Page 130 of Painting Celia

He’d finished it despite her head being full of plans and figures. He’d managed to give her the expression he’d described, somehow. She knew she hadn’t given it to him the way he’d wanted.

Five paintings, six if he’d still had the yellow. They made a rainbow of memories, a kaleidoscope of the changes she’d gone through.

Maybe he hadn’t changed. Most people didn’t. Maybe he would always bulldoze then run away when scared. Maybe it was better to look fondly at this art and let León go.

But she’d see him tonight!

Her caution was no match for the burning excitement in her veins. For a moment, she tried to banish the nerves, then laughed aloud. Tamping down feelings again? There were things she might never unlearn too.

She was ready for the next step.

•••

The potential buyer arrived on time. León did not.

The daylight had long since faded, the brisk December nights as long as they got in Los Angeles. From outside, the warehouse must have looked ablaze with light.

“I’m Jaime Cook,” the steel-haired woman said with a polished smile, reaching to shake Celia’s hand as she entered. Celia introduced herself, not sure how to proceed without León. Andrew said León hadn’t said yes to the sale, much less mentioned price. Should she explain the paintings, tell the stories behind them? It seemed too personal.

“The artist isn’t here yet, obviously,” she said. “He should be coming, though.”

Ms. Cook didn’t look bothered, letting her gaze wander around the new interior. “The gallery moved out. Do you know what this place is now?”

“It’s a home for artists,” Celia said. “They can live here and work on their art without having to waste time on jobs. We’re hoping to help them get started in their careers.”

“We?”

“I’m the owner.”

The woman’s eyebrows raised. “But you’re the model for these paintings too, right? You were pointed out to me at the exhibition.” Her gaze lingered on the canvases. “His muse, I was told.”

The word tightened Celia’s suddenly dry throat. “I was his model.”

“I think he’s got a serious career ahead of him,” Ms. Cook observed, still absorbed in the artwork.

“Can I get you a drink?” Celia offered. Lord knew she needed one. Was León coming?

Ms. Cook waved a hand, dismissing the offer. She leaned close to the blue painting, inspecting the brush strokes. “The way he captures you,” she said, “it’s sophisticated, but raw and intimate. Intense.” She looked at Celia. “It’s clear you had a profound connection.”

Celia blushed. “You know how artists are.”

“I do. They’re often late like this too.”

There was no sign of the confounded artist, though the street outside was too dark to see his arrival. Celia decided she’d talk about the paintings after all, leaving out the personal details where she could. She headed for the far end to leave the blue painting for last.

Ms. Cook stopped at the green, though, arrested.

“Is there a story behind this one?”

“It’s a goddess of bounty, a provider.”

“It’s very serene. Not at all like this spiky red one.”

“He has range. He was always clear about what he wanted to portray.”

Celia looked at her watch. Come on, León!

•••

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