Page 83 of Painting Celia

He peered around the canvas, eyes sweeping up her graceful lines. Enough? She could do no wrong. “You’re giving me everything I could possibly want, Celia. Here, come look.”

She set down her leaves and came around. Once again, wonder at his talent consumed her. It was her but not her, leafy shapes layering into lush greenery that grew into a standing woman at the center. The profile wasn’t precisely hers, but the neck and shoulders were. There was a nobility about the figure but no sense of welcoming like she’d expected.

“This feels more remote,” Celia said. “I thought providing for someone would feel personal, but she’s looking away.”

León eyed his work, taking her critique seriously. “She’s like a garden personified. Maybe that makes her a little reserved. She’s not offering anything. She is the bounty.”

Celia thought she understood what he meant. It wasn’t what she’d expected. “So, I’m just taking…her? She doesn’t get to enjoy me eating from the garden? That’s the best part of feeding people.”

“It’s just a story,” he said gently. “You don’t have to judge whether it’s good or bad, just show that it exists.”

Celia slowly went still. “I feel bad for her.”

León watched her surreptitiously, paintbrush still poised near the canvas, his breath held. He waited as she gulped a hard breath.

“You’re getting feelings from a painting,” he said softly. “My painting.”

She nodded.

He reached out a hand to touch his fingertips to hers. “That’s wonderful, mi cielo.”

“I don’t want her to be remote,” she sniffled.

“We could paint another one later,” he offered. “She’s not sad, Celia. This is what she’s meant to be.”

“We’ll make a better story for her,” Celia insisted.

•••

Once Celia introduced León to relaxing in the pool after dusk, he began looking forward to their peaceful hour in the glowing water. She was right—you could think there. Something about floating in the quiet blue freed the mind; maybe because you simply couldn’t do other tasks until you got out.

“What’s your favorite food to make?” he asked her as they draped next to each other on the side of the pool, both gazing at the remote city lights. He rested his chin on his hands, enjoying the cool weightlessness.

Her happy sigh gratified him.

“Do you want the long answer or the short answer?”

He laid one wet cheek against his hands so he could look at her, not replying. He didn’t care. Whatever she said, he learned something about her.

“I guess I like curing meats best,” she mused. “Pastrami, that’s fun. Oh, I’ll make you gravlax! Cured salmon. It’s delicious. You bury it raw in salt and sugar and fresh dill, wrap it tight and put a weight on top, then flip it every twelve hours….” She trailed off, watching his face. She was better now at reading distraction in him.

He realized his thoughts had drifted, feeling guilty that she created such elaborate dishes. And posed. And let him stay in her place and share her bed. He certainly couldn’t say he was supporting himself. He wasn’t contributing anything but the art.

León pushed those thoughts away to get back to the present. “Go on,” he encouraged.

“Would you like to try gravlax?” she asked. “I haven’t made you any seafood since…you know.”

He pursed his lips. “It just sounds like so much work, Celia.”

He’d wanted to feed her questions and listen to her talk. Asking about cooking had been a misstep. Hearing about her efforts made his feel paltry.

“I don’t mind doing it,” she said stoically. “I like it.”

“You should do it, then,” he said. “I just haven’t been sure if…I mean, I don’t want you to do these things just for me.”

“It’s for both of us.”

“Us.” He smiled, seeing his way to a better topic. “That’s a nice word, us.”

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