Page 9 of Blank Canvas

I tuck my hands in my pockets and rock back on my heels. “My pleasure. I’ll add a better sealant to the exterior this time. Should preserve the color for years to come.”

“Elizabeth,” a voice calls from farther back. My blood fizzles in my veins. A whirl forms beneath my sternum.It’s her. My otherworldly muse.“Is the delivery truck here?” Her words fade as she enters the main floor and spots me with Elizabeth.

Her feet jerk to a stop as she goes rigid next to Elizabeth. Her twinkling eyes capture mine and I get the firstrealglimpse. Twilight-blue irises hold me prisoner for three breaths. During each inhale, I notice something new.

One… her eyes literally twinkle.

Two… the gold flecks resemble constellations.

Three… she ismyconstellation.My Andromeda.

She shakes her head and addresses me with a smile she no doubt grants everyone. But this is not the smile I want. Or the smile I need.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She goes to step away, but only takes two steps before Elizabeth speaks up. “Shelly, this is Devlyn, the artist who painted the mural.”

The glimmer in her eyes arrests me. As if she wished on a star to learn my name. And today, her wish came true. Guess you could say mine did as well.

Shelly.

I scan through the random wealth of knowledge I stowed over the years and remember, in some beliefs, Shelly means “meadow.” How fitting. In a blink, the meadow I plan to paint inside the shop has new meaning. A new purpose. A life all its own. I won’t paint the meadow solely for the shop, but more so for her. A place of beauty, but not more beautiful than her. Scenery to let her imagination wander. To let her escape.

Blush tints her cheeks and she swallows.

Another random fact about the name Shelly… it means one of purity in Hebrew. Although Shelly has youthful features, the way she carries herself indicates maturity. Most women with her level of maturity don’t blush. The fact she does is intriguing.

“My apologies.” She offers her hand. “It’s nice to meet you formally, Devlyn.”

I slip my hand from my pocket and place it in hers. Soft skin with the occasional nick from a thorn and callous from the floral shears. But otherwise, smooth and warm and perfect against my own.

“Nice to meet you as well.”

I don’t want to free her hand, but know holding it captive makes for an unpleasant first encounter. So, like a gentleman, I slip my hand from hers and stuff it back in my pocket. I do my best to ignore the tingle still on my palm. The lingering warmth where our fingers touched and hands clasped.

It’s just a job. Just stop. Getting romantically involved is a bad idea. Always.

“At the end of next year,” Elizabeth starts, snapping my attention back to her, “Shelly will take over Petal and Vine.” A smile lifts the corners of Elizabeth’s lips and eyes. Thin lines accent her cheeks and temples; years of wisdom and joy evident in those creases. Pride and delight and maternal love echo from her aura as she beams at Shelly. Within minutes, I learn Shelly is more than just an employee or coworker. She isn’t just someone buying out a business. Shelly is family, even if not by blood.

“Congratulations,” I say. And I mean the sentiment. Owning a business is no simple feat. “Elizabeth picked a wonderful woman to carry on her legacy.”

Whack.

I need more than a mental slap.

What the hell am I saying?

First, I don’t know Shelly. Not really. Sure, I caught a glimpse or two of her last year while painting the outside mural. Caught her from the corner of my eye, checking me out through the shop windows. Seeing her two weeks ago at the bar doesn’t count.

Second, I barely know Elizabeth. I stumbled upon the job last year after my mother stopped by the shop to have an arrangement delivered to a grieving friend. She’d instantly fallen in love with thecute flower shop. Bragged about it for weeks, months. She also bragged to Elizabeth about her son who made everything more beautiful with a paintbrush. Not long after, I received a call and was asked to spruce up the outside of Petal and Vine.

I love my mother. Assume her intentions are honest and come from a place of deep affection for her only son. That is what I have told myself over the years. I have yet to convince myself it’s true. Much as I appreciate her effort, she needs to stop meddling. Give me the opportunity to spread my wings. Find my way on my own. Let me be my own person. Without her.

As a child, her words and actions seemed harmless. I always thought of her as a role model, a strong woman with sheer determination. She didn’t get to where she is today by standing quietly on the sidelines.

But as an adult, my lens of perception has changed. With age comes wisdom. With wisdom comes enlightenment. And with my developed awareness comes perspective and uncertainty.

I love my mother, but as more time passes, I learn with each word she speaks and act she commits, it is only to benefit her. To put her in the limelight. To make people fawn over her. To elevate her onto the shiny, stage-lit pedestal. She brags about her son because, in return, she gets praise for raising such a wonderful and talented young man. She glows under that praise and slowly transitions those conversations to focus solely on her.

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