Matthew walked over and picked up the bracelet. He was no jeweler but from the weight of it, he could tell it wasn’t cheap. He glanced at his watch. There was no time to look for her. He still had to shower and change, and he couldn’t be late tonight.
He’d ruin the leather seats if he got into his clean truck like this, so he locked the truck and took off into a jog the short way home.
He stepped inside the lobby, knowing he was cutting it close if he wanted to get to the gallery on time.
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Jack, who manned the front desk most evenings and did odd jobs around the building, laughed at the sight of him. “You’re a mess.”
“Yeah,” Matthew said. “Got a towel back there so I don’t track water into the elevator?”
“Good idea… the owner of the building wouldn’t appreciate that.” Jack, dressed in his standard Dickies navy blue work pants and matching shirt, reached under the desk and tossed him a roll of paper towels. “What happened to you?”
“What?” Matthew caught the paper towels. He ripped a length from the roll and wiped his face and then his arms. “Holy cow.” The paper towels were covered in bluish-gray paint. “I must look like?—”
“Like you need a bath.”
“This storm,” he said with an exasperated huff. “I sent the kids home as soon as the temperature dropped. I thought the storm had skirted us when I heard the first rumble of thunder. It wasn’t a minute later that it became a torrential downpour.”
“It did come out of nowhere. Blew the front door wide open.”
“Blew my paint buckets off the scaffold too.” He swept at the back of his arms. “Made a colossal mess on the ground, and as you can see, of me too. I had no idea this much got on me.” Matthew pulled off more paper towels. “And this isafterbeing out in the rain.”
“How will we ever get you married off with you running around town looking like that?”
Matthew laughed. He’d known the old war veteran, Jack, his whole life. He’d been a fixture around the building when Matthew’s dad rented an apartment here years ago. Sometimes the words that came out of Jack’s mouth reminded him so much of Dad.
“Don’t you worry about me. I can handle myself quite well in that department. When the right one comes along, I’ll know it.”
He cocked his head. “You sure about that? Haven’t seen any sign of a woman within twenty feet of you in months.”
“Now you’re keeping track?”
“I call it like I see it.”
Matthew pulled the bracelet from his front pocket. “This make you feel any better?”
“A ladies bracelet. Well, well. Guess I don’t see as much as I think I do.”
Matthew shrugged. “No, you’re seeing it like it is. Lady dropped it on the sidewalk earlier.”
“A lady? You were on a date? I hope that was before the little paint incident.”
“Actually, it wasn’t a date, and it was after the paint incident. I thought I was quite the knight in shining armor at the time, however, that was before I realized I was covered in paint.”
“And yet you’re here alone? You might be a great artist, but you are a knucklehead with women.” Jack shook his head. “Thought I taught you better than that. Smart man would’ve brought the woman back, not the bracelet.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, and I’ll take the maintenance elevator.” Matthew tossed the dirty paper towels over the reception desk into the trash can behind it. “Thanks for the advice.”
“Anytime.”
“Don’t I know it,” he mumbled under his breath as he headed down to the corner where the maintenance elevator was tucked away out of sight. Jack was worth his weight in gold, and everyone in the building adored him. Good thing, too, because he loved giving unsolicited advice. “Good day, sir,” Matthew called as he stepped into the elevator.
Unlike the sleek polished elevators, the maintenance elevator was cloaked in quilted blankets to protect the finish. It lurched into motion with a slight hiccup as it rose above each floor.
The doors opened on the top floor, and Matthew stepped into his art studio. The studio took up most of the floor, which was fine by him because that’s where he spent most of his time. He walked down the corridor decorated with paintings by artists he admired to the one thousand square feet he considered home.
The lights came on automatically as he approached the swinging door that separated his living quarters from the studio. It had been a necessary improvement because he’d grown tired of repainting the door and wall where the light switch was to cover his fingerprints. House painting and artistic painting had nothing in common, it turns out.
He pressed his shoulder to the door and went straight to the laundry room to put his clothes in the washer.
