The Art of My Life

The painting of my life is never going to hang in the Miami Art Museum. Irreversible errors were made early on. Not that I am valueless. I’ll cheer the Sarasota city hall or the Volusia Mall or someone’s living room. My life is what it is.

Cal cleaned his brushes and set them in a cup to dry. It was his day off from Winn Dixie, and he wasn’t due at Stoney’s for an hour. He could suck it up and stop by Aly’s Gallery for a tour, but so far he’d avoided facing the tangible evidence that Aly had moved on from being his business partner. Fifty-seven days till he’d propose. If Aly said yes, the fact they didn’t own a business together wouldn’t matter.

He’d nearly ruined any chance of Aly’s marrying him by getting high the night he’d told her he loved her and walked away without making love to her. Four and a half months had sounded like an eternity to wait to marry Aly and sleep with her. He’d never wanted to smoke so badly in his life.

But he’d drawn Aly sitting in her bunk, eyes tender, open to him—and art had saved him yet again. Sometimes he wondered if God had given him art as his personal coping skill, a legitimate crutch.

Starr leaned on the door jam, her face looking pinched. She stared at the painting on his easel of rain pummeling the glow of Stavro’s Pizza.

He was used to her stopping by most evenings over the past three months—a continuation of her jail visits, minus the angst. She even dropped in now that he painted at Henna’s. Missy must have mentioned he was painting this morning.

Starr blinked and shifted her gaze to Cal. “I can almost smell the pepperoni and yeast and tomato. I can hear the laughter of some family celebration.” Awe tinged her voice and melted some of the stress from her face.

His chest inflated against his will. He hated the giddy delight her words brought, how hugely hungry he still was for her praise. He wanted to tell her he was enrolling in college just to lap up some more. At least now he’d finally done something big that made her proud—six months in jail. The irony nearly made him laugh out loud.

Starr sat on Henna’s bed. Her eyes flitted around the make-shift studio. “I stopped by Aly’s Gallery earlier. Fish was fixing the toilet. Anyway, did you see she hung your painting of the man standing in the light? That’s my favorite painting you’ve ever done.”

What the hell was Fish doing fixing Aly’s toilet? “I haven’t been to the gallery.”

But her face softened. “You must have earned ten thousand dollars in the last three months off all the commissions Aly brokered. You’ve worked steady at Stoney’s and Winn Dixie. What are you waiting for?”

“You’ve been clean for eight months. You went to jail for your grandparents.”

“I’m unstable—the artist temperament. Ask Evie. I have a lot of changing to do.”

Starr grimaced. “You’re emotional like your father, but Evie is a drama junkie. She needs a man one step from catatonic. It would never work between you two.” Starr leaned across the table toward him. “How many girls have you loved?”

Cal looked at the tie-dyed bedspread beside Starr. Now she was pissing him off. “Just Aly.”

“That’s stable. And it’s in your heritage. Your dad and I. Jessie only cared about Kallie—even in his rock-god stage. Henna and Leaf.” Starr laid a hand on his forearm. “I want you to be happy.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He stood and pulled out of her grasp. “I’ll think about what you said.”

Starr’s gaze returned to the easel. “One birthday, Henna and Leaf took me to Stavro’s. I was so excited. I wanted to shout, ‘Look at me! Look at me! It’s my birthday, and my parents are taking me out for pizza!’ ” A wry laugh caught in her throat. “But when we climbed into the car afterward, I felt let down. Leaf had been high, Henna, preoccupied.

She stared at the painting. “I strived for people’s approval all my life.” Her gaze settled on him. “But maybe… maybe God’s approval is easier to get than my folks’ or New Smyrna Beach’s.” She gave a little shake of her head. “I’m here to minimize the damage I’ve done to you, not figure out my own issues.”

Her lips curved upward, and he felt like, for once, what he’d said had been just right.

She stood, put her hands on his shoulders where he sat on his stool in front of the easel. “You don’t have to fit into my mold. It’s not worth fighting over the choices you make in your life. I just want to be connected to you.” She dropped her hands and folded them across her waist as though she didn’t know what to do with them. “I should have said this to you that first time I visited you in jail. I love you. Nothing you do will ever make me stop loving you.”

The minute Cal finished tatting a butterfly on the tree-trunk ankle of a middle-aged woman named Lilibeth, he bee-lined to the marina and strode down the dock past Evie’s boat and stopped in front of Zeke’s Ambition where Fish wrenched off the spigot to the hose.

Water wet the weathered boards of the boat and dripped from the gunwales into the river.

“You were at Aly’s?” Cal said.

Fish’s wispy blonde hair stuck out in all directions. He stood barefoot and shirtless staring at Cal. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.

“You’re jealous of me putting new innards in a toilet? A toilet?”

“You got something going with Aly?”

“With Aly? I got noth—”

Cal’s brain flashed back to when they used to duke it out and flop back to best friends in minutes—before they’d discovered girls or politics or pot.

Fish jabbed a finger in Cal’s chest. “You know what? I’ll give you twenty-four hours to say whatever you have to say to Aly.”

To propose? It was too soon to talk her into saying yes.

Fish’s eyes bore into him. “Then I’ve got a question to ask her.” He dropped his finger, stepped across the water onto his boat.

Fish’s last words seemed to arrive after the slam of the door. “I forgive you.”

Maybe Cal heard wrong. He stared at the paint peeling from the door. Water lapped against the boat. A gull soared overhead. The door stayed shut.

They’d work it out, but right now, no way was he letting Fish take a shot at Aly.

Was he man enough to risk everything—three months ahead of schedule? It didn’t matter—Fish wasn’t getting his hands on Aly without the fight of his life.

On the Escape, a sticky note lay on his pillow, trapped in the sun coming through the porthole.

Cal, if you have time tonight around 7, stop by Aly’s Gallery. I’ve got something I want you to see. Aly

She printed the address at the bottom as if he didn’t navigate a block’s span around the gallery every day.

He had work to do. It was tonight or never.

Fish sat in the pilot’s seat, his eyes galvanized to the gate at the end of the dock. A rivulet of water snaked down his neck from his shower-damp hair. His knee jiggled, the only looseness in his taut muscles.

Wisps of prayers whirled like tiny water spouts inside him.

Missy pushed open the gate and walked toward him.

Thank God. Relief darted in and out of the water spouts, slowing their spin. She’d been so PO’d last time they talked, he didn’t know if she’d show.

He leapt from the boat to the dock. His eyes skated all over her at once—the thin yellow T-shirt, cut-offs, flip-flops, hair up in a messy bun, tanned legs. He couldn’t scrape the smile off his face if he had to. “Hey. Thanks for coming.”

She crossed her arms and eyed him warily. “What’s your emergency?”

He grabbed the bucket of chum from beside the dock box. “Give me a few to work up to full disclosure.” He headed for the end of the dock.

Missy followed. “What are the fish guts for?”

He stopped in the shade of a cabin cruiser and sat on the edge of the dock, feet hanging over the water. “Feeding the pelicans.”

Missy sat on the other side of the bucket and watched him lob a fish head toward the pelican squatting on a nearby piling. The bird lowered itself to the water with a flurry of wing flapping and scooped up the treat.

He tilted the bucket toward her. “Your turn.”

Missy half-heartedly flung a tail toward the bird.

It squawked, and two more fowl flapped onto the dock. One dipped and scored the tail before it sunk.

Fish tossed a handful of innards out over the water. The three birds descended.

Silence settled between them. Now was no time to turn chicken shit. He took a deep breath. “I finally calmed down about your birthday.”

Missy threw a two-handed pile of guts into the water. “What happened?”

“I made a decision. We need some kickback time.” He motioned toward the bucket.

Missy sailed a fish head out into the river. “Maybe, but I don’t see how it’s going to change anything.” She kicked her legs back and forth over the edge of the dock.

“How’s business at the hot dog stand?”

“Better now that I opened for breakfast and started serving bagels and coffee. I can see why Leaf sold weed on the side.”

He emptied the bucket at their feet and watched the birds flap their wings inches from their toes.

The pelicans returned to their perches.

He offered a grimy hand to Missy and helped her up. He wrenched on the spigot beside the fish-cleaning table and pried loose the sliver of soap that had dried to the wood. He lathered his hands and reached for Missy’s.

“I can wash my own hands.”

He grinned into her eyes. “Yeah, I know.” He massaged her palms, slid his fingers between hers.

The desire fisting in him flickered in her eyes, too, and she pulled her hands free of his.

They stuck their hands under the flow of the water, warm from the sun beating on the hose.

His eyes caught hers. “I’ve missed you.”

Missy looked away.

His stomach knotted. Still, he’d never been surer of a decision in his life. Missy’s sensual response in her eyes only confirmed it.

He grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler he’d left on the dock earlier and handed one to Missy. “Hungry?”

Her shoulders relaxed. “Yeah. I was over hot dogs in June.”

He held up two subs wrapped in thick white paper. “From Manzano’s. Turkey or Italian?”

“Turkey. You went to a lot of trouble, but I don’t think it will make a difference.”

He shrugged as if a fleet of Daytona 500 pace cars of adrenaline didn’t zoom around his body. “Hey, I got an assistantship, so I can quit Zeke’s in three weeks when law school starts.”

“Congratulations.” Missy’s eyes crinkled over her sandwich, but her voice sounded flat.

The knot of his stomach coiled tighter. “How are plans going for Peru?”

“I bought my ticket today. Had to postpone a celebration party tonight with Aly for your emergency.”

He hurled the rest of his sub into the river, no longer interested in eating. The one pelican who had stuck around glided out over the water. He wadded the paper into a ball.

“And I don’t see what the big emerg—”

“What about your Facebook man file?”

“I gave up on it after the holidays.”

After the first time he kissed her. Lethal measures of hope and courage fire-hosed into him.

Missy set her sub on its paper and brushed the crumbs from her lips.

His gaze stuck on her mouth.

She sighed. “It’s my own fault. If I hadn’t… um… done something stupid after I turned eighteen. And if I hadn’t read the books in Dad’s study on sex, I wouldn’t have been so crazy to get married ASAP.”

Lava stirred through his hope. “How many books did you read?”

Missy looked at him through the corner of her eye. “Twelve.”

He burst out laughing. “You’re kidding me.”

Missy gave him a rueful glance. “I’m a freaking encyclopedia of knowledge I may never need.”

“Oh, you’ll need it all right.” Another wave of laughter rolled through him.

He lay back on the dock, as orange sky melted into pink. Peace settled over him. “I love you, Mis.” He rolled his head to look at her.

Even in the waning light, he could see the color drain from her face as she stared at the opposite shore of the river. She glanced at him and back at the shore. She shrugged as if to say, whatever.

She’d thought he was talking about friendship. He sat up, gripped her hand, and lasered his eyes into hers. “Marry me.”

Missy sucked in a breath. Shock registered in her eyes. Then she sprang to her feet. “No! “You’re overreacting to my moving to Peru. Your abandonment issues. You don’t want to marry me—”

He vaulted to standing. “Don’t tell me what I want—”

“Then I’ll tell you what I want. I want a guy who is crazy in love with me. Not a guy who settles for me.”

“But I am crazy in love with you.”

“I’m comfortable like the Tampa Bucs T-shirt you’ve been wearing for ten years.”

His patience teetered on the edge of the dock. “That’s not how I feel when I’m making out with you—or even thinking about it.”

“Just because you like kissing a girl isn’t a reason to marry her.” She paced in front of him. “One day you’d wake up and see me asleep on the other side of the bed. And you’d feel stuck. Like you’ve always felt about me.

“Are you finished?”

She stopped pacing, faced him, and crossed her arms. She nodded, her eyes clamped on him.

“When you were a little kid, I loved you like another sister, but I liked you better than my own sisters.”

Missy stared at him with a tight jaw.

“The year you were fourteen, I was nineteen. I felt like a perv for being attracted to you. I stayed away, made Cal hang at my apartment. Then, you asked for a kiss on your fifteenth birthday. I wanted to kiss you more than take my next breath. I got away, just barely. It shook me up so much that I blocked out the experience until this year. Actually, I think it was a divine kindness so I could make it till you grew up.”

The sky filtered into grays. He could barely see her eyes. She stood statue still, a tendril of hair moving in the warm breeze.

“Everything changed the night I found you sitting on Cal’s dock box. When I watched you walk away, I thought… what I shouldn’t have been thinking about my best friend’s kid sister. But then I did the math. You were twenty.”

A dock light came on behind Missy, casting her face in deeper shadow. She stood eerily quiet, siphoning away his hope.

Sweat formed in his arm pits. He drew in a breath. “You spurred me to apply for law school and reconcile with my parents, God, Cal. You’re good for me.”

“So are vitamins.”

At least her voice had lost the angry edge. “I like your bossiness, the verbal ping-pong we do so well. I liked being there for you when Henna died.”

Missy sighed, long and deep. “This is all very gratifying, Sean, but it’s too late. My ticket is paid for. I’ve mentally moved on.”

He dropped his chin to his chest and plowed on as though she hadn’t spoken. “Then I saw your body.”

He heard Missy’s sharp intake of air.

“Oh, God, you’re so beautiful, Mis.” His hand ran down her arm to her elbow in a clumsy caress that left him grasping at air. “Talk about a motivator to get my shit together. That was a come-to-Jesus meeting if I ever had one.”

Missy shifted her weight onto one leg. “You had a year to figure it out—”

He took her hand, and she didn’t pull her limp fingers away. He cleared his throat. “I let bitterness poison my relationship with my folks, then Cal, and it bled into you and me. I’ve been a royal jerk to you. I… I want to spend the rest of my life becoming the man you deserve.”

The pressure of her fingers tightened on his.

“You were all about babies. I’m all about a career—possibly in politics. I won’t ignore my kids to chase a dream like my folks did. I had a lot to think about.” He rubbed his thumb across her wrist. “I’ve got three years of law school and maybe five years if I plug into the Florida political machine. I thought marriage was a long time away; babies, not even on my radar. But we can make it work—if we make decisions based on what’s best for the children. I—”

“Is this a filibuster or can I say something?”

The smile in Missy’s voice water ski-jumped him into possibility. “Only if it’s working.”

“I quit dating after New Year’s Eve because I realized I wasn’t over you. I decided to move to Peru to get you out of my system. It’s only ever been you—”

His lips mashed against hers, stopping her stream of words. He folded her tight against him. Her curves melted into his planes. His body remembered her birthday, and he let it….

It was a good thing they were in a public place or somebody was going to lose their religion.

He eased himself away from her, still clenching Missy’s left arm beneath his fingers as though she’d make a run for it. He dredged the ring box out of the pocket of his shorts. He tugged her over to the light and dropped on one knee. “I love you, Mis. Say you’ll marry me.” He popped open the box.

Missy’s mouth formed an O. She gazed at the pearl ring surrounded by tiny diamonds. “You bought fish guts, dinner, and a ring.”

“The guts were free. I bought dinner. And the ring—if you like it—will be paid for in twelve months.”

Missy reached for the light pole, dazed.

A smirk crawled across her face. “I’ll marry you in” —she counted on her fingers— “eight years when I fit into your schedule.”

“I’m not waiting eight dang years to see you naked again.”

“Oh?” Missy’s voice was all innocence.

He slid the ring onto her finger and kissed her soft lips. Home. “How about a wedding before my family leaves,” he whispered into the orange blossom scent of her hair.

She leaned back to look him in the eye. “They made a decision?”

“My getting married should seal the deal.” His lips found her ear and nibbled. “How about eloping—make it easier on Chas.”

“Chas gave up when he saw you kiss me at graduation. We could elope and invite our families.”

He gripped the soft fabric covering her shoulders and peered into her eyes, suddenly as serious as he’d ever been. “Next week?”

Silence pulsed between them. His breath caught, waiting for her answer.

The pelican flapped his wings on the piling, but didn’t fly away, as if he, too, waited for her answer.

“Sure, why not.”

Chapter 29