Page 108 of Painting Celia

The arched alcoves along the back could be small classrooms. To the left of the front door, gallery shelves could be built. The whole warehouse could blossom with colored oils, ring with welded metal, flow with curves of clay. And Celia herself could finally contribute, leaning into her real talents to organize and feed and house her residents.

She stopped to look at León’s paintings in their warm little corner. They were a touch of home, welcoming her to the building. They’d just moved in before she had.

An original iron staircase on the southern wall led to the second floor. It had been painted many times over the years, its handrail cool under Celia’s palm, imperfectly ridged with layers of glossy black paint. The stairs opened onto a new wide bare space, twin to the floor below. It held desks and filing cabinets and racks upon racks of art. Here, practicality and dreams met; the backbone of Celia’s plan. She could wall off small offices for the staff she’d need, then fill the center of the room with dormer-style beds and cubbies. By this floor’s front windows, she could build a communal living space with a kitchen and couches. Creation would thrive below, but this floor would be for the mess of living.

Celia’s footsteps on the next flight of iron stairs set it ringing quietly. The third floor, in unused disrepair, was brilliantly lit and dry. Dust stirred by Celia’s feet floated into columns of sun from the domed skylights. She could live up here, after walling off most of the floor for the storage she’d inevitably need. She didn’t need much space herself.

A smaller final stair led to the mottled tarpaper roof. Stepping out into the open air, Celia looked over the stuccoed buildings and businesses of the neighborhood. Downtown LA rose behind palm trees and bridges, only the tops of the buildings visible through the hazy autumn morning light. The air sang with the burr of cars and trains, pops of music from a distant market square, the bark of a dog on the sidewalk below.

She turned in a slow circle, breathing in the possibilities. This was a different kind of sanctuary–no pool, no distant view down the canyon. Instead, this building cupped her in full hands, embracing her purpose and potential. A wind rustled nearby palm trees, their tops almost at eye level. She was up high! She’d be giving up floating to start flying.

Trailing back down the stairs, head filling with lists, Celia knew. She could feel deep in her bones that this was her place.

There were a million tough decisions ahead of her, and it felt heavenly. She didn’t mind if she lost every penny failing as long as she got to try. With the agent locking up behind her, she pulled out her phone. Next stop, her financial planner.

•••

León heard her close the front door, returning home. It had been strange, alone in the house without her quiet presence. He’d touched up all the paintings he could work on without her and desperately wanted her to sit more, but he should let her rest tonight. She’d been out on her project for most of the day.

Meeting her in the hallway, seeing her face lit like sunshine made the whole quiet day worth it.

“It’s going to work,” she said, blissful.

She beamed when she saw he’d cooked supper. Why hadn’t he thought of doing this before? They ate the grilled cheese sandwiches—his specialty—at the kitchen island, her planning already taking over the dining table.

She laughed and chattered about her warehouse. Look at her glowing!

“I couldn’t get my mind off you all day,” he said, and she glowed even brighter. Seeing her this happy was new. He loved it.

She followed him after their meal to the studio room to see the work he’d gotten done. Paintings lined the room, leaning against the walls, too wet to stack.

“Do you want me to pose?”

He shook his head. “That’s too much for one day, Celia. You still have some lists to make, I’ll bet. Maybe tomorrow around lunch?”

She nodded assent, looking closely at the nearly completed green painting.

He picked up a brush from where it’d been buried in yellow-green paint, keeping wet, and looked around for his cleaning gear. He hadn’t finished putting his things away before starting to cook. Celia found his jars sitting on a dining room chair he’d brought in. Paint stained the seat. His stomach sank.

“Oh no. I forgot to cover that.”

She waved it off, careless and smiling. He handed her the brush, turning to reach for a rag. In the scant moment before he turned back, she lit up with an impish energy. He couldn’t help but stare, her eyes alight and a mischievous curl on her lips.

She reached out and painted a stripe of green on the back of his hand. Surprise jolted through him.

“Paint gets everywhere,” she said with a barely straight face.

Who was this new woman? “You’re going to do me like that?”

She giggled and dabbed green onto his cheek. That paint was cold!

“You’ll make another mess,” he said, surprise fading into fascination. “Be careful.”

“Then stand still.”

He instantly complied. She drew a wobbly line down his nose, another little laugh spilling out.

“Spontaneous expression,” she said.

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