Page 27 of Painting Celia

“This is your study,” he continued. “You made a sketch of where the painting might go. I will interpret your sketch using technique, so you can see what it might look like complete. If it were me painting it, of course. Your style will be different.”

He put another canvas board on the easel from the stack she had ready, then cleaned her palette knife. He quickly mixed colors and swiped a slightly curved slash of red down the board, another one in orange and yellow, then added teal and charcoal slashes going upwards across them.

The difference was astounding.

“But it’s so professional!” she said. “That could be a real painting. Almost like Japanese calligraphy.”

“Does it look nervous?” She shrugged weakly. “What might you think it represents?”

“Energy? Movement?” she ventured.

He leaned in. “Calm energy?”

“No, not calm. Definitely not calm.”

He set down the tools, turning to look at her. “You just made your first abstract painting, telling a story about emotions you felt.”

“Well, you did.”

He shook his head, tucking loose hair behind his ear again. A smudge of red was added to the orange already there.

“I just interpreted your story,” he said. “You’ll get to that stage soon enough. For now, let this sink in a bit. Think it over.”

She looked up at the clock, shocked to see how much time had passed. It had seemed like minutes. Done already? It had been hard, but she liked it. She wanted more.

•••

León smiled at the dismay painted so blatantly across her face. Expressions! She’d done better with those than he expected.

She was obviously practiced at keeping her face still and slipping into shadows, but her body reacted against her will. He’d quite enjoyed all her tiny gasps and shivers as she painted, keyed up and distressed. The delicate rosy flushes along her neck as she struggled to put those feelings into the brush were enchanting.

He’d enjoyed the lesson more than her—that was clear. He’d give her a break.

“Should we switch gears? You’ve been nervous for long enough. What if we try recognizing emotions?”

She stiffened immediately. That social anxiety of hers must be hell.

What relaxed her? He thought back. Drinks. Food.

“But first,” he said, “I’m a little hungry. Do you have anything made?”

She turned to him and melted, simple and artless, every tense line softening in subtle relief. The sight was fascinating. Her face tipped up to his, baring her neck just the slightest bit. It transformed her.

“Do you like potato soup?” she asked.

He grinned and held out a hand toward the door.

The process of serving the food calmed her. She was much more relaxed by the time they each had a hot cup of soup before them, sitting at her kitchen island on the tall stools. He asked how she’d made the soup, meaning to disarm her, but her enthusiasm about the process beguiled him instead. She glowed as she explained.

No wonder she liked feeding everyone when they came over. All that planning and skill, genuinely enjoyed, needed to be shared. She acted like she rarely got the chance.

“Okay,” he said, pushing away his empty cup. “I’m not thrilled there are feet in there, but it tastes good.”

Her smile was nearly merry.

“Thank you,” she said, twisting her fingers together, looking down at them in her lap. “You’re being very nice.”

“All a part of the service.”

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