Both Jenny and Corabelle had been relentlessly messaging me the past couple days. Jenny had somehow figured out I was in Houston. Corabelle had already booked a flight here. Not that I had told her where my mother lived. She wouldn’t know where to go if I wanted to blow her off. Houston wasn’t exactly small.
The tenor of Darion’s messages had also changed. He asked if I had gone home, but I hadn’t told him. I did occasionally respond to his messages, though, so he wouldn’t worry. Or come after me. I had asked for space. Darion was good like that, willing to give it.
Not so much the girls. They seemed to need a resolution to this, now.
But I wasn’t running from them. Or Darion. I was waiting. I needed to get this done for Peanut, but the permit hadn’t come through yet. My mother was driving me crazy.
Stella had helped. She told me that just down the road from her jewelry shop, an elderly lady had set up an artist studio. She rented out space for people to paint or sculpt or do whatever it was they wanted to do.
The place had been a small nursery for exotic plants, so there was a small front building with an office, kitchen, and bathrooms. Then a fair amount of land with a couple still-functional waterfalls where plants had been displayed, and two greenhouses. She’d outfitted the greenhouses with easels and space heaters. The light was incredible.
Rent was super cheap. I’d paid for a whole month in advance. I could arrive as early as I wanted, as the woman had given me a key to my greenhouse. I generally stayed all day. Stella often stopped by at lunch. I didn’t mind her company. Anybody but Mother.
I sat back on my stool, massaging my back. I should probably set up something more ergonomic since I was putting in so many hours. But then, the pain was comforting. It was something to feel.
The canvas was glossy with wet underpaint. I was working on an image of the cemetery where Peanut waited for me to rescue him. The angel statue, the ball shrubbery, and the flat graves were all present. The bottom of the image was photo-realistic, each dead blade of grass represented as stark and clear.
But as the image rose, it became softer and indistinct, losing its sharp edges.
I knew I wanted to paint Peanut in that haze, but I wasn’t sure as what. In my drawing pads, I had sketched him as everything from a baby to a boy to a ghost, but nothing felt right yet.
It would come.
Sometimes I sat in the clear sunlight, the warmth of the space heater wafting up from my feet, and tried to feel Albert’s presence. All good artists’ journeys involved a spirit guide, and I knew he must be mine. I’d never had one before, other than Stella, whose plain talk and no-nonsense advice was very real and raw. It got me through. But Albert made me soar.
I let my gaze drift over the painting, unfocused, like I was under its spell. Albert told me that the image would tell me what it wanted to be, if I would just listen. This could not be rushed. The mistake was to force my hand to do the work that wasn’t yet ready to be formed.
I turned to a rustling sound. Outside the greenhouse, Sarah, the woman who ran the studio, walked among the rocks. Her form was fuzzy through the glass, but I knew her gaunt figure and the wide-brimmed straw hat she always wore, even in the cold.
I fiddled with the oils, arranging them on a tray. I was annoyed at the break in my concentration, but I had to trust the image would come. Maybe I would sketch some more, keep my mind open.
The door creaked open behind me. One other painter sometimes occupied the space, but when I turned, it wasn’t him. It was Stella.
“Thought I’d pop by and see if you were up for some vittles,” she said. She wore a bright yellow dress that made me want to squint. There had to be something about old ladies and summer wear in the winter. Not that Stella was really old. Fifties. But she dressed old.
“Sure,” I said. I was stuck anyway. I closed up my box of paints and pushed it under my stool.
“You keep your little corner nice and tidy,” she said. “This person, not so much.” She pointed at my greenhouse mate’s easel. Paint oozed from open squeeze tubes and murky water filled several clear glass jars. A haphazard stack of canvases covered the floor.
“He’s in the middle of some grand inspiration.”
She paused in front of the canvas, two gray blocks spattered with red and pink globs that slid down the surface. They had pooled in the tray below.
“Sure,” she said. “It looks pretty inspired.”
I shrugged. For all I knew, the guy was some huge name. I hadn’t asked. The art world was mysterious. I could only comment on my own work.
“I was thinking of the little Thai place up the block,” Stella said, “if that works for you. Dane hates Thai, so I go when I can.”
I picked up the canvas sack I used as a purse and shrugged. Eating hadn’t appealed to me in a long time. “Sounds fine,” I said.
“Good.” Stella put her arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “I have enjoyed getting to spend time with you this week.”
“Just don’t ask me to go to your meeting,” I said. “I know it’s tonight.”