Page 24 of 3rd Tango
She slaps her hands over her cheeks and a sharp stab of guilt guts me. This woman thinks I really want to own her work. As an artist, I know that rush. That euphoric moment when someone loves your creation enough to sacrifice their hard-earned money for it.
Marie drops her hands and straightens her shoulders. “You’re so right. I’m just…excited. I mean, after we met, I looked you up. You’re an accomplished artist. And your reconstructions? They’re amazing. I could learn so much from you. Why would you want my painting?”
Not only am I scamming this woman, she’s complimenting me. Excellent. Still, I manage to give her an aw-shucks smile I pray hides my deception. “Well, thank you. But don’t sell yourself short. You’re work has a…vibe…to it. Embrace it.”
Again, guilt plunges its mighty sword into my chest. I’ll need five—maybe six—pot brownies after this.
She nods and points toward the garage. “I have them in there.”
I follow while refraining from schooling her on proper climate-controlled storage. We’re not talking about a Monet here, but still, dampness is murder on art.
We reach the garage and Marie huddles close to the keypad on the outside, blocking my view as she punches in the code.
Dang. That would’ve been a nice get, but again, who knew what kind of security Gayle had installed. The way my luck is running lately, he’d catch us on camera searching his home.
The door slowly rises, the chain squeaking enough to be annoying. Or maybe that’s the guilt again, scraping against my last set of nerves.
Marie waits for the door to complete its ascent and waves me to follow her into an orderly two-car garage with a rear entry along the back wall. My parents have the same. Comes in handy for yardwork.
Half of this particular garage is definitely the man cave, complete with a long bench and one of those giant, bright red tool chests. In the middle of the floor sits various woodworking projects; a table, two broken chairs, a hutch.
“Gayle likes to rescue furniture from the trash and refurbish it,” Marie says.
I shove my hands straight into my pockets. All I can think about is the bad energy that accompanies used furniture. How the hell do they know someone’s head didn’t get chopped off on that table?
So not touching that stuff.
“This,” Marie spreads her arms wide, “is my half.”
Against the back wall are four rows of blank canvasses, all arranged by size. On the side are slim boxes of varying heights. At least she’s wrapped the paintings and has them vertical. She’s not a total loss when it comes to proper storage.
Another two dozen paintings are lined up against the wall, these unwrapped, but also upright.
I bite my lip, determined not to lecture her.
She moves to one end of the row of unwrapped paintings. “I think Windswept is in here. Otherwise, it’s in the boxes.”
I glance at the opposite end and my opportunity to see what exactly she has. “How about I start there? It’ll be faster if we both look.”
“Sure,” she chirps. “You know what you’re searching for, so go ahead.”
I do so, eyeing more lighthouses, a couple bridges and…whoa, I halt at the seventh.
A woman in front of an old-fashioned ice cream parlor with the swirly font on the plate glass window. Inside, I imagine there are counter stools where locals enjoy a sugar cone dripping with butter pecan. Or a hot-fudged sundae drizzled with what my father calls wet walnuts.
The woman though is the real scene stealer and it has nothing to do with her appearance. She is, in fact, quite unremarkable. Shoulder length, muddy brown hair parted down the middle, a thick nose and narrow lips. She’s not ugly, just…average.
However, every painting of Marie’s I’ve seen is a landscape.
Zero people.
Ever.
Except this dark-haired woman. Which makes her an attention-stealer.
“Did you find it?”
This from Marie who steps closer so I shake my head. “No.” I lift the painting from the row. “But this is fabulous.”
