Page 17 of Hooked on Emerson
“These are beautiful,” he said softly, leaning closer to see the details.
“She wasn’t trained or anything. Just had a natural eye.” Ava turned the pages slowly, her fingers tracing her mother’s handwriting in the margins. “I was thinking we could use these as a guide. Not copy exactly, but an interpretation.”
Emerson’s eyes met hers, warm and understanding. “I like that idea.”
They spent the afternoon prepping the wall. The primer went on first, its chemical smell sharp in the air. Emerson opened windows to let in the spring breeze while Ava rolled the white coating onto the fresh drywall. The texture was rougher than she expected, catching at the roller and creating a soft scraping sound that echoed in the empty shop.
After the primer dried, they applied a base coat of soft blue-gray that reminded Ava of early morning mist. The work was peaceful, the scratch of rollers against drywall and the occasional drip of paint into the tray the only sounds. Emerson moved with surprising grace for a man his size, his strokes even and careful.
“You’ve done this before,” Ava observed, watching him edge around a power outlet with steady hands.
“My mom liked to redecorate.” A small smile touched his lips. “Every spring, like clockwork, she’d decide some room needed a new color. I was her helper from the time I could hold a brush.”
“I didn’t know that about you.”
He shrugged, that familiar gesture. “Not much to tell. Just a kid with a paintbrush, following instructions.”
“Still. It’s nice to imagine,” she said, resuming her own section of the wall. “Little Emerson with paint in his hair, trying to stay in the lines.”
His laugh was soft, almost surprised. “Who says I stayed in the lines?”
She glanced at him, catching a glimpse of something playful in his eyes that made her heart skip. “Fair point. You don’t strike me as a rule-follower.”
“Depends on the rules,” he said, his voice dropping a notch lower. “Some are worth following.”
Their eyes held for a moment. Then Ava turned back to the wall, her cheeks warm. “Like ‘don’t drip paint on the new floor’?”
“Exactly like that,” he agreed, the tension between them softening into something easier.
By late afternoon, the base coat was dry enough to begin the actual mural. Ava set up her mother’s sketchbook on a small easel, open to a detailed drawing of lavender stalks bending in a breeze. She’d mixed paints according to the color notes in the margins—soft purple, deeper violet, the bright green of new stems.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” she admitted, staring at the blank wall. “I’ve never painted anything more complicated than a fence.”
Emerson considered the wall, then her, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe we start with what we know. The horizon line, the basic shapes. We can build from there.”
He picked up a piece of chalk and handed it to her. “Show me where the field begins.”
Hesitantly, Ava approached the wall. After a moment’s thought, she drew a gentle curve across the lower third. “Here, I think. With hills rising behind.”
Emerson nodded encouragingly. “And the stalks?”
She made a few quick strokes, vertical lines rising from the horizon. “Like this. Clustered in groups, some taller than others.”
“Good.” He stepped closer, his hand coming up to guide hers. “And maybe some movement, like they’re swaying.”
His fingers were warm against hers, steadying as they traced a curved line together. The chalk dust settled on both their skin, a pale connection. When he stepped back, Ava found herself missing his proximity, the solid presence of him beside her.
“See? You know more than you think,” he said.
She looked at the rough outline they’d created. It wasn’t her mother’s work, it couldn’t be, but it had potential. It was a start.
“Let’s put on some music,” she suggested suddenly. “Mom always painted to music.”
She connected her phone to a small speaker she kept behind the counter, scrolling through playlists until she found one labeled “Mom’s Painting Mix.” The first notes of Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” filled the shop, warm and nostalgic.
“This was one of her favorites,” Ava said, returning to the wall. “She said it reminded her of being young.”
Emerson smiled, picking up a brush. “Good choice.”
