Page 7 of Painting Celia

She swallowed, and León eyes followed the motion. As her shoulders inched back and her chin tipped up a fraction, he felt his tension ease. She was good at keeping her face straight, but his craft was seeing bodies, how their shapes and movements told stories. Clearly, she didn’t agree with him about the apology.

“I’d rather we just never spoke of it again,” he said. When she opened her mouth to counter, he stepped over her. “Andrew says he’ll be up here soon.”

Silence. She looked distantly through him, once again the little queen. How subtle she was with that dismissal, glazing over as though he wasn’t there at all!

He looked her over more closely, noting a faint rosy flush rising on her cheeks, the only color in the white room. Even her clothes were a dark gray. Why all this neutrality? He opened his mouth to ask.

“Tea?” she asked, stepping over him.

Without waiting, she bent to a cabinet in the island, coming up with a cardinal red ceramic teacup. She chose one for herself in royal blue.

Surprising! Andrew had made these vibrant cups. They were clearly his style. What other colorful treasures did she have hidden away?

Celia poured steaming tea, then pushed the red cup across the island to him.

His gaze stole along her arm to the balanced little tableau she made, head bowed over the stove before her, radiant windows at her back, one hand reaching to slide the cup to him. An almost saintly figure, the light behind her a halo, her arm offering a feminine benediction.

She didn’t fit, though. There was nothing celestial about her at all. She was roundly mortal, sturdy and dressed in charcoal. Backlit ringlets of sober brown hair were turned to gilt, tendrils brushing her neck. He could imagine leaves twined in it. Her skin was burnished olive, not the bloodless porcelain of a madonna.

The moment fell apart as she turned her face from his scrutiny and straightened a knob on her stove that didn’t need it.

He breathed out. Wow.

He had to paint today by whatever means necessary.

Celia’s jaw clenched as she forced her gaze back to his and tucked her hands behind her. “I owe you a huge apology,” she said again.

Jesus, she had a speech ready! And she intended to give it too. Just look at her. “If I accept your apology, will that move things along?”

She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him. So, she made expressions sometimes?

“I put shrimp stock in the cabbage dressing,” she said. “I’d usually use anchovy paste, but I had fresh stock and didn’t think. I’m sorry for not warning you. It was irresponsible.”

His knee was bouncing. He stilled it and sipped deliberately at the tea. “And what exactly is shrimp stock?”

Her hand stole forward, fingers just touching the stove in front of her. “I simmered shrimp shells and heads,” she said, “then strained the liquid to use. It adds more flavor to a dish.”

He swallowed. “Shrimp heads. Gross.”

“It’s a way to use up scraps,” she said, showing some legitimate interest for a change. “You make stock from the bits you can’t eat, then use it in other dishes. Like, beef bones. People call it bone broth now, but it’s just stock.”

“You boil the bones?”

“Or feet. Feet are the best.”

“Feet!” His stomach stirring, León shifted on the chair and rubbed his forehead. “I want to talk about something else.”

Cheeks flushing, she looked around the quiet kitchen as though a new topic would materialize. It kept its secrets. “Is there anything I can get you?” she asked.

“Fresh air.”

He jumped down from the stool and found the sliding glass door among the other windows before she could assist, taking a few queasy steps onto her patio. The light breeze against his skin was a relief.

Forget food. Think of something else.

The tall buildings of distant downtown were brighter but harder to see. The magical sunset last night came back to him, the exact oranges and blues vivid in his mind before he realized how mundane this backyard was now. In regular daylight, it was just grass, sloping down to pool and fence and hazy view. That lawn had felt way steeper last night, a dark menacing climb while trying not to retch.

What a range in twelve hours. No wonder he was itching to paint. This yard had moods!

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