Page 33 of Fresh Canvas
Mom pinned me withthatlook. The mothering-type one that made me feel like I needed to clean my room. “See Amantha? I told you to rent an apartment closer to work! At least for the summer till Anthony comes home.”
“I just didn’t want to leave you here all alone,” I said quietly.
The fine lines on her face melted into a sad smile. “Oh, sweetie, I know you mean well. But I’m okay, really. You don’tneed to tire yourself out just for me.” She lifted a tricky eyebrow. “Plus, you’d finally quit being grumpy from lack of sleep.”
“Hey!” I laughed. “That’s not fair.”
“Actually—” Kate typed something into her phone. “I do have a friend that’s traveling abroad for the next year. I’ll text him to see if his apartment is still available.”
Mom clapped her hands together, her cropped blonde waves dancing. “See? It’s fate.”
“Do I get a say in any of this?”
“No!” Their twin chorus was unanimous.
Kate’s phone vibrated. “It’s still available! It’s a good area, close to work. It’s kinda small though.” She handed me the listing.
I chewed my lip, eying photos of a barren studio apartment. The idea of great sleep and being able to walk to workwasappealing. Maybe a change of scenery would ease my mama heart until Anthony came home in August. I took in my mother’s eager expression and hopeful blue eyes. Vowing to myself I’d visit at least once a week, I slumped down in the chair.
“You win.”
The kitchen erupted in cheers.
After a phone call, a tour later that week, and a signed lease, I stood in the doorway of the empty apartment. Perhaps I had a fresh canvas after all.
The Vanderbilt wing on the third floor would have been silent were it not for museum guests echoing beyond the construction partition. My eerie footsteps echoed as I ran my hand along the freshly dried light blue paint. The hazy color would be the perfect backdrop for the Felix Andreas exhibition, which was coming up quickly.
Next Saturday, these walls would showcase Felix Andreas’ incredible work. Anticipation sped my pulse. While the museum already owned a substantial collection of his, a few supplementarypieces had arrived from a museum in San Diego a few days ago. The pieces were in the final hours of their temperature and humidity acclimation period, after which they could be unboxed.
Kendra’s face had seemed tighter than usual at our morning meeting. The event designers had submitted their plans late, which left the facility manager and technical crew mere hours to set up free-standing walls, cocktail tables, and silk screens. The art handlers and couriers would arrive to hang paintings later this afternoon, leaving zero margin for error.
Because of the tight schedule, Kendra assigned me to monitor the setup and email her when they finished. I checked the time on my phone.
Four hours left.
The facility manager and technical crew were supposed to have already arrived. I didn’t want to fail my first solo task from Kendra, so I chewed my lip and paced faster, ignoring the dread in my stomach.
My phone vibrated with a text message, my mouth flattening into a firm line as I read.
RYAN: Anthony tried calling yesterday, but it went straight to voicemail. Too busy staring at art to talk to your son?
That jab hit its mark, six inches below my throat. Ihadbeen staring at art last night, unaware my phone had died. Blythe and I had stayed late to browse Stirling’s sculptures and decide which ones to purchase for his exhibition.
Once I had revived my phone with a charger and heard Anthony’s garbled voicemail, I called over and over but only got Ryan’s voicemail. I cried myself to sleep after that.
RYAN: We’re boarding a Mediterranean cruise and our cell reception won’t work for a few days. Anthony will call once we get back to the mainland.
“Screw it.” I dialed Ryan’s number, but it rang again to voicemail. Panicked, I typed a quick message, willing a speedy delivery over the Atlantic.
AMANTHA: Let him know I love him and can’t wait to hear from him. Could you give Anthony your phone so he can text me?
An ellipsis appeared, hope surging in my chest, before it vanished. A minute of silence passed as disappointment pricked my tear ducts.
A typical Ryan hit and run.
And he was so good at running.
I sucked in a deep breath and tucked the fresh wave of mom guilt back in my pocket.
