July 16
Am I wacked, or do you ever stand in front of your favorite picture and try to breathe it in before you have to face something you dread? Does art bring tranquility? Is beauty an outgrowth of the divine? Thoughts?
Aly at www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com
Cal followed his folks from the sticky ninety-four degree parking lot through the double glass doors of the PNC Bank branch. He tugged at the tie chaffing his neck. The last time he’d worn a tie in Aly’s presence he’d fallen in love with her—eight years ago when Jesse married her sister.
He scanned the teller line and the office cubicles for a glimpse of Aly. Hunger and dread arm-wrestled in his gut. He wanted to walk back across the tile—away from the humiliation of his life—part-time jobs, living at Henna’s for free, painting with art supplies his mother funded—and out the door. But this was the only way he’d get a life, the only way he’d get a shot at Aly.
Mom stopped at the office partition laminated with Aly Logan, Loan Officer on a plastic strip at the right.
Over her shoulder, his gaze collided with Aly’s.
Her eyes widened and telegraphed nervousness he was sure Aly didn’t want him to see. A piece of him relaxed. On some level, she cared.
Aly’s gaze swept them. “Hi, Koomers.”
Dad moved between them and took a seat. “Aly! How’s my favorite banker?”
She warmed Dad with a look that oozed affection, like the ones she used to give Cal. Before Evie.
He took the chair in the entryway, the only space left in Aly’s cramped office, as his parents settled beside him.
God, Aly was beautiful sitting in a beam of muted sun filtering through the window. His fingers itched to sketch her. Maize-colored hair swept back from her pale face in a loose ponytail. Hazel eyes picked up the olive of her sleeveless blouse. Sun had honeyed the skin tone on her arms. Her small nails were bare without the bumper car colors she’d worn in high school and the iridescents she’d favored in college.
Aly, fake-smiled at his shirt, avoiding his eyes. “Well, let’s get to it. You probably want to know what the bank decided on your loan.”
He couldn’t pull his eyes away from her. He’d been starved for Aly for too long. The last time he’d seen her was four months ago at Easter. She’d treated him like a pedophile uncle—as she had for the past two years.
“You’ve got the loan,” Aly said.
Her words jolted his back against the chair. Inside, emotions randomly beaded and separated like mercury. Relief bumped and merged with a cringe that he wasn’t man enough to conduct his own business. An educated guess about what lay under the lace winking from the scoop of Aly’s neckline merged into hope that he’d see it someday.
Aly grabbed a file folder from the tidy stack on the corner of her desk and handed Cal the top sheet to sign. Her fingers brushed his, and she jerked away. He’d touched her hundreds of times, and he’d give just about anything to earn back the privilege.
“This is the loan application,” Aly said.
He signed and slid the page across Aly’s desk to his mother.
Aly was careful not to touch Cal as she passed him the loan agreement, then the loan origination document.
His eyes met hers with a silent communication that he’d noticed she didn’t want to touch him.
Aly looked down at the stack of papers in front of her. Message received.
“Your payments will be due on the first of each month.” Aly steepled her fingers as she continued explaining the repayment details.
His mind churned. Of course Aly didn’t want anything to do with him. Two years ago he decimated her heart. Yesterday he was in jail. Today he stepped from flat broke to forty thousand dollars in the hole. What in that picture would make her want to trust him again?
Aly rose, and his folks scooted their chairs back and stood.
He sprung from his seat, as desperate to get away from Aly as he had been to see her. The sooner he got out of here, the sooner he could get to work becoming the man he wanted to be—a man Aly would respect.
Mom reached a hand toward Aly. “Thanks. Don’t forget we’re planning a picnic for Labor Day at Blue Springs.”
Was Cal the only one who felt odd shaking hands with someone who had shared Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter dinners for nearly a decade?
Aly’s cheeks pinked as Dad shook her hand.
Okay, so Cal wasn’t the only one caught in a whirlpool of Meet The Fockers awkwardness. But he could only reach across the metal desk. “Thanks, Al, I really appreciate it.”
Aly’s small hand branded his lifeline in the shortest handshake in the history of banking.
He hovered over the desk with his empty fingers stretched toward her. The scent of forest mint filled his head. He couldn’t help himself. It had been so long. He backed away. He had to get out of here.
He stuffed the check and loan papers into his back pocket and strode out of the lobby and onto State Road 44 without waiting for his folks to exit the bank. It was just as well he’d lost his friggin’ driver’s license. He yanked free his tie and unbuttoned his already damp shirt. The two mile walk to Henna’s was just what he needed to reconnect with reality. He was crazy stupid for even imagining he could win Aly. But he wasn’t going down without trying his best.
His folks’ minivan slowed, and he waved them past. No way was he up for discussing boat repairs and dry dock. Beaching the Escape and hacking the barnacles off her hull—now that had possibilities.
But first he had to purge the longing Aly surged up in him. He had to paint. He could almost smell the comfort of the color and oils sucking the chaos out of him, ordering it onto canvas.
And when sanity returned, he’d find a way to make things right with Aly.
Fish sprayed the last of the marine debris from the deck and coiled the hose. He hated to admit it, but he actually liked running fishing charters for Zeke better than working the counter at Circle K. It didn’t matter. Cal had gotten him thrown in jail for the longest six hours of his life. Scared the crap out of him. He never wanted to feel that helpless again. Never wanted to stand in court, guilt pressing in on him from every eye in the room—no matter how much he protested he didn’t know how the marijuana got into his locker.
Should he even apply for law school? Who would vote for a candidate with a record? One thing was for damn sure, he had Cal to thank for reigniting his political ambitions. He hadn’t thought about running for office in a long time—till Cal’s betrayal had shaken him up.
The desire to make Cal understand how he felt churned on a primal level. He eyed Cal two slips down, polishing the Escape’s chrome work. His chest ached. He missed Cal, the one constant in his life.
The gate clanged against its post at the end of the pier. Evie strutted up the dock. His eyes drifted to the breasts she wore like magnificent hood ornaments.
He couldn’t remember whether Cal and Evie were on again or off again. An idea solidified. “Evangeline!” He scooped out a left-over Coors Light from the cooler. “Want a beer?”
She stopped on the dock behind Zeke’s Ambition and leaned toward the boat to grab the Coors from his hand. His eyes traced the tattooed flower stem where it trailed south into the depths of her shirt.
She straightened, narrowed her eyes, and flipped open the beer.
“I have to study for a poly sci quiz. Stay and keep me company?”
She took a sip. “Looks like you’ve already started studying.”
He shot a glance at the tattoo peeking from the neckline of her blouse. “Botany. Dasies. One in particular.”
“Since when do you hit on me?”
Since Cal pissed him off. “Since I can’t fight it anymore.”
Her gaze slid to Cal as he walked aft on his boat.
“Hey, I’m only asking you to hang out.”
Evie stepped aboard muttering something about never measuring up. “So, I’m good enough for you?”
His eyes moseyed over her wavy blonde tresses down to her hibiscus-red toenails. “Uh, that would be a yes.”
She plopped into a padded fishing chair. “One beer. That’s all.”
Fish leaned against the side of the boat and crossed his arms. “So, are you and Cal together?”
“I thought you had to study.”
He zeroed his gaze into her eyes. “I am.”
She took a drink, but not before he saw her hand quiver. He was getting to her. Good.
“So, about Cal—”
Evie snorted.
“I don’t get it. Why do you stick to him? His four-figure income? Because he got three months jail time, six months’ probation instead of the pre-plea felony that would have locked him up for a year?” Never mind that Cal had actually gotten a raw deal in court. Never mind Cal’s surfer six-pack and his to-know-him-is-to-love-him personality.
“Cal’s got family. Ma left me on that piece-of-shit boat with her pervy boyfriend and skipped town when I was seventeen.”
Who knew they had something in common other than a mutual appreciation for hood ornaments? “My family ditched me the minute I finished eleventh grade to run an orphanage in Peru.”
“Not the same. Do you even have a clue what it feels like to have a hole inside where family’s supposed to be—since you were born? Even when Ma was around, she didn’t, like, care.”
The ache in her voice unearthed his own, and he reached for the last beer in the cooler. Yeah, he knew exactly what it felt like to have a hole inside where family was supposed to be.
“I don’t know why Cal goes all sea-urchin prickly about his mom. If Cal married me, I’d be a best-freakin’-friend kind of daughter-in-law.”
“Hey, I’ve got family. Mom, Dad, sisters, a brother, one more sibling than Cal has.” He sounded petty, even in his own ears.
“Well, they’re not here, are they? And why would I care?”
“So, you’re in love with Cal?”
“Sometimes I hate him.”
Fish squinted at her. Was it the beer talking?
Evie stood. “I’m done puking out my issues.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cal moving around on the Escape. He followed Evie off the boat. “I’ll walk you down to your boat.” He threw an arm across her shoulders and darted a glance at Cal. But inside he felt like crap. He was tired of superficial relationships with girls. And Evie wasn’t a girl he could form a deep connection with.
He was better than this, better than trying to make Cal pay.
The doorbell rang, and Aly’s chin jerked up from the pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey she’d just opened. Mom had taken her out for her birthday yesterday, and she wasn’t expecting anyone. She jammed the spoon into the ice cream, stuck it into the freezer, and jogged to the door. Maybe it was elderly Mrs. Knox from the condo next door.
She whisked open the door. The smile died on her lips.
Cal stood on the step, damp hair pulled into a ponytail, his jaw freshly shaved.
Shallow breaths moved in and out of her nose, registering the scent of soap. Pin pricks dotted her skin as though her whole body had fallen asleep.
One corner of his mouth turned up. His eyes looked uncertain. “Happy birthday.” It almost sounded like a question.
“Thanks.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t have the guts to say it the last two years.” He tapped the framed pictures propped against his thigh. “I brought you something.”
She should invite him in. Handing her art on the doorstep was ridiculous. But if he came in, he’d see the ink drawings he’d cast off years ago—the ones she’d expensively framed as the focal point of her living room. He’d think she was still in love with him after two years of almost no contact.
Cal shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “If you have company, I can come back another time.
She cleared her throat. “I don’t have company.”
The silence crept past awkward.
“If you’d rather I didn’t come in—”
“No, it’s okay.” She inched away from the door.
Cal lined three framed charcoal drawings against the couch, his back to her private Cal Koomer gallery. His gaze riveted to hers. “Thanks for the loan. The Escape will be in dry dock for a month. I’m doing all the work I can myself. You gave me a shot at a future.”
Did Cal remember her vow to own her own business by twenty-five? Did he realize she’d handed him her dream? Enjoy it for me, Cal. Succeed. “It was a sound business decision.” Not personal.
Hurt slashed through his eyes and disappeared in a blink. “I’m still grateful, Al.”
She folded her arms across her waist and sunk to the edge of the coffee table. She pulled her gaze away from his and found the gifts he’d brought.
Cal’s genius lay in his ability to knead a viewer’s emotions into a visceral response. His art expressed things deeper than he was able to communicate in words. She had learned to read his work almost from the start of their friendship. Gratitude for the rusty skill wafted through her.
Two faces looking away from each other filled the first drawing. Though no one else might, she recognized herself. Hurt etched the planes of her face and seared from her eyes. She glanced at the bottom right corner for the date Cal always included with his signature. The drawing had been done on her twenty-first birthday, less than a month after she’d offered herself to Cal and been turned down. After she’d confessed her love. After she’d witnessed his hand planted on the polka dots of Evie’s bikini from where she stood on the side of the beach road.
Her eyes slid to the dark-jawed male face—the tilt of the thick brows, the kinks in the hair, and halted at the eyes swimming with bone-scraping regret.
So, Cal got how her heart crumpled beyond repair in the sawgrass that day. The charcoal begged her absolution.
She glanced over her shoulder.
Cal stood with his back to her, staring at the wall she didn’t want him to see. Below the drawings and to the right, like a signature, she’d framed her favorite photo of Cal. Head thrown back, mouth open, he laughed. She could hear the sound in her head every time she looked at the photo.
How did Cal feel seeing himself enshrined on her wall? Did he pity her? Feel responsible for her? Did he want to erase her love?
Until this moment she’d believed she’d jettisoned her feelings for Cal a little at a time until none were left. She’d made progress. Surely she had.
She turned to the second picture, dated on her twenty-second birthday. She and Cal stood angled away from each other with the sharp needles of a Christmas tree jabbing between them. Her eyes were downcast, and Cal peered over his shoulder at her longingly. He missed her friendship. But she couldn’t go back there again.
The last charcoal, dated today—her twenty-third birthday—depicted figures facing each other across her desk at the bank. She recognized Jackson’s forearm and hand, the crown of Starr’s head. This time she and Cal looked each other in the eye. Uncertainty clouded her expression; embarrassment, Cal’s. But he still-framed the moment when their fingers brushed against each other.
How had Cal captured the bond between them in charcoal? A bond she wouldn’t resurrect. Couldn’t. She stood and stepped behind the coffee table to absorb the picture as a whole.
Her arm clunked into Cal’s chest, firing off an all-systems-alert to her body—like the touch Cal depicted on paper. Her gaze flew to his, then darted away from the raw plea in his eyes. “Sorry.”
She stepped away from him and rubbed the bare skin of her arm as if she could erase the softness of Cal’s T-shirt, the warm, solid feel of his chest. She centered herself in front of the last drawing.
The picture communicated permanence in their connection, the subjects’ surprise that the welding still held. Well, Cal had gotten that wrong.
She stared at the other two drawings, willing her pulse to calm. How long had she been lost in the art? Two minutes? Half-an-hour?
She filled her lungs with oxygen and faced Cal. “What do you want from me?”
His eyes pleaded with her, but she needed words.
“I brought the drawings… to say I’m sorry for… for what I did to you.”
“I forgave you a long time ago.” How could she not? It wasn’t his fault she fell in love with him and ruined their friendship. She’d never make that mistake again.
“Do we still have…?” His hands waved between them, his eyes desperate to say what he couldn’t articulate.
How could she tell him they had nothing left? He’d just stared at what looked like a memorial to their relationship for who knew how long. She could tell him he was a brilliant artist, and she happened to be lucky enough to have some originals to hang on her wall. But he’d be hurt. He wasn’t looking for an art critique. He’d exposed his heart and begged to jump-start their friendship.
While the sentiment was gratifying, she’d be a masochist to agree. No, the relationship needed to stay dead.
If Daddy’s deleting her out of his life when she was seven wasn’t enough to teach her to protect herself, all she had to do was look at her mother. Thank God Mom had a nursing degree when Daddy walked. But Daddy had left Mom’s heart out in all weather, something that could only have been prevented by trusting her heart to a safer person.
Bachelor of Science in business. Check. Owning her own company. Someday. She just wished she was one of those women who didn’t need a man. But sex, if only momentarily, filled her craving to be cherished, to be essential to another person’s existence. When she married, it would be to a stable guy who wouldn’t leave her for someone better. Or jail.
But she couldn’t throw Cal’s good intentions back in his face. Not today with his art filling her living room.
She motioned with her head toward the breakfast bar. “Come on. I was just celebrating. Sit down.”
She plopped the Ben and Jerry’s between them.
Cal reached for the spoon and stopped. He smiled into her eyes, and she knew he was remembering the last time they celebrated with Chunky Monkey—the day he’d taken her to get a pregnancy test that turned out negative. He took a bite and stuck the spoon back into the ice cream.
Aly smiled. It was a happy memory even though she was ashamed of the almost-pregnancy. She slipped the spoon into her mouth, thinking how weird it was that they’d shared food and silverware for eight years when they’d never dated, much less kissed. Her eyes strayed to his lips, and she shook herself back to reality.
She’d prepare a gentle this-isn’t-going-to-work speech, make it as painless as possible, and deliver it the next time she saw him. Her life depended on it.