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Another, much nicer woman than the first had given me an extra pad and a pop-up easel, which she’d brought for a friend who couldn’t make it.
I’m not going to tell you my painting of the bridge that day was better than anyone else’s—it was an intermediate class, and I was a definite beginner—but it hadn’t mattered. It wasn’t the bridge that had called to me, it was the medium. Watching the class paint in watercolors paled in comparison to experimenting myself.
By the time I looked up, my bridge was largely a blur of color, thanks to one too many trial and errors, and most of the class had dispersed. My eyes had watered when I’d given the paints back to the instructor because I knew he’d given me something far more longer lasting than his paints, which I later learned were professional quality and very expensive.
Caleb’s Frisbee game had ended, and though I’m sure sitting and watching a bunch of amateurs paint was the last thing a restless fifteen-year-old boy had wanted to do with his afternoon, I think his sibling intuition had kicked in and he knew dragging me home would have been cruel.
On our walk home, he’d told me that I’d looked possessed “and a little psycho.”
The next afternoon, I was sitting on the couch suffering through Steinbeck when Caleb came home from a friend’s house and unceremoniously dumped a plastic bag into my lap. Without a word, he headed into the bathroom, and I upended the bag.
My brother had bought me a set of watercolors, blue plastic brushes, and a sketchbook filled with thick paper. The supplies weren’t fancy, but I also knew he’d been carefully saving up his allowance to buy a new video game—and he’d spent it on these art supplies instead.
I’d cried and hugged him until he’d threatened to return everything if I didn’t stop. I’ve never loved my brother more.
My dad was another story. He wasn’t unsupportive—any art supplies I put on my Christmas lists over the years were generally found under the tree—but my “craft time” always had to come after homework (fair) and my duties at Bubbles (at times, that felt less fair).
My dad was a real follow-your-passion type of guy. As long as it was his passion. By the time Lily had married and more or less moved on from the shop, Caleb kept himself busy with girls, sports, and school, working at Bubbles only on the occasional weekend. I was busy too. I had friends. The occasional boyfriend. Classes. But none of this had stopped my dad from assuming I’d be available to work at the shop when he asked, and I felt too guilty about abandoning him to say no.
I can’t pretend teenage me didn’t occasionally resent that Caleb could be off doing whatever he wanted, that Lily had escaped by way of Alec, and that I was stuck at the store. But I also liked that Dad called me his right-hand woman. I liked that I eventually knew the store even better than know-it-all Lily. I liked that I was May’s favorite, and probably Dad’s too.
But what I liked more than any of that were the afternoons and rare days off when I could just paint.
Days like today, when Robyn and Josh are manning the store on what is likely to be a quiet Tuesday, as most Tuesdays are. Days where the only thing on my to-do list is to clean out that funky Tupperware in the fridge (I’ll get to it) and work on my latest painting.
I’m loving this one. It’s got sharper edges than usual. A rocks glass. Amber liquid—whisky, I guess, though I don’t drink it. The background, as with most of my work, is New York, but it’s New York seen through the panes of a window—an apartment window. A man’s apartment window.
I’ve painted men before, but usually as part of a couple—strolling through Central Park holding hands, a bottle of champagne in his free hand, two flutes in hers. And I’ve done a few bride and groom pieces on request and a Valentine’s series that sold out almost immediately.
But this is the first time I’ve done a man alone. I don’t know that it’ll sell—my clientele is almost entirely female, or men buying for women. But I’m enjoying the challenge of trying to convey Clooney-level attractiveness, a touch of Dean Martin charm, with Clint Eastwood’s gravitas.
I put on my headphones, turn on Queen, and lose myself in “Bohemian Rhapsody.”
An hour later, when my hand cramps and my playlist runs out, there’s a woman in my kitchen who was not there when I started.
My heart jumps but settles quickly. I’ve grown used to Keva letting herself in, and without my ever having to tell her, she’s always known not to interrupt me when I’m working. Often, it’s the smells that pull me out of the zone, and I’m wondering how I didn’t notice before now, because my apartment smells like brown-buttery heaven.
