Page 33 of A Small Town Spring

“I used some photos as a reference.”I show him the stack of them on the workbench.“I was just, I don’t know, taken up by it.”

“You haven’t done any other portraits?”

“I have, over the years.”I try to make it sound like it’s not a big deal, as if I tossed this one off in an afternoon, instead of being consumed by it for weeks.“But not lately.Just this one.”

I wonder if he can hear what I’m not saying.Just Kingston.

As if a handful of puzzle pieces all click together in his head at once, he swivels his neck quickly, like a bird, and eyes me steadily.

“Toby.”

“Pete.”

“Are you and Kingston—is that why you and Ivy—not that it’s any of my business, it’s just Kingston is one of my oldest friends and?—”

I rush to reassure him.“No, and no, and Van gave me this speech yesterday.Kingston and I are friends,” I say firmly.“And roommates, at the moment.And he has nothing to do with Ivy and me splitting up.That was a long time coming.”

He looks relieved, and I feel slightly disingenuous, but all of this is true.Yesterday, I vowed to put away those inconvenient feelings for Kingston.I’m trying my best.

We move on, finish sorting out the paintings, and I put the ones I won’t show Fernanda together in the corner.

“Nice of Ivy to let you keep this place,” Pete says while we tidy up.

“She’s a nice woman,” I say.“But I have been trying to find somewhere else.The Art Center doesn’t have any free studio space just now.”

“Hmmm.Let me think on it,” Pete says.

“You know, you don’t have to solve everyone’s problems for them,” I say.“You’ve already done so much for me.”

“What are friends for?”Pete says it so unironically that I have to laugh.“What?”he asks.

“You’re an odd duck, Pete.Most of the people I’ve met in the art world with your level of success are egotistical jerks, competitive and cutthroat.But you put your hand out to pull me up like it’s nothing.”

“You know I was burned,” he says simply, not sounding sorry for himself, or even angry.“And it took the support of Jack and Kingston and my friends at the Art Center and eventually Fernanda to not only put my art front and center again, but to really heal from those burns.I came to Rosedale to hide, to heal, but it didn’t really work until I let people help me.I guess I see myself in you, trying to do it on your own so hard you’re holding yourself back.But it’s not cheating to make friends, to make connections.That’s being part of a community.And if you never want to join that community and step outside of Rosedale, well, that’s fine.But I truly think you can handle it out there in the big, bad art world.”

“That’s quite a declaration,” I say, trying to stay professional and not break down at the simple kindness of being included in the community he’s describing.

“Accepting help isn’t the same as using people,” Pete says.“Believe me, I know the difference.”

“Thank you,” is all I can think to say.

And by Pete’s answering smile, I know that’s all he needs to hear.

I’mnervous the next morning getting ready for Fernanda’s visit.She’s taking the train in, and Pete’s going to pick her up at the Rosedale station.He’ll bring her directly to the studio and then we’re all going to the Greystone Inn’s dining room for a fancy lunch that I’ll have to put on a credit card but have already decided I absolutely cannot allow Pete to pay for.

“What is going on in there?”Kingston asks, knocking on my door.“It sounds like you’re tearing down a wall.”

“No.”I yank open the door and gesture to my bed, which has every article of clothing I own on it, except the baggy gray shirt and dark green boxers I’m currently wearing.The boxers I had on to sleep in—even with the air-con it’s been too warm to go to bed in much beyond underwear, especially with the heat generated by my feline companion.“I’m having a really hard time deciding what to wear and I got my suitcase down from the top of the closet to see if I had magically forgotten some perfect outfit in there and I dropped it.”

“What, you can’t decide between which black sweater and which pair of paint-covered jeans?”he deadpans.

“Kingston, not helping,” I wail.

He chuckles.“I don’t think it really matters.You’re an artist.Artists are always given a pass on their clothes.You could wear a traffic guard vest and she’d think you were making a statement.”

“But I don’t have a traffic guard vest,” I say.“I have wrinkled T-shirts.”

“Hey, it’s going to be okay,” he says, his voice soothing.“This isn’t about clothes, is it?”

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