Page 123 of Painting Celia

León knew what his father was doing. The goading and provocation weren’t going to work this time. His feelings were too raw to let out.

His razor-thin control wavered, though.

“Okay, I’m hiding.” he confessed. “I can still come here, right? I’m your son even if I’m not a painter?”

His father straightened, eyes wounded, and covered his heart with a splayed hand. León wished he could take back the words. Celia had asked that once, trying to be reassuring, and he hadn’t meant to turn the words around into an accusation.

“Of course, you are welcome,” his father said, softening. “But you are a painter even if you refuse to paint.”

León cringed inside. No, a painter who didn’t paint was nothing.

“I’ll bring you supplies. If you try once, you’ll see. When you’re hurting, that’s the time to paint more, not less.”

León bit his tongue. There was nothing to say, and it hurt to try defending a choice he didn’t want.

“Son, why don’t you fight? You’ve never been one to give up.”

León looked down.

“It’s when you give up that you are beaten.”

León closed his eyes. He was obviously beaten.

“If fighting doesn’t work, try the opposite. Be gentle and go quietly around this thing that stops you.”

León snorted.

“You think that doesn’t work? You wait and see.”

Dropping his head in his hands, León listened to his father leave and quietly close the door.

•••

The knocking started as Celia pulled delivery schedules out of their colored folder. It was already dark outside. Who would show up at her place at this time?

When the knocking persisted, she realized. That languid pattern, the way the knocking went a little too long…Andrew.

Sure enough, he stood there when she opened the door.

“Hi,” she said, her lips pursed at his audacity. “I’m a little busy.”

“You can spare a few minutes for me, right?”

Not really! “If I said no, would you listen?”

His eyes widened. “Of course.”

She sighed, relenting. “Come on.”

She led him through the dim house to the only fully lit room: the new nerve center. The dining table was covered with folders in various vertical holders, and her laptop was surrounded by neat piles of papers. She sat down in front of it as he pulled out a chair of his own. She lowered its lid, but not all the way.

“How’s it been going?” Andrew asked.

Incubadora. The fire in her belly never smoldered out, and she let it flame up now.

“It’s going to work, Andrew. I can open just before Christmas. There are only a few more weeks of construction, and I’ve hired an administrative assistant already. Dolores, she’s wonderful. If you want to see your classroom this week, the main floor is almost done. I’ll need a list of supplies from you, so I can have those ready.” She reached for the laptop, then stopped herself. “We need to test the dumbwaiter and kiln. The signage will be installed next week, and then they’re delivering the furniture for my loft, up top. I don’t want anything from here.”

Andrew swallowed. “I meant, how are you doing?”

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