Page 134 of Painting Celia

She didn’t say anything, just giving him that somber waiting look of hers. There was a strength in her gaze that was also new. But her shoulders were too far back, her spine too straight. Her eyes flickered to his clean hands. She was nervous too.

He’d planned things to say, knowing he’d screw it up otherwise. “Celia.” He cleared his throat, the words coming out rougher than he’d intended. “I was thinking. I want to help here, like Andrew and the rest.”

Hazel eyes widening in their old way, Celia raised a hand to fidget with her necklace. It was a plain silver chain, no palette pendant. That was new too.

He swallowed. Jesus, let this work. “I could be a sort of ambassador for Incubadora to the neighborhood. I know the culture, the language. I could get people interested, or maybe find residents for you.”

Her eyes flickered with interest. She saw it, it could work! Then she hesitated, biting her lip.

“Why?” she asked.

That wasn’t a no!

León played the one card he had. “There are artists here who need help.”

A phone rang sharply, cutting through the moment. Fifteen feet away, Dolores answered, then held the phone out toward them. “Celia?”

Celia glanced between León and the phone, pulling harder on her necklace. León saw it biting a red line into her tender skin. Then she let it go and the mark faded.

“Okay,” she said to him, softly.

León took a step back, relief welling fiercely. She was going to give him a chance! Celia turned her face again toward Dolores and the call, and he decided to quit while he was ahead.

“I’ll be back,” he said, and beat a hasty retreat to the mild morning outside. He’d opened a door. Now it was up to Celia to decide how far she’d let him in.

•••

Celia moved mechanically, accepting the phone with unfeeling fingers, her mind feverishly replaying the last five minutes.

León hadn’t brought up their fight. Was he going to pretend it never happened? If he wouldn’t mention it, she sure wouldn’t!

“It’s the caterer,” Dolores said. “She wants the grand opening date.”

Celia took the receiver and heard the caterer’s voice, a distant buzz. León’s sudden offer to help swirled in her like a brewing storm. She eyed the door he’d exited, his presence lingering in the room like a shadow. What was his game?

The caterer repeated a question, snapping Celia back to the present. Opening day? “December twenty first,” she answered.

Dolores’ brows arched in surprise as Celia ended the call. “So soon? There’s still so much work left undone.”

Celia raised her chin, tamping down the butterflies. “I’ll risk it.”

•••

León got started immediately, going into each storefront in the block, talking about this new community art place opening soon. He didn’t tell them he knew the owner, but talked about Incubadora as though he was interested.

The full name, Incubadora de Artistas, often got chuckles and jokes about chickens and eggs. Well, it was too late to change it now. Celia had chosen it and what Celia wanted, Celia was going to get.

No one seemed concerned about trouble from a group of poor artists living nearby. Most cared more about whether there would be things for the community, like free art classes for kids. León filed every hope away to suggest later.

It was tiring, but he covered two long blocks on the first day.

As the week progressed, León quickly developed a pattern. First thing, every morning, he stopped in to see Celia.

She was perpetually the center of choreographed action, directing young men as they brought in beds or took away ladders. Getting fifteen minutes of her attention each day was a feat, but it kept him going.

León focused on his new role, showing her he was helping. He didn’t even consider painting her as the beating heart of the room, a steady rosy soul in a swirling flock of sparks. A lithe golden flame burning in a chaotic thunderstorm. A sunbeam of white pirouetting through a tangled green forest canopy. A pearl—okay, quit. He wasn’t thinking of painting.

He brought her the suggestions and concerns he’d heard. Bringing up their fight would have ruined the fragile peace, so he never did. Miraculously, neither did she.

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