Page 21 of Reel Love

So help me, Mom wags her eyebrows suggestively.

“One day I might meet a woman. And if I do, she’ll be the one. We’ll date and fill your house with grandbabies at the holidays and on weekends and you can even babysit them when I take my wife on a date. Today is not that day. So, let nature take its course. Please.”

“That is not how it works, Ren.”

Mom’s whisper-hissing while Harry explains the history and intention of plein air painting.

“How does it work, then?” I regrettably ask.

I should keep my mouth shut in hopes that she realizes we’re here to paint. Though, it’s obvious now, we’re not really here to paint.

“How it works is that you let your mom do some of the pre-selecting. It’s faster that way. I know Harry’s family. They’re good Marbella people. Harry’s sweet and beautiful. I already screened her.” Mom looks wistfully in Harry’s direction, then back at me. “You won’t feel all that warmth and chemistry when you first meet someone. The sparks usually aren’t instantaneous. Trust me. Love grows from familiarity.”

“Love is a byproduct of chemicals,” I explain to my dreamer of a mother. “Initially, serotonin, norepinephrine and dopamine determine our reaction to someone we find remotely attractive and eligible. Then oxytocin solidifies the bonds those other chemicals initiated. We’re not talking about pheromones, though the debate rages on about the possible role of those in human attraction. We can’t force these relational chemicals, Mom. They’re either present, or they aren’t. It’s science.”

She shakes her head at me and mutters, “I’m going to be one of those old women who can’t recognize her grandchildrenbecause her children all waited far too long to settle down and she went completely senile by the time they had any babies.”

I place my hand on her back and smile softly at her again. “Let’s enjoy an afternoon of painting together. What do you say?”

She’s pouting, but she says, “Bet,” which I’ve come to learn means yes among the high school crowd.

There’s a small disturbance in the row behind us. A woman in a ball cap and glasses takes the stool behind Mom. She’s wearing extremely dark sunglasses which block not only her eyes but half her cheeks. I’d imagine wearing those might interfere with her choice of paint colors, but I’m not an expert.

Harry glances over at the new arrival, waves as though she knows her, and says, “Hello, Layna. Let me know if you need anything.”

The new arrival nods at Harry and smiles a reserved smile. Her teeth are the whitest I’ve ever seen in person.

Mom, being Mom, turns around and starts chatting with the new student while Harry goes over how we will sketch our concept before painting with the oil paints she’s provided as a part of the lesson supplies covered by our registration fee.

“Layna, is it?” Mom asks the tardy classmate behind us.

The new student nods and then diverts her attention to the blank canvas in front of her.

I stare at her for a moment, trying to figure out if I know her from somewhere. Maybe she took a tour? I doubt it, though. I usually remember every face of every person who rides on my boats with me. She looks so familiar, which isn’t too odd for Marbella. But usually when someone looks that familiar, I can place them pretty quickly.

“Are you new to the island?” Mom asks.

The new student shakes her head lightly to indicate she’s not new, and then shrugs like she’s playing some understated and mysterious form of charades.

“We’ve lived here since I married my husband,” Mom continues. “R … Stevens here was born at the Marbella Island Medical Center, as were my other children. I have two grown sons and a daughter. All single.”

No. She. Didn’t. I’m starting to think my mother’s going to try to pair me up with anything that moves. We don’t know this woman behind us, even though she looks familiar in a way that nags at me like a puzzle I need to solve. The woman obviously doesn’t want to be known. She’s out to have an uninterrupted afternoon of painting—without having the local bachelor scientist foisted on her.

“Mom. Let’s focus on what Harry’s saying, huh?”

“Sure. Sure.” Mom shoos me off.

Then she asks the woman, “Are you single, dear? I don’t see a ring.”

“Mom.” I speak more loudly this time.

“Right. Well. Nice to meet you, dear. Layna, was it?”

The stranger nods again and smiles what might be an amused grin at Mom. Thankfully, we’re instructed that we’ll have five minutes to roughly sketch the scene we’ve chosen to paint—something we’re looking at on the beach, either the whole cove, or an aspect of it. Harry’s directions temporarily distract Mom from her self-appointed role as Marbella’s own yenta.

SEVEN

Stevens

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