Page 8 of Blank Canvas

Will Elizabeth be weirded out if I stand in the walk-in cooler for the next half hour? Probably not. We go in there so frequently, she won’t bat an eye. But if she sees me without a jacket, she will ask questions.

“And since he’ll be here,” she continues as if I am not having an existential crisis, “I asked him to paint a mural on the west wall inside the shop.” Her gaze shifts to the wall she references. “When the morning sun hits it, it’ll feel like we’re in a meadow.”

Elizabeth’s eyes light up as she envisions said meadow-like mural. Meanwhile, I seem to have forgotten how my lungs operate.Inhale through the nose, hold it, exhale through the mouth.Is it too much to ask my heart to settle?Jesus.

The Artist—that is what I call him since he never introduced himself and I was too chickenshit to ask his name—consumed too much of my free time last year. Not to mention my dreams for months after. Elizabeth hired him to paint the mural on the outer east wall. The entire time he was here—twenty days to be exact—I made up every possible reason to step near the small east window panes, just to sneak a peek at him. When I ordered lunch, I asked if he wanted anything… just to hear his voice.

We didn’t exchange many words in those twenty days, we barely looked at one another, but there was just something about him. Not a physical feature, per se—although, he was easy on the eyes. But he had this zeal. A vibrancy that radiated off him. Anytime my eyes landed on him, anytime I stood within ten feet of him, my brain shut down. My motor skills went on vacation. Every outgoing function I possessed hid in the shadows.

I don’t know what it is abouttheartist, but he feels familiar. Not in the sense that I had seen him at the grocery store every Wednesday after work. No, his familiarity resonates deeper. Rooted in layers of past lives. Memories of a time lived lifetimes before this one.

And now, he will be here again. Adding more to the flowery garden scene on the outside of our building. Creating an indoor meadow for all to admire, for me to admire, every day.

“Sounds lovely.” I clear my now dry throat. “Can’t wait to see the outcome. It’ll be beautiful, I’m sure.”

Before Elizabeth reads too much into my suddenly scratchy voice, I turn on my heel and pick up the pace as I head for the office. Once inside, I close the door behind me, lean against the grain, close my eyes, and take deep breaths.

Get it together, Reed. He’s just a guy.I repeat the words until they turn into Scrabble squares in my head.He’s just a guy.

Out of nowhere, a new voice whispers in my mental ear.Keep telling yourself that. He isn’t just some guy, and you know it. Why else would you be freaking out?

“Ugh!”

I stomp over to the desk, wake the computer up, and sort through emails to distract myself. It works… for a little while. But it isn’t long before my mind drifts back to the man with floppy brown-and-golden hair. To the way his body moved with the art. Howhewas as much the art as the brushes and paint and strokes.

A year has passed since he was here. A year since I have seen him in person. Yet, the image of him is quite predominant when I close my eyes. Tall and lean, his jeans and T-shirts loose on his frame. His quiet demeanor as he focused on the art. The soft timbre of his voice faded long ago, but just the thought of hearing it again forms a bubble of anticipation beneath my breastbone.

I drop my head in my hands and sigh. “God, I’m hopeless,” I mumble into the empty office.

Hopeless or not,the artistwill be here in two weeks. Time to prepare myself to not look the fool. On the outside, at least. The mess brewing inside me will undoubtedly magnify between now and his arrival.

Where are you, inner zen master? Because I definitely need to locate my inner calm. Stat.

FOUR

DEVLYN

Get out of the car.It’s just a job.

The same nine words cycle my mind for the sixth time. Yet I remain glued to the driver’s seat. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as I stare at the flower shop through a trellis of jasmine, beyond the three-foot wooden fence. One breath. Then another. My fingers loosen and I unbuckle the seat belt.

Get out of the car. It’s just a job.

I open the car door and get hit with more than a dozen floral fragrances. The exterior of Petal and Vine is unlike any other florist shop in the area. Similar to a small business outdoor nursery, except the plants outside are for visual appeal, not purchase. The shop has an old-world feel. An impression of simpler times and forgotten contentment.

Walking under the jasmine-woven lattice, my sneakers crunch the gravel as I come to a halt. Clusters of flowers greet me with their version of good morning. Butterscotch yellow and boysenberry purple. Blush and fuchsia pinks. Apricot and tiger orange. Sage and rosemary green and several shades between. Bushes and vines decorate the earth and the store with foreign strategy. The gravel path weaves between the plants for visitors to see and smell and touch. Bright and subtle. Sweet and pungent. Smooth and prickly. The occasional bench or chair along the way, parked beneath tall crepe myrtle and oak trees, so one can enjoy more time with the blossoms.

Past the blooms and slithering greenery is the shop. The exposed cinder block on the east wall is slathered in layers of paint. An image of another garden beyond this one. Cobblestone frames the cinder block and gives the feeling you are stepping through realms, into the place where only flowers and plants exist. The color hasn’t faded much, but the paint isn’t as bold as it was last year. To the right of the cobblestone, two tall windows with wide black borders frame glass-paneled French doors. Black lacquered wood rests above the windows and doors withPetal and Vinewritten in white script.

It’s just a job.

Taking a deep breath, I start for the doors. Brush my fingers over soft rose petals and wispy grass shrubs along the way. Turn the knob and step inside, a blast of cool air hitting my skin. The shop is the equivalent of a three-bedroom, single-story home, minus several walls. Dried lavender hangs in twined bundles from the ceiling. Before I take in more of the shop, a voice calls out.

“Devlyn.” Elizabeth steps around a rack of flower bins, wipes her hands on an apron at her waist and offers one to shake. “Good to see you again.”

“You as well, Ms. Davies.”

A smile lights up her face as a hand rests over her heart. “Please, call me Elizabeth.” She drops her hand, but her smile remains. “We have gotten several compliments on the mural. Thank you for coming out to touch it up and give the inside a little face-lift.”

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