Page 151 of Painting Celia

“Estella, mi vida,” León’s father called, “come see this painting of your son’s!”

The visit flew quickly, and plans were made for the new couple to visit New York in a few months.

León did his best not to pester her to sit for him, but there were days he couldn’t resist. She couldn’t work all the time, and he craved having his muse in front of him.

“Here, this will be an easy pose,” he begged, pulling her to the bed by the hand. “Pants off. Underwear too.” She complied quickly. “You can keep the sweater on, I think. Yes, that’s gorgeous. Green sweater, blue bed. Lovely.” He directed her to lay on her stomach, diagonally across their bed, facing him. “Okay, feet up at the knees. Cross them at the ankles.” He moved to pull the sweater down to her waist, bunching it artfully at her left hip. “Right. Pull the sweater cuffs almost over your hands. Lace your fingers. Okay, lower your head and peek at me over your hands.”

She followed his directions, then waited as he pulled out his phone to capture a few shots. He had to get these because she just couldn’t sit as much now. But when she could…he dragged his easel over, threw a canvas on it, and began painting furiously.

“I’ll be fast, cielito, promise.”

“I have time, it’s okay.” She held the position without moving a muscle. “I would sit for you more if I could, León. Maybe I can take a day off next week.”

“To work for me? Oh no. You rest on your day off.” He leaned around the canvas to look at her a little more closely. “Well, maybe a little sitting.” He scrubbed more paint on the canvas. She could hear him muttering to himself.

“Musa encantadora, reina, Eres tú….”

She grinned behind her hands. He did still get worked up.

Spring brought even more residents to Incubadora, filling the last of the beds. The entire building, top to bottom, surged with the voices and pigments and scents of art. Celia longed to expand her new family, but her funds weren’t unlimited. She cast about for ideas; inexpensive ways to bring in more of the community, or failing that, overlooked sources of money.

Coming down to the front desk one bright afternoon to collect mail, she heard squeals and shouts on the street outside. Children playing. A whole herd of them, by the sound. Sun slanted in the tall front windows, the glare rendering them opaque. As she turned away, the front door wrenched open with a rush of air and Hector tumbled inside, breathless and damp, his ruddy face lit with a wide grin.

“What’s going on out there?” she asked.

“Football, Celia! The street’s blocked so we’re playing.”

The shrieks outside rang louder with the door open, and Celia rounded the desk to peek outside at the fun.

Sure enough, a laughing clutch of children, all knobbly arms and legs, flocked around a soccer ball as it rocketed back and forth under their kicking feet. Mothers with toddlers, some Celia had met before, roosted in the narrow shade across the street, watching.

And among the children, a taller figure raced around them shouting instructions, bouncing and pointing at the ball, as loud as any kid. Her capricious, energetic painter. His hair flew, sweaty and loose, his back twisting under the fabric of his t-shirt as the ball shot out toward him. He stopped it with a sneakered foot, face alight as the group turned to him.

“Tío León! Here!” they shouted, waving hands in the air, begging that the ball be sent their way. “¡Tío, aquí!”

He kicked it squarely back, bubbling with laughter as he tried to direct them, any of them, to aim for the goal.

The sun on Celia’s face couldn’t rival the warmth that bloomed inside her. The playful chaos of the children gave voice to the wild love she felt for this man. He’d made friends; he was at home here. They were at home.

Hector joined her in the doorway, gulping down a bottle of water he’d fetched.

“Let’s get waters for the kids,” she said, still watching the scrum.

“I’ll bring some,” he said, jogging back in.

Maybe she spent too much time inside with her artists. Maybe it was time to invite in the whole community. The classes at Incubadora paid for a lot of expenses, but if she had more funds, she could offer free classes to the kids, just like León had said the neighbors wanted, back before they opened.

It wasn’t a hard decision. It was time to put her canyon house on the market.

•••

Celia’s house sold in record time, furnishings and all. While she didn’t miss rattling around her empty white house, she couldn’t say goodbye without a last look. She invited the gang back for one last night of hanging around the firepit.

Between the full day and heavy traffic, everyone beat León and Celia there, including the pizza delivery driver. They just missed the April sunset, the city sparkling under a clear indigo sky when they came through the side gate. The patio looked so bare without its cushioned lounge chairs, her wall of windows mirroring back only the first stars.

León walked her down the sloped lawn, his hand warm in hers. Andrew already had the last fire cheerfully leaping, crackling and warm. Her familiar little pool glowed a still, luminous blue next to the silent, dark pool house. Celia stopped where the old food table had stood, more saddened than she’d expected. She looked down the canyon to the constellation of yellow city lights.

“I’m going to miss this view of the city,” she said.

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