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“Mel?” Ben calls from the opposite end of the diner. He hurries toward the door.
My stomach rolls with anticipation. I watch the brother and sister whisper between one another. Melinda has her back to me, her hoodie still up.
A couple of minutes of watching them pass before Ben points toward me. Melinda turns my way, but her face is still obscured.
Ben nods my way before he slowly walks past. He’s not only a proponent of his sister’s talent but he’s protective of her. I don’t know their story, but I bet the two of them are lucky to have one another.
It makes me think of my younger siblings. I make a silent vow to show up more for both of them.
“Melinda?” I ask as she approaches my table.
The closer she gets, the more I see brown tendrils hanging over one side of her face. The hoodie falls back slightly but she doesn’t push it all of the way down. Now, I can also see that she’s wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses.
“Yeah,” she answers in a paper-thin voice.
“Please, take a seat.”
She pauses for a breath but eventually slides into the seat across from me. Her eyes are pinned to the glossed wooden table between us. She doesn’t say anything as she lets her pointer finger start tracing the lines of one of the cracks in the table.
I quickly spot the telltale paint stains on her fingers. Oddly, this brings me a little more comfort.
“Thank you for meeting with me.”
The waitress interrupts whatever, if anything, Melinda is about to say. “One coffee, black.” She slides my piping hot cup in front of me.
“Melinda, is that you?” the waitress asks, sounding slightly surprised.
“Yeah, Kathy. It’s me.” Melinda doesn’t look up from the table or remove her sunglasses as she answers.
“I’m glad you got out today. It’s not even Tuesday,” she continues. “How about a cup on the house?” The waitress doesn’t even wait for Melinda to respond. She heads behind the counter and pours a fresh cup for Melinda. A few beats later, she’s sliding the cup in front of her.
Melinda barely responds but she does mumble a, “Thank you.”
Once the waitress leaves us, I slide my coffee to the side and look across at her. I won’t ask her to lower her hoodie or even look at me. I get the feeling she’s doing the best she can.
“Melinda, I promised not to take up much of your time, so I’ll jump right in,” I explain. “You’re a rare talent. I was hooked from the moment I saw your first painting. The painting Ben had at the art fair, Amazing Grace, man …” I push out a breath as I try to find the words to describe my feelings when I first saw the painting.
“It was majestic, mysterious, haunting, and alluring,” I say. “And that only describes the tip of the iceberg as far as the depths of feelings your work elicits.”
“You’re good with words,” she mumbles. She plays with her fingers, picking at her already short nails.
“No,” I counter. “You’re good with a paintbrush and canvas.”
At that her hands still.
“You think so?” she asks. Like she’s never been complimented on her work before.
That can’t be the case.
“Melinda, you have to know how talented you are. Don’t you?”
Her hand goes to the hair hanging over the left side of her face. She tousles it a little but doesn’t tuck it behind her ear.
“I don’t know anything.” She goes back to picking at her fingernails.
“I don’t think that’s true.”
For the first time, she lifts her head. She must realize what she does because she quickly dips her attention back to the table.
