Page 48 of Painting Celia

He ducked into the pool house and then right back out. He didn’t even know why he’d gone in. It was a little late to disappear inside.

“My robe,” she said. “On the chair. Will you get it?”

He peered toward the pool’s edge until a darker shadow on one chair became evident. Numbly, he retrieved the robe and took it to the pool stairs, holding it open for her.

She waded to him, water streaming off in chilly runnels as she emerged. Looking only at her face, he laid it around her shoulders, then moved aside. Her teeth chattered as she ascended, pulling the robe closed, not bothering to put her arms into the sleeves.

For another moment, they just stood there, looking at each other.

León’s head was still full of curves and tranquility and exposure, envisioning how to embody her moment on canvas.

He realized suddenly where they were, that she was real, chilled and bewildered in front of him. She would speak. She might be mad. He had to save what he could of what was in his head.

“Give me a minute, please,” he implored. He rushed into the pool house, leaving her standing in cold shock.

•••

What was happening? What did León mean, ‘give him a minute?’

She hadn’t expected him there. Had he been watching her? Intruding on her private moment? But why?

She should go, disappear, dry off, wrap a towel around her hair, and warm up next to Andrew.

Instead, she followed León.

He was sitting on the daybed with his pad and charcoal, frantically sketching. Two loose pages were already on the floor next to him, and as she entered, he pulled off another and laid it atop them. He continued pulling the charcoal across the page in long mad strokes.

“Why—”

“Wait, please,” he begged.

Was this how real art happened? Was she finally seeing it? He didn’t look happy.

After six pages, his shoulders relaxed, his hand stilled. Finally, he turned his eyes to her as she stood in the doorway, shivering and dripping.

“I’m sorry. I saw lights from the pool, I didn’t think it might be you.” He rose to whisk a towel from the shelves nearby and hand it to her. “Your hair, it’s still dripping. You look cold.” As she wrapped it around her head, he stacked his sketches carefully on the nearest easel. She finally put her arms into the sleeves of the wet robe as he sat.

“I’m going inside,” she said. But after a moment, she moved to sit on the bed next to him.

He took a deep breath, then exhaled heavily.

“I didn’t mean to intrude. I promise I just saw a painting.” He waved a hand toward the easel. The top sketch was just shapes, but she could see a nude floating in the water, defined in graceful, strong, sweeping lines. It was good, like his caricature studies of her posing before.

“I didn’t think you’d notice me out there,” she said.

He turned his face to her, then ducked his head. He looked down at his hands, clasped together, elbows on his knees.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he repeated. “I just went to look, then…the shapes. I needed to get them down.”

She looked back at the sketches, then dropped her eyes to the rest of his pages and work scattered on the floor. Wait, one of Andrew’s small sculptures was sitting on the table directly in front of them. What? She shivered, feeling a flutter in her stomach.

Her eyes went up to the canvas right behind the sculpture. The black line was unmistakable—her body was painted on the raw linen. She felt a hum of alarm deep inside.

“What is going on here?”

“Inspiration,” he said. “I swear. I’m not being creepy. I’m not spying or thinking anything. I just got inspired by this curve here.” He turned the sculpture away and traced a finger down it. It was the same as on the canvas. “Then I saw you out there. It’s good. It’ll make a painting.”

Celia didn’t spend time with artists without learning about inspiration. She’d seen them stop mid-stride to try and capture it. He was inspired by her?

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