Page 17 of Painting Celia

“What was that?” she asked.

He waved a hand back at the door dismissively and grinned at her. “I’m a genius, is all.”

“It didn’t sound….”

Andrew came close and reached for her free hand, a relaxed smile spreading across his face. For someone who’d just been yelled at, he looked awfully pleased with himself.

“Celia. León needs a place to stay, and you have that pool house. You could let him stay there in exchange for painting lessons.”

The evening went suddenly cold. Sharing her backyard? Someone living here? She barely knew León! No way in hell.

“Absolutely not!” she said.

Andrew just grinned wider.

Four

León checked the sun’s angle as Andrew drove slowly from traffic light to traffic light. Hours to go before the next sunset. Hurry up and wait. He caught his thumbs tapping against his thighs again and stilled them.

The delays were killing him.

If it wasn’t LA traffic eating up time, it was apartment managers who didn’t call back or Andrew’s damn social life.

His thumbs again…ah, whatever, let them tap.

A dismal, misshapen feeling kept beating around his head, looking for a way in. The painting had taken a wrong turn, it whispered. The truth and the story hadn’t made it onto canvas. It was New York all over again.

There was no choice but to try again, but his deal with Celia was for this one painting. Andrew’s place was still too small, and the apartment search going nowhere. He’d thought his New York budget would go further out here, but no.

And instead of helping, here was Andrew, dragging him out for happy hour, of all things. Drinks were an indulgence he couldn’t afford. He didn’t have the time. Hell, he didn’t have the cash.

Still, as Andrew pulled into a parking lot, León tried to calm himself. He wasn’t sulky. His problems were his own. If he had to chit-chat for a few hours before sunset, he’d do it nicely.

The bar was high-ceilinged and airy, arched windows spilling golden sun onto brick walls and brass fixtures. Broad-leafed tropical plants waved on the crimson walls at classic intervals. León followed Andrew’s navy-blue shoulders into cool, dim interiors smelling of pine and citrus.

Celia would be here. Could he talk her into a few more nights? She might let him, though he couldn’t pay her back.

Andrew’s bright idea from last night was still rattling around his head too. Yes, he could desperately use the pool house. But he didn’t know how to teach, had no time to waste on giving lessons, and Celia was far too wooden to paint from the heart.

Also, he’d heard her say no. She didn’t want him there.

“Why’d we come here instead of going to Celia’s?” León asked. “Is she tired of us hanging in her backyard?”

“We’re giving her a break from hosting,” Andrew said, not breaking stride. “She likes this place.”

In a private brick-lined corner, they found Trevor sitting at a polished wooden table, Celia already across from him. Trevor’s ocean-blue shirt was a relief, a pop of cool color in this otherwise red and gold edifice. The inaudible talk at the table halted as Andrew swanned up. In a smooth motion, he scooted across the bench next to Trevor and dropped an arm around his shoulder.

“Can I come fishing with you next time?” he asked. “I need a vacation.”

Andrew, fishing? Being quiet, outdoors, for more than five minutes? That was a joke, right?

Trevor rolled his eyes with a smile but leaned into Andrew’s embrace. “You can come any time,” he said, “but I’m not driving you back when you miss civilization the first night.”

“When’s your next trip?” Andrew asked him, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

León turned his attention to Celia.

She glanced into the drink cupped between her hands. Back to avoiding eye contact, were we? Jesus, that was an annoying habit! He pulled out the seat at the end of the table, furthest from her, his fingers on the chair blotched with shades of green paint.

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