Page 64 of Painting Celia

Her hands, still trapped in his between them, sank in his grasp. Her water-beaded shoulders drooped, but that expressive little chin inched higher. She nodded, eyes closed.

“Let’s get out,” he said, low. “You’re…you’re too tempting.”

It was an uncomfortable process, leaving the pool while studiously not looking at each other, shivering, her grabbing her robe and him a towel near the door. He’d hung it up to keep her away a few times now.

She joined him there at the pool house doorway, stopping barely within arm’s reach. She was a shadow against the bright lights of her house above them, her dewy face barely lit by the pool.

“I’ll see you tomorrow for my lesson?” she asked.

“Yes.”

There didn’t seem to be more to say. Except…she’d started to turn for the house when he grabbed her hand.

“Thank you for accepting my apology. And for posing.”

She smiled, but he felt a slight tremble in her.

Jesus. Tell me I’m an idiot, Celia. I’m not the boss of everything. Say you’re staying, just walk in to my bed. I’ll follow.

Instead, he squeezed her hand and let it go.

“Sleep well, reinita.”

Her eyes widened. “Good lord, León. How could I?”

She turned and left.

Twelve

León’s first sight upon awakening was Celia in blue.

He’d tossed fitfully all night, submerged in half-sleep, dreaming that she swam circles around him. She was made of living paint, a teasing sprite of liquid curves and lashing waves of blue. The urge to touch her burned in him, but he dared not. His fingers would smear her deep lacings of color.

He awoke at dawn, as usual, to find his canvas shining in the morning light. Dozy and bemused, León breathed in her image—glowing Celia, revealed in luminous hues. His fleeting dreams faded as bright pride swelled. Beaming from his bed, inhabiting every brush stroke, he reveled in the painting’s story. The colors were raw, visceral and daring, that all-important curve striking upward, its path true and exquisite through the fluid blues and golds.

It was perfect. The best thing he’d ever done.

He got out of bed and walked closer, in love with the colors in early light.

Her shape floated at peace, vulnerable and authentic as one can only be when alone. It whispered echoes of the womb, relief from fear, trust in support of dark water. It was the most honest image he’d ever painted, and though she was the subject, it came from inside him. He’d felt fragile before, and it could have looked like this.

The top third of the canvas was darker with indigos. A hint of a hovering threat. That sweet faith of hers wouldn’t last because disaster lurked. But oh, how precious until then!

What a story. She was wonderful.

He looked up at the house, windows dark, sunlight climbing from behind the roof.

The litany of paintings ran through him again. Yellow, red, green, orange…he’d been seeing stories in her from the first day. Unable to look away, at times. Yes, it was attraction, but more. She was a mirror, showing him truths that he later realized were inside him, ready for his canvas.

Smiling, he basked in the painting again.

What truth was in this for him? Vulnerability, threat…wait.

A chill ran down his back.

Who was under threat here? She was the subject, but it came from inside him.

He froze as the implications sank in. Could he paint a threat to himself without knowing? Why did paintings keep getting away from him? He was failing again!

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