He’d made pretty good progress on the mural today, at least until that storm popped up. It was an extensive project funded by a grant. Four stories tall, the turn-of-the-century brick was imperfect and so thirsty for moisture it required several coats. In other areas, it threatened to bubble and flake, but that was just part of the challenge.
The first murals he had painted for free when he was in his early twenties. He often received grants or city funding for his work. Now, when he was hired to do a mural, he’d design it and bring on students to work with him. For many, it would be the first time they ever received compensation for their art. He still remembered his first commissioned work. If doing these murals flushed one new artist out of the crowd, giving them the confidence to trust their artistic gift, then that was something Matthew could be proud of.
The batch of first-year art students he’d hired to help with the mural this time were already showing great promise. Hopefully, the damage the rain may have caused wouldn’t deflate their enthusiasm for the work.
The paint dried to the touch pretty fast, but it would take a long time before it could survive the kind of pounding rain they’d had tonight. They’d definitely have some cleanup to do.
The washing machine started with a moan. Beneath the clear lid, his clothes swished in a bubbly gray sludge. He hit the button for a second rinse cycle and then headed for the shower.
The paint he used on his murals was the good stuff. He used isopropyl alcohol to get paint out of his clothes with varying amounts of success, but there was nothing special about his work clothes anyway.
That woman’s pretty little slip of a dress was probably a goner if this paint got on it too. He felt bad about possibly ruining her dress, even if it was in the spirit of protecting her.
If she hadn’t screamed, he might not have seen the umbrella in time. She had been a little frantic, but then, she’d just about been Mary-Poppined out of town.
Even soaked to the skin she was pretty, and the hint of something sweet, maybe butterscotch and flowers, filled the surrounding air. He could still almost smell it.
He placed his things on the leather valet on the quartz countertop in his bathroom. The bracelet he’d found was simple but elegant. A single gold bangle angled across a silver-toned cable in a crisscross. It had some weight to it, probably white gold. A single gold charm hung from one end with the letter W on it.
Matthew flipped the multiple lever knobs. The custom shower had so many jets, it was like walking through a car wash. Tiled in deep blue, polished porcelain with sandy gold veins, it was a manly bathroom. Not a girly spa room. When he’d renovated the space, he’d removed the big soaking tub and installed this large, multi-jetted shower with an adjacent steam room. It was a splurge, but when he worked on these huge murals, his aching body needed the relief of those poundingshower heads to chase away the pain. The steam shower brought him back to the real world after being lost in the tiny details of the picture in his mind.
Closing his eyes, he tipped his chin and let the shower spray fine mist across his face. After being caught in that storm, he realized this shower head was nothing like rain at all.
He waved his hand under the shampoo dispenser, and it deposited a perfect, nickel-sized drop into his hand. Briskly lathering it between his hands, he ran his fingers through his hair until they caught on a blob of something. He worked his fingers through it. A gunky hunk of red paint had congealed in his longish hair.
He scrubbed his hands and nails to get the remnants of his craft from his body. Funny that the people who bought his paintings expected him to look like he’d never painted anything at all.
His mind wandered to the woman soaked to her skin in that silky dress. Even with her blonde hair matted from the rain, her blue eyes captivated him. They were wide and round and so familiar.
When their eyes caught, he was lost in the color of a summer sky, a hue that took his breath away. A shade so different that it challenged the artistic part of his mind to imagine mixing that exact shade.
In his mind, he mixed the color on his palette. Oils, since they were more vibrant and malleable. Blue. A little white. He mentally traced the shape of her eye.
He pictured her shoes in one hand, those fancy, red-bottomed kind, and the bag from The Wrap.
Maybe the folks at The Wrap would recognize the bracelet.
The possibility of finding her was appealing. He turned off the water, grabbed a dark blue towel from the heated bar,wrapped it around his hips, and tucked the end tight against his belly.
He towel dried his hair and tied it back neatly away from his face, then shaved the two-day stubble he’d allowed to grow while working on the new mural.
He walked back into the bedroom to pick out something to wear.
Gallery nights required attention to detail. He’d taken note early in his career that people who paid a lot of money for art wanted the artist to look like he was worth the investment. It was ridiculous, really. Looks had nothing to do with talent, but he was no fool. He didn’t mind doing a little extra primping to help them appreciate his work.
After buckling his father’s old Oyster Perpetual Rolex around his wrist, he unfolded a crisp white dress shirt, still in the dry cleaner plastic, then put on his gray suit. He chose a charcoal tie with brilliant green and blue hues. Women always complimented him on how it brought out the green in his eyes.
His ex-girlfriend had given him the expensive tie as a gift. It was too extravagant for the short time they dated. He was pretty sure she’d originally purchased the tie for someone else, and he just got lucky as the next suitor. He’d tried six ways to Sunday to make that relationship work, but she just couldn’t get it through her head that creating art wasn’t a nine-to-five job. She wanted to go out every night and go off every weekend. That didn’t fit into his schedule, and he didn’t like to waste his time on impossible situations, so he’d broken it off.
He made a good living, and it wasn’t something a lot of artists could say, but it took commitment.
He lifted the tie over his head, letting each end settle across his chest, then threaded one end of the tie through the loop and tightened the knot, ensuring it rested perfectly against his crisp collar. He lifted his chin and shifted the knot perfectly into place.
Checking his cuffs to make sure they peeked out from the edge of his coat sleeves, he stepped into his loafers. He never got to enjoy the fancy spreads that galleries put out, so he tossed one of the chicken breasts he’d grilled out on the patio this weekend onto a plate and heated it in the microwave, then mixed a protein shake.
He guzzled the protein shake straight from the shaker cup before the chicken was done.
He’d just popped the last bit of chicken into his mouth when his phone pinged. It was Jack, announcing the gallery car had arrived.
