“Art’s too subjective to say one person’s better than another,” said Emma. “It all depends on the person doing the judging. Take Salvador Dali, for example. He’s considered a brilliant painter by so many people, but if given the choice between The Persistence of Memory and Kajsa’s recent painting of her riding a horse in her cowboy hat, I’d choose Kajsa’s and call her the better painter.”
“That’s only because Kajsa’s special to you.”
“No, it’s because her painting has more emotion behind it. It conveys a young, carefree girl doing something she dreams of doing one day. I look at her picture, and I see hope for the future. I see joy. The Persistence of Memory, on the other hand, is a depiction of creepy, melting clocks that are supposed to symbolize the relativity of time and space. But no matter how much I look at it or try to apply Einstein’s theory of relativity, it does nothing for me. I don’t care how much that painting is worth, I’d never hang it on my wall.”
“So what you’re saying is that art can’t be appreciated unless you can personalize it?”
“In a way, yeah. At least for me. Just like books, movies, and music.” Emma paused. “I guess you could call me an emotionally driven person.”
Kevin nodded slowly, as though mulling something over. “You’re making me really want to see some of your artwork.”
The thought of handing over one of her portfolios to Kevin caused Emma to press her hand to her stomach once more. Because she was emotionally driven, she put too much of herself in each of her sketches or paintings. Letting others see them was like exposing her soul. She’d had to deal with that during school, of course, but it was easier to do when everyone else was in the same boat. Now, though, Emma would never let just anyone look at her artwork. Even when Sam had asked to see some stuff during their last lesson, it had been difficult for Emma to show her.
Kajsa and Adelynn, on the other hand, had seen them all. They were like picture books to them, and in their eyes, Emma was a brilliant artist. They made opening up easy.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“What’s a no?”
“Seeing your paintings. I said I wanted to have a look, and I was met with a wall of silence.”
“No offense. I just don’t trust you enough to show them to you.”
He glanced at her, his eyebrow lifted in question. “What? You think I’d make fun of them?”
“No, of course not. I guess trust wasn’t the right word. It’s more about not knowing you well enough or feeling ready to let you know me. Because… well, showing them to people is like sharing some of my deepest, darkest secrets, and you don’t share that type of thing with just anyone.”
His head nodded slowly. “Okay, I get it.” The words were tinged with a little bit of hurt, making Emma feel bad. But then he lightened his tone. “Okay, so if I’m not allowed to call you the superior artist, then I don’t think I can call you the superior lawn mower either. Like art, it’s too subjective to know for sure.”
Emma frowned in his direction. “You’re really going to take that away even though you know how much it means to me?”
“I really am.”
“Hoser.”
Kevin’s laughter lightened the mood further, and by the time they pulled into the gallery’s parking lot in Denver, the uncomfortable first-date/not-really-a-date tension had eased, replaced with an easy camaraderie between them. It was nice. And as soon as they entered the building in front of them, it would be even better. Art galleries hit the bull’s-eye of Emma’s comfort zone.
“I’ll get your door,” Kevin said as he pulled his key from the ignition.
“Oh, it’s okay. I can get it.” She started to reach for the handle until he shot her a warning look.
“Is this a date or not?” he said.
She hesitated. “You tell me, because I’m really not sure. I don’t normally manipulate guys into asking me out, so it’s sort of a gray area for me.”
A smile played on his lips as he settled against the back of his seat and angled his body toward her. “Emma?”
“Yes?”
“Would you like to go out with me tonight?”
Butterflies assailed her stomach. Could this man get anymore charming? “Why?”
“Why?”
“Yes, why are you asking? Is it because I had a bad day, and you’re afraid I’ll have another mental breakdown if you don’t? Or is it because you really want to go out with me?”
Kevin leaned forward, closing the space between them until Emma’s heart felt like it might implode from pounding so hard. She could smell the mint and feel the warmth of his breath on her face. “I’m asking because I think you’re beautiful, intriguing, and interesting. And I’m really hoping that someday you’ll trust me enough to show me all those deep, dark secret paintings of yours.”
Bam, bam, bam. Her chest rose and fell with each pound of her heart. “They’re not all paintings,” she breathed.
He chuckled, then leaned back and shook his head. “You’re not making this easy on me. It’s a simple question. Will you go out with me tonight, or not?”
“Yes.”
His eyes met hers, and a smile formed. “Good. Now stay put and let me get your door for you. My mother would have my hide if she ever heard that I wasn’t being a gentleman.”
“So I shouldn’t tell her about the day you dumped a bunch of groceries on my front porch?”
“No.” Kevin laughed. “No, you should not.” He exited the car and sauntered around to Emma’s side, looking so suave, so confident, so out of her reach. Why was she here? Why had she come? He was going to break her heart.
He pulled her door open and held out a hand.
She glanced at it warily, remembering what his touch had done to her earlier.
“Will you let me help you out of the car, Emma?”
Once again, her stomach was a gooey mess, and he hadn’t even touched her yet. With trepidation, she placed her fingers on his and let him pull her from the car. Then he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her toward the building. It was a good thing he didn’t try to carry on a conversation because her mind was a whirl of incoherent thoughts. He let go of her arm to hold open the door of the gallery, and Emma used that as an excuse to put some distance between them and bring her heart rate back to a less dangerous level.
As Kevin picked up a brochure and perused it, she moved forward to stand in front of the nearest painting, hugging her arms to her chest. Created with oils, the scene looked down on a man sitting in a boat in the middle of a lake. Reflections of tall mountains skirted one side of the lake, making it feel like he was so alone. It was a unique perspective, and one Emma couldn’t help but admire. Painted with an impressionistic style, it lacked detail, but the way the man slumped over, resting his chin on his hands, lent a feeling of introspection—as though he’d rowed to the middle of the lake to mull something over.
What weighs you down? Emma wanted to ask. What’s your story? She loved the pictures that told stories. It made art an experience, like reading a book or watching a movie. Only with a painting, it also became a puzzle. Thousands of brush strokes worked together to form a fragment of a story, and it was up to the observer to figure out the rest, which was Emma’s favorite part. Had the man just been spurned by the woman of his dreams? Had he recently lost someone dear to him? Was he having financial difficulties, or was he feeling pressure to go one way while wanting to go another?
“Why aren’t there any oars?” Kevin’s voice cut in, interrupting her reverie.
“Huh?”
His finger pointed to the boat, where, interestingly enough, there were no oars. “How did he get there without oars?”
Emma scrunched her eyebrows together, trying to fit that detail into one of the stories forming in her mind, but try as she might, it didn’t make sense. The title of the painting Alone on Lake Pleasant didn’t help either.
“I bet he was drugged,” said Kevin.
“Wha
t?” Emma suddenly felt jerked awake from a beautiful, melancholy dream.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” said Kevin. “Someone took the oars out of the boat and threw him in, then gave it a hard shove. When he woke up, there he was in the middle of the lake, not knowing what to do because he can’t swim. Not that it matters. Because any second now, the Loch Ness Monster will emerge from the water and—”
Emma slugged him on the arm and walked away.
“What?” he said, following, though his tone told Emma he knew exactly why she’d slugged him.
She rolled her eyes and stopped in front of the next painting, which depicted a realistic rendering of a beautiful woman with her arms around two little girls. It made Emma think of Adelynn and Kajsa, and she liked it instantly. It exuded love and warmth and family.
“Why are her eyes two different colors?” Kevin gestured to the woman’s face, where one brown eye and one blue eye stared back. “She looks freaky—like her body’s been taken over by an alien or something.”
Emma fought back a smile as she twisted toward him. “Okay, that’s it. You’re fired. From here on out, I get to make up the stories.”
“Fine.” He cocked his head toward the painting. “If not an alien host, then what?”
Emma considered it once more. “It’s a form of triangularism.” She pointed from one face to another. “See how her head is the top point of a triangle, and her daughters make up the other points? And notice how one daughter has brown eyes and the other blue, which is why the artist depicted the mother with one blue and one brown eye. It symbolizes a unique and special bond between mother and daughters. I think it’s beautiful.”
Kevin stared at the painting once again, then shook his head. “I still think she looks creepy.”
Emma shook her head and stepped to the next painting, where a young girl ice skated across a frozen pond. The trees surrounding her were lit up with little white lights like Christmas trees. Emma smiled. “Go ahead and try to come up with a lame story for this one.”
With a finger on his chin, Kevin studied the painting, attempting to look like a serious art critic. Then he gave up and dropped his hands to his side. “You’re right, I can’t. She looks like a younger version of you.”
Emma took a step closer. Sure enough, the girl in the painting had long, brown, wavy hair and wore a mostly pink skirt with black swirls, similar to the one Emma now wore. Emma couldn’t help but wish that the moment had been a part of her childhood.
“Can you ice skate?” he asked.
Emma shook her head. “It wasn’t an option where I grew up. They did have some outdoor rinks in Providence, but I never tried. She makes it look so fun, though, doesn’t she?”
“Yeah. It makes me want to put on a pair of hockey skates and join her.”
Emma glanced up. “You played hockey?”
He nodded. “Nothing organized, but I grew up in New Hampshire, where they have really cold winters. Every year, my friend’s dad would frame in a large rectangle out of two-by-sixes in their backyard. He’d line it with a huge white tarp and wait for the weather report to say the temps would drop below freezing. Then he’d fill it up with water, wait a few days for it to harden, and, just like that, we had our own private skating rink in his backyard. We’d call our friends over and spend the winters playing hockey.” He paused, looking lost to the memory. “Those were some good times.”
For a memory that sounded so wonderful and happy, Kevin looked more melancholy than anything, as though “good times” hadn’t been that common for him. Emma considered him like she would a painting, wondering about the story behind the picture he made right now. But unlike the other scenes in the gallery, she couldn’t invent a story for him. His past was real, and she wanted to know the true reason behind the sadness.
“Your dad never built a rink in your backyard?” Emma asked.
Kevin shook his head, still staring at the painting. “He never had the time.” The sentence was delivered with so much loneliness and buried pain that Emma’s heart constricted.
“But your friend’s dad had the time.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yeah,” answered Kevin. “Never the money, but always the time.” He glanced at Emma and attempted to lighten his tone. “But hey, he didn’t get the brand new Land Rover for his sixteenth birthday like I did. Instead, Andrew always had to borrow his mom’s old minivan.”
Emma’s heart broke in two, not that he’d want her pity any more than she would want his. “A minivan? That’s horrible! How did he survive those teenage years?”
Kevin gave her a small smile. “He snagged lots of rides with me.”
Not sure what else to say or do, Emma placed her hand on his arm and gave it a light squeeze. “Lucky him to have you for a friend.”
“No,” said Kevin, his gaze back on the painting. “Lucky me.”
The scent of pine reached Emma’s nose as she and Kevin sauntered past a large evergreen tree. It complimented her peppermint ice cream and made her feel like Christmas was just around the corner, even though it was still three months away. After the gallery, Kevin had taken her out for ice cream, and now they were walking through a beautiful, dimly lit park, with trees as large as skyscrapers and a full moon that peeked in and out of sight. It all felt so… romantic—at least to Emma. Kevin, on the other hand, seemed lost to his thoughts. Either that, or his mint chocolate chip ice cream must be really something.
It had been such a strange night. What had started off as not-a-real-date had morphed into a big question mark. They’d flirted, teased, he’d embarrassed her, and then she’d tried to embarrass him. He’d made some comment about how they should do “this” again, and all Emma could think was Do what again? What did “this” mean, and what about Nicole? Maybe it didn’t really mean anything. Maybe “this” was just one of those magical nights that became a one-time journal entry, a scrapbook page, or a wonderful memory locked away for safe-keeping.
The thought was a depressing one.
“Penny for your thoughts?” she finally hedged, wanting desperately to hear something real, something genuine, something that meant “this” might actually continue past tonight.
Kevin didn’t say anything for a moment—just ate another spoonful of his ice cream. When enough time had passed that Emma wondered if he’d heard her question, he finally answered. “I’m trying to figure out the riddle that is Emma Mackie.”
Her heart stuttered, not knowing if it should skip or fall flat. He was thinking about her and calling her a riddle. Was that a good thing? “Let me know when you figure it out. I’ve never been good at riddles.”
“Not even if you’re the riddle?”
“You called me that, I didn’t. For me, the riddle is the reason you’re calling me a riddle. That’s what I can’t figure out, and I’m really not sure I want to.”
Kevin chuckled and tossed his half-eaten ice cream into a nearby trash can. “How about a game of Twenty Questions?”
Twenty? That was a lot of questions. She’d be hoarse by the time she finished answering that many, and he’d be flat out bored. Her life wasn’t that interesting. “I’ll give you five.”
“But the game is called Twenty Questions. Five Questions doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Emma ignored him. “And, for every question you get, I get to ask you one back.”
“But that’s not how—”
“Take it or leave it.”
He gave her a wry smile, then shrugged. “Fine. Question one: Where are you from?”
“Everywhere,” she answered. “Now for my ques—”
“Hey, it’s not your turn yet. You didn’t answer mine.”
“I did too. I’m from everywhere.”
“Really?” He raised an eyebrow. “So you’ve lived at the North Pole? Madagascar? What about Palau? Because that would be really cool. I’ve always wondered if scuba diving there is as great as people say it is.”
What was he talki
ng about? Palau? Was that even a real place, or had he made it up to stump her? She decided to play along. “Even better. In some areas, visibility is close to three hundred feet.”
“Three hundred? Wow.”
“Yeah, totally opposite of the North Pole, where glowing reindeer noses are needed to have any visibility at all. Madagascar, on the other hand, is all clear blue skies, talking zebras, spiky-haired lions, and hilarious penguins.”
“Just like you—hilarious.” Kevin said wryly, nudging her shoulder with his and sending a myriad of goose bumps down her arms. “Just remember, what goes around comes around.”
He made a good point, though she still hesitated. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed of her past, but after everything else, she worried it would be one more unconventional thing to add to her already staggering list. Something told her Kevin was after a conventional woman.
Emma sighed and tossed her bowl in the next trash can that came along. She couldn’t change who she was, and if he didn’t like it, that was that. “I was born in Colorado Springs, believe it or not—but only because my mother didn’t want to give birth to me in Sierra Leone, which was where my parents were living at the time. So she flew to the states, had me, and lived with Aunt Maude for a few months before taking me back. According to my parents, we lived in Africa for three years before a nasty hurricane struck Honduras, and my father was asked to head up a relief effort there. Since that time, I’ve lived in Costa Rica, Guatemala, and the Dominican Republic. I’ve slept in tents, on dirt floors, and have been home schooled half my life. But it wasn’t until I was a teenager and spent a summer living with Noah and his new wife in Ohio that I realized what a strange life I’d led.”
Emma paused as the memories came rushing back—both the good and the bad. “Going back to live with my parents was the hardest thing I ever did.”
“Why?”
“Uh-uh.” Emma wagged her finger at him. “My turn first.”
“Fair enough,” said Kevin. “What’s your question?”
“Hmm…” Emma wanted to make it good—something that would require more than a one-word answer. She finally settled on, “Why pediatric dentistry?”
[Meet Your Match 01.0] Prejudice Meets Pride Page 11