Page 23 of Painting Celia

“When?”

“Give me a couple of days to move and settle in?” She nodded. “Tuesday, then.”

Five

The bang of the side gate told her it had begun. León was moving his stuff in.

Celia leaned against the wall in her hallway, arms crossed, hanging back to peek at León and Andrew as they carried boxes into the pool house. The coolness of the wall against her temple steadied her bones with its solid support. Her home, her bastion, wasn’t changing. Just her backyard.

She wasn’t freaked out. This was fine. She’d invited him.

The faint rumble of the sliding door on the pool house punctuated every trip the men made. Big canvases walked into the pool house, seemingly on their own, backs turned toward her so she couldn’t see if they were painted or bare.

He would teach her how to paint.

A smile sneaked past her misgivings, faintly touching her lips.

Even though it was scary, I invited him. Good for me.

She turned and slipped back into the seclusion of her bedroom. There was no reason to hover while they worked.

Good or not, it felt weird. Maybe she’d stay indoors until she toughened up and got used to the weight of eyes on her from this new direction. It would be hard to find time to swim, but León wouldn’t be here every minute, right?

She just needed to stay busy. Was there anything to do until Tuesday? A drawer that needed organizing, a rug to be cleaned, or…why was there never anything to do in this house?

Cooking was tempting, but they could see her in the kitchen if they looked. Besides, she had only herself to feed until mid-week. She needed something to lock her away in a room for days.

She’d just have to clean something that didn’t need it. Something big. A whole room, probably. Her craft room would do. She hadn’t gone through it in a month, anyway.

The floor-to-ceiling reorganization took her through the first night and into the next evening.

Her mother called twice, deflating her with complaints, but she used her tools to forget—label maker, drawer dividers, little white hooks one could hang anything from.

The third morning dawned.

Tuesday.

Common, ordinary Tuesday. Celia drank tea, watched Kelsey and Andrew exchange gifs in the group chat, and stiffly tamped down her anticipation each time it flared up. Except for neglected cups of tea going cold and her phone screen blanking out when she stared too long, it was just another day.

She didn’t dare care about this. She didn’t dare not care.

Poor León, coming in to teach her when she was wound tight.

She’d already laid her supplies out very carefully in the craft room, prepared with acrylic paint from other projects, a tabletop easel, and a stack of cheap painter boards. She’d opened a fresh pack of brushes. Two water glasses, in case one got dirty quickly, some rags from the bin.

She cooked to distract herself. Potato soup was quick to throw together and easy to leave on a simmer.

Staring into the pot of soup got old too.

Fine.

She stole into the craft room, admitting her impatience. It was early—but not too early—to practice. She could at least show León that she knew how to mix colors.

She settled on painting an apple. Her gradients and shading weren’t flawless, but they were precise. It was very round, red, with a shadow on one side and a highlight on the other, just like she’d made in her beginner class. The apple didn’t look much like art.

She probably shouldn’t have her hopes up like this.

She brushed off the depressing thoughts her basic apple had engendered. This could be the baseline, something to measure her new skills against. It had a place if only to show how much improvement she made in the future. And she would! She was ready to learn.

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