe you proposed to Missy the night I thought you were going to ask Aly—and invited the family to your elopement a week later. I’m still in shock.”

  Fish laughed. “You’ll get over it. I did.”

  “Yeah, you look like you did. Nice of you two to come up for air for my show.”

  Missy narrowed her eyes at him. “We’ve only been married five weeks. Your turn’s coming.”

  “December thirtieth.” He wished it was tonight. “Eighty-nine days.”

  Missy rolled her eyes. “Who ever heard of picking your wedding day before you get engaged? You are so weird.” She hugged him. “But I’m proud of you, especially for having the sense to love my BFF.”

  Fish threw his lanky arms around him and smacked his back. “I don’t think I could be any happier if I’d just won a senate seat. Good job.” Fish let go and looked him in the eye. “I love you, man.”

  Cal swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yeah, me, too.”

  Fish and Missy said their good-byes, and Cal snagged Aly’s hand.

  They circled the gallery turning off lights, and for an eye blink he was back at his folks’ turning off the lights Thanksgiving night.

  Aly dropped a handful of paper plates and cups into the garbage.

  He stopped Aly in the moonlit room and turned her toward him. “Thanks for giving me self-respect.”

  Aly scooted onto her desk. “I always thought it was only a matter of time until people saw your talent.”

  “No, I mean, you gave me a reason to succeed. A reason to get sober and stay that way. A reason to be the man, make choices I feel good about. Thanks for loving me.” The wonder of Aly’s loving him felt like it would never wear off.

  He ran his hands over her hair, silver in the moonlight, and the silky fabric of her russet dress, needing to see her with his tactile sense. His hands traveled down her bare arms, raising goose bumps, and closed around her fingers. “You’re so beautiful.” He brushed his lips against hers. “I love you.”

  “I love you.” Aly’s voice was breathless.

  He groaned, pulled her to the edge of the desk, claimed her mouth. His hand dropped to her bare leg, guided by an inner GPS. Heat flowed into his body. He should bail—get into his car, talk to Aly on his phone as he drove to the apartment in Mom’s studio.

  Aly’s fingers dug into the hair at the back of his neck.

  He’d gone so many years, starving for her touch....

  She pressed in tight against him.

  Who would know?

  She would. He would. Aly was… worth… waiting for. He broke the kiss.

  Her chest rose and fell with quick breaths, riveting his attention.

  “We’re only ever going to be with each other….” Her voice was barely a whisper in the dimness.

  He took one small, impossible step away from the heat of her body, the desire in her voice, the extra inches of leg he hadn’t seen in a very long time, her knees still slightly parted. Mysteries he would spend a lifetime uncovering. He wanted to start tonight.

  O, God. He ripped himself away from her and paced the width of the gallery.

  Aly’s whispered words stuck in his ears and filled up the room, warring with a voice inside.

  He paced, stopped, paced some more until rational thoughts kick-started in his brain.

  He planted his palms on Aly’s desk on either side of her, careful not to touch skin. “Let me do this one thing for you, Al. I’m not going to be much of a prize as a husband—”

  “If you get around to proposing.”

  “I’ll propose on October twenty-eighth. You know the plan.”

  Aly huffed her impatience.

  “I’m moody, uneducated, insecure. I have a spotty job history and a record. But I can make sure I’ve been sober a year before we get married so you have reason to hope I can stay that way.”

  Aly sighed. “I wasn’t worried about your sobriety at the moment.”

  “I can’t undo sleeping with Evie or running, but I can help you believe I’ll be faithful to you for the rest of our lives—if I can show self-control until we’re married. I’ve waited nine years to have you. I can wait three more months. It just feels right.”

  Aly slid off the desk and her dress dropped over the bonus inches of leg. Her hands settled on his shoulders. She leaned her forehead against his. “You’re wrong about a lot of things. You have an incredible work ethic—what do you think five hundred pieces of art at age twenty-six says about you? You went to jail for your grandparents—”

  “But I have a problem with weed—”

  “Which you are beating. And I’m proud of you.”

  His chest swelled with something that would make him a millionaire if he could capture it in paint.

  “You’ve made me feel… cherished. And worthy—to you and in my own head.”

  Doing the right thing tonight felt a thousand times better than every wrong choice he’d ever made.

  He’d escaped, not for the length of a buzz, but for good, the self-disgust that had hung on him, loose and misshapen for so long. He stepped into a life where he was passionately loved—the one that had been there all along.

  Acknowledgements

  Tim and Jan Solomon, owner-operators of Key Sailing in Sarasota, Florida, have tirelessly answered thousands of charter sailing questions and taken me sailing. The Key Breeze, their 41-foot Catalina, appears in The Art of My Life as the Escape. To see pictures of the boat, visit http://keysailingsarasota.com/. I owe the Solomons my undying gratitude, a guest room, and a tour of all my favorite Arizona hikes.

  The Art of My Life would never have been written if it weren’t for Judy Mikalonis at Andrea Hurst Literary convincing me I had a deeper book in me. Susan Meissner’s superb editing has made the difference between my writing a novel and my writing the best novel I’m capable of writing.

  Chuck Jessup dusted off Coast Guard expertise, contributed Fish and Missy’s Manzano’s subs, and drew me a floor plan of the New Smyrna Beach PNC Bank—going above and beyond being drafted as a research assistant by his wife’s high school BFF.

  Thank you to my family who have lived and loved each other t
hrough many of the experiences depicted in this book.

  I’m grateful for my husband, Jim, who has loved me with the depth and tenacity my characters illustrate.

  Thank you to God who answered 43,838 words of desperate pleas for help while I plotted, wrote, and edited The Art of My Life.

  About the Author

  Ann Lee Miller earned a BA in creative writing from Ashland (OH) University and writes full-time in Phoenix, but left her heart in New Smyrna Beach, Florida, where she grew up. She loves speaking to young adults and guest lectures on writing at several Arizona colleges. When she isn’t writing or muddling through some crisis—real or imagined—you’ll find her hiking in the Superstition Mountains with her husband or meddling in her kids’ lives.

  Read an excerpt from Avra’s God, the first book in the New Smyrna Beach Series.

  Book Review Sisters '12 Top 5 Reads

  In the tradition of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, four friends navigate college and the drama churned up by their Florida beach band to cement friendship and more.

  Avra wants love, but drummer Cisco—self-medicating from his parents’ divorce with sex and intoxicants—is a poor choice. Cisco hungers for fresh-baked cookies and the scent of family he finds at Avra’s.

  Kallie shares her classically trained singing voice only with lead vocalist Jesse and fights to keep her heart safe. Jesse feeds on fame and hides more than insecurity beneath his guitar.

  The friends surf ego, betrayal, and ambition and head for wipeout. But somehow, when they’re not looking, Avra’s God changes them all.

  Chapter 1

  A hot blast of pepperoni-laden air rolled over Avra as Stavro’s Pizza kitchen door swung shut. She inched ahead in line for a table with her family.

  “Yep, me and the idiot sisters are eatin’ fine tonight.”

  She swiveled. That voice.

  The guy from Humanities 301 thumbed through change he pulled from the pocket of his cutoffs. Cisco. And she didn’t shower and change after soccer practice—why?

  Her brother’s elbow knocked into her. “It’s gotta be meat lovers,” Drew’s stuck-in-puberty voice rasped.

  Cisco glanced in her direction. Her gaze skittered back to her brother. Please, God, tell me Cisco didn’t just catch me staring at him!

  Her attention drifted to Cisco’s corkscrew curls that brushed the shoulders of his ancient Whitey’s Bait & Tackle—Size Counts T-shirt. The girl behind the register tracked Cisco from under dark lashes as if she were having a conversation with the back of his head.

  “I want ham and pineapple.” Her brother, Kurt, shot an I’m-slumming-in-Stavro’s-with-my-family look at a couple of girls behind them.

  “Veggie,” Avra said, distracted by Cisco’s gaze on her. “Let’s get three.”

  Cisco’s forehead crinkled like he was trying to remember where he’d seen her.

  Avra feigned fascination with the Best Pizza in New Smyrna Beach, Florida, plaques on the wall. She frowned at the reflection in the window of her droopy ponytail and unisex soccer uniform. Beside her reflection in the glass, the counter girl wore her Stavro’s polo as a second skin. What was the use? Avra turned toward her family.

  Mom eyed them. “We’re celebrating Kurt’s first day of college, the beginning of Avra’s junior year, not graduation—”

  Drew huffed. “What about my senior year of high school?”

  Mom dropped her gaze from the illuminated menu on the wall. “We’ll get two large pepperonis.”

  The girl bit a hangnail and watched Cisco. The gummy corners of “Isabel” curled off her red plastic badge. Overhead, a cardboard pizza twirled in the draft from the air conditioning vent. Isabel blinked at her customer and scrawled the order on a guest check.

  Dad threaded an arm around Mom’s waist. “And spicy cheddar cheese poppers.” He batted his eyes through his glasses at Mom and made her laugh. They melted against each other and glided toward the empty bench talking in quiet voices.

  I want a guy who will love me like that―forever.

  She looked at her brothers. “When I’m married, my kids will have whatever kind of pizza they want. And I’ll bake cookies―”

  Drew’s blue eyes brightened in his freckle-spattered face. “Make some chocolate chips tonight.”

  Kurt shot her an evil grin. “Who’d marry you, Avra? Morgan?”

  “Puleeese.” Avra made a gagging noise. She caught Cisco’s smirk out of the corner of her eye and stopped, mid-gag. Warmth crept into her face. Oh, great. Cisco and everyone in Stavro’s was going to see her face go apple-red under the track lights.

  Cisco’s smirk widened into a smile. “I can’t remember the last time I had really good entertainment in the pizza line.”

  Metal scraped across metal in the kitchen, and she looked toward the swinging stainless steel doors. Isabel gave her the L.O.D., as Kurt called it. The look of death.

  She narrowed her eyes at Isabel. Trust me, sister, humiliating yourself in public is not the kind of attention a girl wants. Look at me. Look at you. Which one of us is likely to get the guy? It’s not rocket science.

  “Hey, what about baking cookies tonight?” Drew croaked.

  Cisco pushed off the partition separating the counter area from the dining room and joined them. “That’s what I’m talking about! My half-price-plus-a-buck specials sounded pretty good till I heard you guys discussing homemade cookies.”

  The corners of Avra’s mouth turned up. Dark hair curled on Cisco’s bare ankles above the loose laces of his tennis shoes. Her stomach quivered as it did when a soccer ball hurtled toward her. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, and turned away with a flutter of her hand. She shrank into herself—the result of being too tall for too many years. Just disappear. That’s what she was good at.

  Cisco nudged her shoulder with his. “Thanks again for the show.”

  She eyed his shoulder, even with hers. “Sure, Cisco, anytime.”

  Cisco jutted his chin at her. “The lady knows my name.”

  Heat swept back to her face. Isabel’s L.O.D. burned into her.

  Cisco winked. “See you in Humanities Wednesday—Avra.” He pushed out the door, pizza boxes balanced in one hand over his shoulder. A two liter Orange Crush dangled from between two fingers.

  Breathe, Avra. It was just a wink. But he knew her name.

  Isabel’s gaze raked over her as though she were a palmetto bug. She tossed a boxed pizza onto the counter in front of a man in a rumpled three-piece-suit. Isabel must have been all of five-three, but in some weird way, she made Avra feel small.

  Avra trailed Kurt’s faded Ron Jon Surf Shop T-shirt toward the corner table where her parents sat. She would be translucent again by Wednesday, a blur guys look through but never see. This was what she prayed for when she hit five-eleven in the fifth grade.

  She scooted across the vinyl bench after Kurt, shooting a glance at the door where Cisco had disappeared. Her hand touched the shoulder Cisco had bumped—as if anything would ever come of it.

  Cisco swung the Orange Crush beside him. His sisters would get into a brawl about the soda. How was he supposed to remember who liked what? If tuition wasn’t killing him, he’d be out of there.

  A sea breeze rustled the moss-draped oaks overhead. The pizza warmed the palm of his hand through its box. He breathed in the pepperoni scent and thought about Avra’s family in Stavro’s who could have stepped out of Charity De Meer’s Photography window. Their banter had splashed over him, making him thirsty for more.

  Families intrigued him—not his, with Mamá cleaning schools, three to eleven, Pop living on Freedom’s Call tied up behind the city marina. His kid sisters screeched at each other all day like it mattered. No, happy families interested Cisco.

  He cracked open the pizza boxes in the twilight to make sure Isabel got the order right.

  His mind swerved away from Isabel to this morning’s class. Avra had smirked into her Humanities book without looking up when Mr. Smythe-Roll
ings called him “Mr. Carter” instead of “Cisco.” His lips curled into a smile at the memory. She was the kind of girl who blended in on campus. But when you really looked at her, she was a treat—a sloppy-soft ponytail the color of caramels; ocean blue eyes; and long, toned legs beneath the soccer shorts.

  He cut across the dirt yard to his front door thinking about homemade cookies, a house with two parents, and siblings that didn’t cuss each other in two languages.

  He tripped on the jagged front step. What was he going to do about Isabel?

  Jesse stood in the asphalt lot behind Daytona State College and locked the door of his Dodge Neon. He fanned his shirt away from his body in the muggy morning.

  Someone laid on a horn.

  His head popped up.

  Cisco darted around the grass islands on the far side of the lot in his Geo Prism as if they were florescent cones.

  Jesse shook his head. Only Cisco could make that piece of junk look cool.

  Cisco cut his engine and coasted to a stop facing the cemetery where grass grew in fits and starts along Welch Drive. Sand grated under Cisco’s feet when he hopped out in front of him.

  Jesse grinned. “Hey, Bro.”

  Cisco bumped knuckles with him. “Bud. Where you been all summer?” Through the open window, Cisco snatched his backpack from the passenger seat, and they headed for campus.

  “I’ve been nowhere at all—the whole stinking summer. You?”

  Cisco thumped his chest. “At the beach all day, every day!” He stretched lazily. “It’s the life!”

  Jesse widened his grin. “Still changing oil at Walmart, huh?”

  Cisco grimaced. “Old man lock you up in the church all summer?”