Page 6 of Painting Celia

A shaky breath escaped Celia.

“Why don’t you two go sit,” Andrew said. “He won’t want us all hanging around. I’ll stay.”

Celia pressed her hands against her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have gotten fancy with the ingredients.”

“Honey, no,” Kelsey said. “It was just unfortunate. Come sit down.”

“I’ll call if we need anything, Celia,” Andrew told her.

Celia let herself be led back to the fire but knew she’d be back as soon as Andrew signaled. She could at least get León water, medicine, whatever helped.

She felt like vomiting herself. She’d never poisoned a guest before.

Two

Squinting against a bright hot light, León awoke in an unfamiliar room, sun pouring onto the bed through a skylight. He blinked, rasping an unshaven cheek off the pillow. Where the hell was he? Not Andrew’s, not a hotel or—wait, this was that lady’s house. Celia’s.

He breathed as last night came back to him. He’d been sick, then Andrew showed him to a dark guest room to lie down for a bit. He must have fallen asleep, and they’d just left him.

León took stock, scooting out of the bleached sunbeam. He’d kicked a blanket mostly off during the night but was fully dressed. His phone was half under the pillow. A bottle of water baked on the nightstand. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until he saw it there.

On the white dresser sat a precise array of things obviously meant for him. Towels, hair ties, a ridiculous number of medicines, and even a toothbrush new in its packaging. A small garbage bin huddled next to the bed. Someone had thought of everything.

He didn’t need all that stuff. He was fine. He wanted to leave.

He texted Andrew, hoping he’d spent the night too, but was told he’d just finished teaching his morning ceramics class. He’d be back at Celia’s soonish.

Ugh. Well, how hard could it be to kill time up here?

He huffed a sigh, then paused. Why was he so impatient?

Closing his eyes, he ran through a little mental exercise he used before painting. His art required emotional honesty, so he practiced it. What was he really feeling?

Tranquilo. Stop and be present.

He felt irritated. That usually meant he was fighting himself. On what?

Well, he wasn’t actually fine; he was embarrassed. Being sick at a stranger’s house—that was awkward. Weird and intimate. Should he apologize? It wasn’t really anyone’s fault. Probably he should start taking the shellfish thing more seriously. And Celia, there was no way she could have known.

Okay. It felt embarrassing but was no one’s fault. Hopefully, they could just shake hands on it and never bring it up again.

He felt better. He wanted to get moving.

The distant clinking of crockery said León’s host was up and about. He ventured out, following the sound.

The kitchen was as stark and bright as the guest room, the few items sitting out as white as the countertops. There were no upper cabinets, and the wall of windows and greenery outside at least softened the room a little.

Celia was on duty at her stove top, standing ready in front of a steaming teapot. She was back to giving him those serious eyes and nothing else. She’d acted human when he got sick. Was that over?

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

He hitched himself up onto a tall stool at a kitchen island wider than a pool table. “Embarrassed about last night,” he said, “but not sick anymore.”

Her wooden face allowed no reaction. It was strangely irritating.

“I owe you a huge apology,” she said, eyes steady.

“You don’t, though.”

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