Page 66 of Something Borrowed

He wanted to make a joke about finally getting into her bedroom, but he didn’t want her to take it the wrong way and he didn’t want to flirt, as per her parameters.

“Don’t make light of it. If it’s where you paint and create, it is your studio.”

The look Vic gave him made him extra happy that he hadn’t made a lame joke and had said what he really felt instead.

What he hadn’t expected was for Vic’s work to be so good. She called it “doodles” or “playing,” and some part of him had unconsciously taken her word for it and assumed her drawings and paintings would be cute, cartoon-like renderings. Knowing her a bit now, however, he should’ve known she was being self-effacing.

Cartoons were wonderful, but this creation was not that.

Instead, an ancient splotchy orange, gray, and black cat, looking as real as real could be, stared out at him with huge yellow eyes and an expression of complete peevishness. Slightly disheveled, one back leg stretched up at an awkward you-caught-me-grooming angle, she seemed about to stand up and walk out of the picture. Or like she’d flip you the bird if she could. The detail and illusion of texture was uncanny. Cal felt sure that if he reached out a finger and stroked the thing’s slightly knobby back, he’d feel fur.

Both the quality of Vic’s work and her chosen age for the cat surprised Cal. Vic had told him how Claire had provided an envelope full of photos of Rumple at various ages, and he’d thought she’d create a memorial of Rumple as a cute kitten or young cat, but no, furthest thing from. This aged Rumple was no doubt very close to how the animal had looked when it passed away, and the cat’s stare suggested she could see into your soul and wasn’t sure she liked what she saw.

“I suffer no fools,” her gaze said, and Cal shook his head. C’mon, man. It’s a painting. You’re getting a little too fanciful now.

“So, what do you think?” Vic asked, twining her hands together, and Cal realized he’d been staring at Rumple for a long time without saying anything. But even so, Vic couldn’t possibly not realize how good she was, could she? She didn’t need his opinion. She was clearly an artist-artist. She must know that.

“It’s . . . I’m blown away, actually. She looks like she’s about to walk off the canvas, and the look on her face is killing me.” Cal shook his head. It really was so good. “And the background—” He trailed off, only fully absorbing other details now, the wonderful cat having stolen the show initially.

In high contrast with the cat’s ill-tempered look, the background was idyllic. She sat on a plump cushion in a pool of warm sunlight streaming through a multipaned window. To her left, pots of cheerful pink flowers seemed to glow. To her right, a slightly worn recliner’s arm held a book, cracked open and resting on its stomach. Nearby, a spindly-legged table bore a cup of tea and a pair of reading glasses, as if Rumpel’s owner had just stepped out of the frame for a moment.

The best part, though, was a tiny, jeweled crown resting against the leg of the table—a crown that clearly fit the cat’s head. And that detail suddenly made something crystal clear—so clear that Cal laughed out loud with delight. The cat wasn’t grouchy or peevish. She was just the ruler of the house and took her role seriously. She was regal. It was perfect.

Cal shook his head. “I love it, Vic. Absolutely love it. It’s, you’re, amazing.”

Vic exhaled in a whoosh. “Hopefully Claire and her friend see it with the same eyes you do.”

“They will,” he promised.

She didn’t have a lot of other finished pieces, but she let him flip through her sketchbook and even there—though, yes, some truly were doodles—what he saw took his breath away.

“That cat is just the first of your commissions,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, but she heard him.

“You and Madeline . . . my biggest fans.” She smiled and shrugged. “We’ll see. It would be lovely, but it’s not really the point for me.”

“No? So, what is?” Cal would’ve thought every artist wanted recognition and sales. Not to mention, Vic lived with her mother and worked at The Second Chance Shop, which, while no doubt fun, couldn’t be paying her a lot. He’d seen her taste in shoes and handbags. Didn’t she need or want the money?

“It’s personal,” she said simply and started putting things away, which drew Cal’s attention to the table.

“This is the table!”

“What?”

“That we talked about on the phone—about possibly making into a lazy Susan.”

“Right! You think it’s doable?”

Cal peered under the table, then popped back up. “Absolutely, and it won’t take any time at all. I’ll bring the stuff I need next time I come over.”

“That would be fantastic, thank you.” Her brow furrowed. “But we’re changing the name from here on out.”

Cal lifted an eyebrow. “You lost me.”

Vic waved her hand at the table. “The term for a revolving platform is now a ‘Practical Penelope.’ There is not—and never has been—anything lazy about any woman not wanting to kill her back to hunch over and get into the far corner of a lower cupboard.”

“Fair,” Cal said. “Very fair—and practical.”

Vic stuck her tongue out at him.