Casey hiked Andy higher on her hip and punched her code into the keypad beside the atelier’s entrance. She’d vetoed digging her access card from her wallet in the bottom of her bag while wrestling a toddler. The door unlocked, and she stepped inside.
“Ah, Casey.” Maxine glided across the room.
Every time Casey had seen her, she’d been stunning, and today was no exception. A designer skirt suit with CHANEL or Donna Karan vibes, immaculate makeup and manicure, and hair just as perfect as always. Did she have a live-in stylist?
“This must be Andy.” Maxine tipped her head to look at him. “Such a handsome boy. And those eyelashes.”
“Can you say hi?” Casey gave him a tiny jostle.
He buried his face in her neck.
“He’s shy.” She patted his back. “Thanks for letting me bring him when I’m in the gallery. I appreciate the time with him.” She’d been grateful the volunteer requirement hadn’t gone into effect before now. Instead, Leighton had encouraged them to take the first few weeks to get into a routine and focus on their classes. Casey had managed both, in addition to spending a little time with Andy at home.
“Nonsense.” Maxine dismissed the notion with a flick of her head. “There’s no reason he can’t be with you. I assume you’d tell us if he had behavior issues. Volunteering here isn’t rocket science, and Leighton insisted.”
Casey lowered him to his feet, and he wrapped an arm around her knee. She pulled his plush ball from her shoulder bag and dropped it. One side flattened where it hit the polished wood floor. That was the reason she’d brought it. It didn’t roll or bounce, only slid.
And Andy knew not to throw it indoors.
He kicked it, then looked at her and grinned. He let go of her leg, ran the short distance to the ball, and repeated the process.
It would be perfect if he needed to burn off energy here.
With him occupied, they moved to the reception desk.
Maxine motioned toward a simple love seat and coffee table in the corner. “This is a good place if you brought additional toys. There’s little traffic, and you can see him.”
“This will be great.” Casey pulled out a few books and cars and set them near the low table.
When she stood, Maxine touched her arm. “Your thank-you card was lovely. It even impressed my husband, and nothing impresses him. We’re fortunate to have you.”
Casey smiled. She’d put everything she had into conveying her immense gratitude from her heart and was happy to learn she’d succeeded. “I’m the lucky one. I’m ecstatic to be here.” Her scholarship was the most important gift anyone had given her—aside from Andy—and she’d said as much.
Maxine peered at her through her designer frames. “Did you know that four hundred and sixty-one people applied for your scholarship? Artists from all over the world?”
Dumbfounded, she shook her head. She hadn’t known the fierceness of the competition. How had she been chosen over that many other candidates?
“I spent two solid months alongside Leighton and Stefan reviewing applications. Once we’d narrowed that down, my husband and I reviewed those who’d applied for the scholarship.” Maxine swiped a fingertip along a floating shelf and inspected it as though for dust. “Atelier Vaughn looks for certain things in its students, and my husband and I have our set of criteria. George likes to peruse the applications, but he’s content to give me the final say. It can be a life-changing opportunity, so we make sure we award it to a deserving recipient.”
Was there an edge in Maxine’s tone, or had Casey imagined it? Unease rippled through her. “Well,” she hesitated, choosing her words, “I hope that if you have any concerns, my dedication and progress during my time here will assure you that you made the right decision.”
What were their criteria that made one deserving? If it was financial, Casey certainly qualified. Even with the scholarship, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches would likely be a staple for her and Andy over the next two years.
Thankfully, when he was born, her friends had put her in touch with their friends and relatives who had little boys. The stream of hand-me-down clothing, toys, and equipment seemed never-ending. She shuddered to think how they’d manage entirely on their own. There’d been a time she could count on her parents for her tuition, but now—
“Your application omitted something important.” Maxine threw a pointed look at Andy, lying on his stomach on the love seat, engrossed in a picture book.
Casey snapped out of her thoughts. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “I apologize for that, but I had my reasons. I needed to succeed or fail on my own, independent of him. If I hadn’t been accepted, I’d wonder if you thought I couldn’t handle it because I have a child. If I had been, I’d wonder if you gave me the opportunity because you took pity on a broke, single mother who wanted to learn to paint like the old masters.”
Maxine scowled and adjusted her glasses. “First, I don’t award my scholarship based on pity. Secondly, I don’t understand your thinking. He’s your son and a big part of your life. Whether or not you want to admit it, you aren’t independent any longer. Everything you do affects him.”
Casey bristled. Like she didn’t know that. Andy was the one reason she hadn’t plunged headlong into the application process for Atelier Vaughn the second she’d heard about it. And being able to give him a better life was also why she’d ultimately decided to go for it. “I understand that,” she studied her scuffed shoes, “but this meant something to me. I needed to get here on my merit.” When Maxine remained silent, she looked up.
Maxine stared at the blank wall beside them. “I wanted a child, long ago.” Her tone was wistful. “We tried, but for whatever reason…” She waved her hand like she was dismissing memories she’d prefer not to recall. “Then,” her demeanor brightened, “my best friend had a baby girl, the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen. I wanted a child even more after that, so badly I ached.” She gave a short laugh. “Despite that, having her around helped. She was the sweetest thing, her love so pure, so unending. No, she wasn’t mine, but I loved her as though she were. I’d have given my life for her. I still would.” Maxine blinked rapidly and picked up a folder, like she’d realized she’d gone off on a tangent. “Suffice it to say, I don’t have any concerns about awarding you the scholarship. You were, and are, the perfect choice, with or without your beautiful little boy. Now, we should get started. I’ll show you what to do if you make a sale.”
“Wait.” Casey didn’t want to be rude, but Maxine had piqued her interest. “What happened to her?”
“Happened? Well, that’s a long story, but in short, her mother died. About a decade ago. It was a difficult time for everyone.” Her eyes glistened with a sheen of tears. “I’ve tried to do my best to be there for her. After all, I love her like a daughter.”
It clicked. “You mean Leighton.” Casey suppressed a smile that threatened to emerge simply by saying her name.
“Of course, Leighton. Who did you think I was talking about?” With a soft laugh, Maxine opened the folder. “Let’s get you trained. You seem to have a way of sidetracking me, dear girl.”
Casey considered Maxine’s story as they worked. How tragic to want children when fate had other plans. She tried to imagine her life without Andy and couldn’t. She’d known she’d wanted him like he already existed somewhere out there, and all she needed to do was bring him into her life. So, she had, and she didn’t have an ounce of regret.
* * *
The next morning, Casey attended Leighton’s class. With their easels beside one another, Leighton often worked only a few paces away during open studio hours. Each time Casey turned to her palette, she cast furtive glances her way.
Similarly, Casey remained conscious of her when Leighton spent time in her office. Was it the same for Leighton with Casey just outside her door? Whenever she checked, Leighton appeared engrossed in her laptop’s screen, but she supposed it was possible. It’d explain the unexpected shivers that came out of nowhere and ran up Casey’s spine. She hadn’t chosen her station’s location. It’d been the last easel available. Fate gave little thought to the feng shui of her growing attraction.
Casey focused on making her color charts. According to Leighton, one of the best ways to learn color mixing was to know how the colors on their palettes interacted. Cadmium yellow was her first chart, but she’d already learned so much. She mixed it with olive green and tinted it with increasing amounts of titanium white. Leighton had instructed them to make a grid on canvas paper with thin lines of masking tape, and once Casey had the correct blend, she painted the first little square.
She found the process enjoyable but time-consuming. Her eagerness to peel the lines of tape away to reveal the sharp, clean squares of color motivated her. Maybe she’d make a TikTok video when she got to that gratifying stage. People were into that kind of thing.
“Let me show you a trick.”
Casey froze at the closeness of Leighton’s voice and her gentle grasp of Casey’s waist as she moved her aside.
Leighton took her offset palette knife and added more white to the mixture. When it was one homogenous color, she loaded some onto the blade, and in a single, confident stroke, she swiped the mixture in the next square and turned to her. “It’s a bit faster this way.”
“I didn’t think to use the knife.” Casey hadn’t moved away, and neither had Leighton.
“Why should you? I forgot to tell everyone.” Leighton gave her a playful smile and flipped the knife around to offer Casey the lacquered handle.
She took it, and Leighton exchanged places with her but stayed close. Uncomfortable under the scrutiny, Casey used the tip to lift more white paint. She mixed it into the avocado-colored pile, lowering both its value and chroma. Nervously, she glanced up.
Leighton nodded.
Casey loaded the knife and lifted it toward the next square.
Leighton caught her wrist. “Like this.” With Casey’s hand in hers, she returned the glob to the palette, then pushed the knife into the paint, creating a ridge on its underside. “Use the bottom. It’s easier to make your mark.”
With Leighton’s warm, smooth hand enveloping hers, and Leighton’s body nearly pressed against her back, they made a bold, downward stroke that left a smear of light green on the grid and an indelible mark on Casey.
Leighton stepped to the side, but her fingers lingered on Casey’s wrist. “Better?” A catch in her voice kept the word at only a whisper.
Casey swallowed. “Yes, thank you. I like that.” I like that? She mentally kicked herself.
Leighton stepped away, not looking at Casey. “Glad I could help.”
While Leighton gathered the others around Mikala’s station to show them the new technique, Casey tried to mix the next color, but her hand shook. She laid down the knife and wiggled her arm. Leighton’s demonstration had rattled her. Who was she kidding? It hadn’t been the demonstration. It’d been her closeness. Her touch. That whisper.
It was rare for Casey to be so close to someone, almost enveloped by them. Sure, Mark hugged her now and then, and her parents had years ago. Girlfriends and boyfriends had been affectionate, even Devin occasionally, though their relationship on the whole hadn’t been that physical. Andy cuddled with her every day, but he was her little peanut.
This felt different, nice, even inviting. She’d missed that.
She spent the remainder of the class finishing her chart and intermittently shaking out her arm until the trembling finally subsided. Leighton had also disappeared. Coincidence?
Casey hadn’t spoken with her after the knife episode, which was for the best. If she hadn’t gotten her tremor under control, she’d be googling signs of a stroke or other sudden medical conditions.
Her stomach rumbled as she bent over the utility sink and cleaned her brushes. Her egg salad sandwich called to her from her lunch bag.
Beside her, Stefan lifted a large canvas onto the workbench, the vibrant colors bouncing off his white T-shirt. After choosing a frame molding from the wall, he pushed it flush with the corners of the stretcher bars, then stood back and assessed the pairing.
Casey massaged soap into the bristles. “You’re framing today?”
He glanced up. “Yep. It’s important to choose the right one. Nothing less than perfection will satisfy Leighton with this piece. She plans to hang it where she’ll see it every day.”
“That sounds like a tall order.” She rinsed the brush under cool water as he chose another molding.
“What’s this?” Phoenix sidled up beside him.
Stefan took a step away like he was re-establishing his personal space. “It’s a painting.”
Casey noted his curt answer. She wasn’t sure if Phoenix was in Stefan’s way or if his irritation stemmed from Phoenix’s apparent lack of something to do.
“Dope. Abstract art’s fun to look at, even if I don’t care to paint that way.” He appeared oblivious to Stefan’s vexation. “Although when I think about how loose and free artists like Pollock, Picasso, and Kiefer painted, I consider changing my style for a hot second. It’d be way less stressful, you know? But if I did, I’d be throwing my money away here, wouldn’t I?” His rambling went unanswered.
Casey worked the soap in the next brush’s bristles into a lather.
Stefan retrieved a wooden, floater-style frame from the wall and pushed it against the corner of the piece. “Ah-ha. This might be the one.”
Casey stared at the energetic array of shapes, swirls, drips, and splashes on the canvas in awe. Stefan was right. That particular frame set off the character of the piece beautifully.
Phoenix tilted his head and squinted. “Wouldn’t it be fun to throw a gigantic sheet of canvas on the ground and fling colors at it?” He rested his forearms on the workbench, his posture suggesting he’d gotten comfortable for the long haul. “Stand on a ladder, drip paint on it from high above. Smear it around, step on it. You could take out your aggression. How awesome would that be?”
Stefan met Casey’s gaze behind Phoenix’s back and rolled his eyes.
She could guess where he wanted to work out his aggression.
“Wait!” Phoenix straightened with a jolt, his jaw dropping open. “Is this a famous painting?” His boyish enthusiasm transformed into wonder.
Casey stifled a laugh.
Stefan still said nothing as he measured the piece, letting Phoenix’s question linger in the air.
“For real?” Phoenix seemed to run with it. His eyebrows shot up. “You’re kidding, right?” His hushed, conspiratorial tone was still loud enough for Casey to overhear. “Where’d she get it? At an auction, right? Yeah, she’d buy it legit, at Sotheby’s or something.” Words poured from him. “It must have cost her a ton of dough. I heard she made bank in her divorce, so it could be chump change for her. Still, hot paintings like that go for millions.”
Stefan’s disinterested expression sharpened to a glare, making him look uncharacteristically angry. He straightened to his full height and faced Phoenix squarely. “Your pseudo-knowledge of Leighton’s private life is based on assumptions. Ensure everything you say here is something you’d say to Leighton.” He pointed to the camera in the corner.
Phoenix followed his gesture and swallowed.
“What’s the status of your cast painting? You’re doing the Belvedere Torso, correct? Or have you decided to become an abstract artist?”
Phoenix shrank. “Yeah, I’m working on the Belvedere. So far, I’ve transferred my drawing. I’m just joking about the abstract stuff.” He puffed out his chest and gave a cocky lift of his chin. “I’m going to be the next Sargent.”
Casey held back a grin as Stefan closed his eyes and sighed. It sounded like he muttered, “God, help us all.”
“Well,” Stefan gestured at Phoenix’s Bermuda shorts and flip-flops, “Sargent would’ve been wearing a three-piece suit while attacking his painting like a fencer instead of standing here talking to me.”
Obviously, Phoenix’s attire was fine to wear in the studio, but Casey assumed Stefan was trying to make a point.
Phoenix looked at his clothes. “You’re right. I should start my underpainting.”
“That would be a good idea.”
With a grin, Phoenix turned and stage-whispered over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, its provenance is safe with me.” He ran his finger along the edge of the canvas-covered stretcher bar. “Now I can tell my fam I got to touch it.” His fist pump bought him another glare from Stefan.
Casey didn’t recognize the artist who painted it, and she’d taken plenty of art history classes. That said, she didn’t consider herself well-versed in modern art. The fact that Leighton liked it surprised her since it resembled nothing else inside the atelier or gallery. Perhaps Leighton had eclectic taste.
She was such an enigma. And one Casey wouldn’t mind solving.