Page 114 of Miami Ice

Beckham looks around, his eyes wide as he takes everything in: the shelves filled with jars in different stages of production, my work table, the desk area I use with all of my shipping supplies in bins overhead. He walks over the shelves and runs his finger along a bright red jar before turning around to look at me.

“You hand-painted all of these?” he asks, surprise in his voice.

I nod. “I did. I work full-time hours and treat this like a business, so these are my stages of production, from plain jars, to getting the jars prepped for painting, then painting in progress, and the final product.”

“I can’t believe all the stock you have,” Beckham says, going back to studying my shelves. “And all the different colors.”

“The colored ones are my favorites,” I admit. “Neutrals always sell well, so I keep a good selection of those, and I always look to the Pantone Color of the Year and incorporate that, too.”

“What’s that?” Beckham asks.

“Pantone is a color-matching system,” I explain. “Every color is given a PMS—Pantone Matching System—number. PMS colors are used for printing, so you can ensure whatever you print is going to come out that same shade. You can also get paint color matched to a PMS number.” I move down the row of jars and pick up a deep-red one. “This is an old Color of the Year, Marsala. I had this color matched in paint because this shade works well with a lot of the pinks I use in my collection. You’ll see them grouped together for the show this weekend because it also fits the Christmas vibe.

“Colors are a big business, and knowing the trends and predicting them is a huge part of having the right stock to sell,” I continue. “That’s why I always try to use their Color of the Year, because they forecast that based on lifestyle and cultural trends.”

“I had no idea,” Beckham says.

“Your Miami Manatees logo on your jersey would have a PMS number for both the black and the pink,” I explain. “And if I wanted to paint a jar Miami Manatee pink, I could get that PMS number and try to get close to it with an acrylic paint.”

“So how long does it take for you to paint a jar?”

“I start by getting a plain Mason jar,” I say, moving over to the other end of my shelving and picking one up. “And this will go through a lot of steps before we get to the completed product.”

Then I walk him through the whole process, and I can tell he’s surprised that it’s much more complicated than simply painting it. There’s sanding. Painting it a specific way to get the rustic look I want. Multiple coats. Then varnishing it and attaching the signature cord and painted key around the lip.

“I had no idea you went through this much work just to paint a single jar,” he says. “Nine coats of paint on one jar?”

“Nine.”

“Jesus. I mean, when Sofia came home with the jars she bought, I just thought you slapped a coat of paint on it.”

“No, it’s much more than a simple coat of paint. I also came up with this technique on my own. There’s lots of painted Mason jars on the market, but I crafted these to look unique, so I had something different to offer the marketplace. I just need for people to find me, that’s all.”

“It’s amazing what you’ve done, Georgie. You realize you’re young to own your own business, right?”

I smile at him. “I know. And thanks to you, I have longer to get my business off the ground.”

I show Beckham around some more, and just as we’re looking at jars I’ve done in colors of regional universities, there’s a rap on the door frame. We both turn and see my mom standing there.

“I wanted to thank both of you for not being so immature about the turkey,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Everyone else is acting like a teenage boy in the kitchen and swearing the turkey has breasts.”

Do not laugh. Do not laugh. Do not laugh.

“Anyway, Beckham, I see you’ve been introduced to Georgie’s hobby room,” Mom says, smiling sweetly at him.

My stomach sinks.Please don’t go any further,I will her.Please. Not to Beckham. To anyone but him.

A crease appears on his forehead. “But it’s not a hobby. It’s hercareer.”

My heart leaps inside my chest. Beckham is defending me. Not even one comment by Mom is going to go unchecked by him.

I’m so grateful for him having my back, I could cry.

Mom blinks. I can tell she didn’t expect him to answer the way he did.

“Well, it’s not a career until she’s fully independent doing it,” she says pointedly. “I think it should be a hobby. There’s a reasonstarving artistis a thing. And really, Georgie, you know the truth. If you didn’t have this space to work, or Ella picking up more of the bills, you wouldn’t be in a very good position to play at this, would you?”

Heat pools in my cheeks as humiliation floods me. How dare she talk about this in front of Beckham, on his first visit to her house? How can she embarrass me like this?

---