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“Monet?” Celia guesses, walking to the sink.
“No, but that would be lovely. Want me to print one to hang in your bathroom?”
“What if you paint me something instead?”
Jessie stiffens, the tips of her ears going red as she bends her head over the iPad, mumbling some excuse.
The silence that follows is uncomfortable. It’s like Jessie has sprouted spikes and her mom doesn’t want to venture too close. I don’t blame her. I think I’ll keep my distance too.
Celia puts me to work rolling out some gingerbread. After a while, I relax. Losing myself in the process of baking always soothes me. Or maybe it’s the scent of warm cinnamon and spice in the air as Celia pulls trays of cookies out of the oven. Last night drops away. I forget the conversation with my agent. Even Jessie’s presence fades into the background—though never completely.
The gentle but earthy tones of this kitchen, the aromas of food, and Celia’s warmth have been a soft hug anytime I’ve needed it. When I’d come over as a kid, sulking over a report card full of Bs and Cs and the inevitable grounding when my parents came home, she would sit me down with a simple task, like peeling potatoes or kneading dough. My parents didn’t have time to cook, let alone teach me, so it was a novelty. Celia never got mad or upset over any mistake I made. A small laugh with a ‘here, I’ll show you’ was the closest thing to a scold I’d ever gotten from her, and she was always quick to praise.
I think she needed those days as badly as I did. With her husband always busy or with his nose in a book, Amanda away from home, and Timothy and Jessie uninterested in cooking and baking, I think she was lonely too.
Retreating to my kitchen has become my stress response. Every time a movie flops or a critic ridicules me, I spend hours baking. It’s not the same as being here though.
“Back in a few minutes, kids.” Celia announces, untying her apron and leaving it over the back of a chair.
Jessie ignores me. I should let it go, but I can’t forget about her Dali dick comment, so I brush the flour off my hands and walk over to sneak a look.
Jesus. She is drawing dicks. A sketch of a penis, complete with hairy balls, stands proud amid a city skyline straight from the ’80s.
“You need a new hobby,” I tell her.
She adds curly hair to one of the balls. “It’s for work.”
I snort. “That’s not going to make it into the Louvre.”
Jessie taps the screen. The dick disappears, replaced by a sleek sex toy. “I work for a sex toy company, asshole.”
Sex toys.
This might be my nightmare. I don’t want to think about Jessie and sex toys. I don’t want to picture her lying alone in her bed, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted in pleasure.
I retreat to the safety of the island and Celia’s old-fashioned cookie cutters and clear my throat. “So I need to make some art for this charity auction, and—”
“I’m not doing your homework for you, Nic,” she says dryly.
Dammit. “Got any old paints I could use?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Ask Mom.”
She doesn’t know? Jessie always has paints somewhere, brushes too. And those notebooks full of paper thick enough to handle her watercolors.
She refused to paint something for her mom a few minutes ago. I’d expect her to refuse to help me out of spite, but to turn down her mom?
It clicks together in my head. “You don’t paint anymore.”
“I don’t have time,” she says in a haughty tone.
“Too busy testing out the vibrators?” Dammit, why did I say that?
Jessie turns around and smirks at me. “I’m locking the door, Nic. You’ll never know.”
A timer saves me and I turn to take a tray of cookies out and put another in. Hopefully, the heat of the oven will explain my suddenly red face. Explaining my thickening cock is going to be impossible.
Thankfully, she’s silent while I cut out gingerbread people and snowflakes. We’ve just exchanged more words in two minutes than we have in ten years. It’s unsettling. I’m gathering the scraps of dough when she pushes her chair back, turning to face me, brows furrowed with worry.
