Page 36 of Painting Celia

“Paint boredom.”

She stared as he stalked out.

Seven

León stomped back to the pool house, angrily shutting down visions of smooth coppery angles.

He did not want to paint Celia!

Treading carefully around her anxious moods, seeing her timid doe eyes raised to him like he knew all the answers—she was too much work. Besides, teaching her took enough of his time. And even that was a risk! If he stepped wrong, and he would eventually, she could kick him out. She was trouble he couldn’t afford.

He closed the door behind him, a towel hung on the outside latch, and went straight to his latest painting, up against the tall windows overlooking Los Angeles.

It was shit.

He’d tried to show the majesty of the steel beehives in the distance, golden reflections bouncing around the basin, but the feeling wasn’t there. Somehow it just showed distance and isolation. Why?

He had to scrap this one too. He might as well be Celia trying to paint.

All right, he was grumpy because his paintings weren’t going well. He was distracted. He kept feeling Celia rattling around in that stark house, painting her repressed little apples.

Maybe going to the exhibition space with Trevor later today would clear his head.

Chafing at his lack of direction, he paced. He had the time. Why couldn’t he use it right? Maybe he should try floating in the pool at night like Celia, meditating or whatever. He hadn’t actually seen her out there once. Probably avoiding it because of him.

Why did she have to keep popping into his head?

Fine! He’d draw her! Maybe that would exorcize her and he could move on to something he actually wanted to do.

Today’s study of her was a starting place, but not what he should sketch. She was better in motion. The openness when she relaxed and turned to him during the first lesson—that had been a good moment.

He pulled out a pad and charcoal and tried to recall how she’d looked when he suggested she feed him. Her shoulders had relaxed. Her face had tipped up to his, baring her neck just the slightest bit. That slight turn, calmness in her lines, openness, warmth.

He couldn’t perfectly draw it, but at least he was working. He tore the page off and tried again.

By the time Trevor texted to say he was on his way to pick them up, he’d made at least ten sketches. They were close, but none were right. His frustration was back.

Wait, ‘them?’ Was Celia coming too? Why?

León made an effort to clean himself up. He was meeting potential exhibitors. He ought to look less scruffy. He shaved around his facial hair and pulled on a beanie. He wore his one blazer over a dark T-shirt. He really needed to get some nicer clothes.

He grabbed the printed sample cards of his work and went out through the side gate to await Trevor.

Celia came out the front door right as León reached the driveway. She was wearing a belted brown knit dress that reminded him of Andrew’s vision of her in bronze. Whatever. She looked okay.

She wasn’t going to speak, just shifting her weight from foot to foot and looking warily at the trees across the road.

“You’re coming too?” he finally asked.

She reached to fidget with her necklace but didn’t turn to him. “Trevor asked me an hour ago.”

“Why?”

Her whole body went still, and she turned stony eyes on him. “Why not?”

That dismissive way she could stare through him!

“Con permiso, mi reina,” he muttered, looking away as though watching for Trevor’s car.

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