Page 84 of Perfect Mess

“I picked them,” Kyle beamed, peeking out from behind Gary’s leg.

“They’re a housewarming present,” Gary explained.

Phew.Gary didn’t bring me flowers. He brought the house flowers. I wasn’t sure if I felt relieved or jealous.

“It was Kyle’s idea,” Gary said, patting the top of Kyle’s head. “He said boys are supposed to bring girls flowers. He kind of insisted. And then I figured maybe they would be a nice compliment to all that greige.”

“They’re beautiful,” I said, taking the bundle of weed looking flowers from Gary’s hand. One of my fingers got stabbed by a thorn. I could feel the sneeze attack already building. I found an empty vase, filled it with water, and let the weed flowers soak.

Meanwhile, Gary and Kyle embarked on a self-guided tour. I watched as they wandered. Gary was wearing khaki shorts, flip-flops, and an ocean blue Aloha shirt speckled with surfboards and palm trees. The shorts showed off the bottom half of his tanned legs. The color of the palm trees made his grey-green eyes really pop. I had the sudden urge to pour a bottle of tequila in a blender and make us a pitcher of margaritas. But margaritas didn’t pair well with Osso Buco, I assumed, so I restrained myself.

After he had a few moments to look around, Gary said, “It looks amazing in here. I can’t believe the difference.”Did Gary Wright just give me a compliment?

“Well, I am a professional,” I said.

“That’s quite the setup.” Gary pointed to the dining room table, a walnut stained behemoth with big chunky legs. The chairs were foam grey, with high backs and pewter buttons up and down the sides. The place settings were Wedgewood china, the stemware Reidel. In the center was a towering spray of white orchids, flanked by vanilla candles encased in frosted crystal. “I guess I should have worn my tuxedo.”

“That’s not where we’re sitting,” I explained. “That room’s just for show.”

Gary pointed to the artwork on the wall. “Oh look, a Gustave Caillebott.”

“If you say so.” It was a print I ordered online, then put in a frame I found at a garage sale. In the painting, smears of muted blue waves lapped at a sandy shore, a rock strewn cliff jutting up behind them. I had no idea who painted it, I just liked how the colors matched the chairs. “You know that artist?”

“Well, not personally, obviously, since he died in the eighteen hundreds. But I know his work.”

“Impressive.”

“Well, I am a professional,” said Gary.

An involuntary laugh barked out of me. “A professional painter.”

“Exactly.” Gary seemed to delight in my confusion. “Not all painters just paint houses, you know.”

I pointed at the piece of professional artwork, elegantly framedby me, on the wall. According to Gary, a Gustave Caillebott. “Are you trying to tell me you paint like that?”

“Not impressionism, no. And certainly not as good as Gustave. But I do paint landscapes. Mountains. Beaches. Trees.”

I tried to picture in my mind what some of Gary’s so-called paintings could look like. Again, a child’s finger paint creation came to mind. Smeared browns and blues and greens. Yellow and orange, most likely. Actually, probably a lot of reds.

“I can show you sometime if you want.”

“Sure,” I said, just to be polite.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I left something in the van.” Gary ran back to his van and returned with a brown paper bag cradled under one arm. He reached into the bag and exhumed a bottle of wine. “I also brought this.” As he pulled out the bottle, I couldn’t help but notice the curve of his biceps under his shirt. “Look familiar?” Gary asked.

The biceps or the bottle?The biceps I clearly remembered from the time I found him not wearing a shirt in Aunt Catherine’s backyard, when he was hosing off his paint brushes. But the label on the wine bottle looked familiar too.

“The one we picked out at the grocery store,” I guessed.

“The Syrah from France. When we were stalking Janet,” Gary added. “Well, when you were stalking Janet, and tricked me into helping you.”

“Trick seems like a strong word,” I said as I took the bottle of wine from his hand.

“Strong but accurate,” said Gary.

“And last, but not least.” Gary reached back into the grocery bag. “I brought this in case you were in the mood for something other than wine.” He pulled out a six-pack of SourPaw, the beer from FoxPaw, the local brewery. “I believe you said this one was your favorite.”

“Awww, you remembered.”He remembered???Before I knew what I was doing, I reached out and patted his upper arm like he was a dog that had performed a trick.There’s that biceps again.Gary’s jaw ticked as his eyes darted down to where my hand touched his arm. And then when our eyes met again, his cheeks turned at least six shades of pink.Was his jaw always that jutting? Were his lips always that full?

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