“It’s all right,” I cut in. “I was just joking with you.” Then I narrow my eyes. “But if you’re ever late again, I’ll have to …” I can’t think of anything.
He smiles. “You’ll have to what?” he challenges.
“I don’t know, but I’ll figure something out.”
“All right,” he says, “but if I’m on time from here on out and you accuse me of not thinking you were important enough to be late for, I’ll have to do something, too.” He nods swiftly once, as if to underline his point.
I chortle and say, “I’ll try to remember that.”
He grins and then steps to my right, arcing his arm out at his side, offering it to me. “Shall we?” he says, pretending to be sophisticated, and I smile, looping my arm through his, and we leave the lobby together.
We catch the bus and ride to the community center not too far away, where we get off and walk the rest of the way. I’m past wondering if he has his own car, and although it concerns me a little, I’m too afraid to ask him about it—I don’t want to offend him. But it does seem strange, because I’ve not once seen him drive, and this is the second time I’ve left the resort with him and we’ve either taken a bus, or ridden with one of his friends. If Paige were here, she’d already have drilled him about it by now, not to mention the particulars of his two part-time jobs, and we’d already know where he lives and what brand of toilet paper he uses in his bathroom.
The community center is very spacious, with white-painted brick-like walls and a ceiling of average height, made up of popcorn tiles and long fluorescent lights—it reminds me of the library back at my high school, minus the books.
There are few people here and there, setting up paintings and sketch art and even beautiful photography on prints as tall as me. Dozens of tall display easels—most of them empty—are set amid giant portable partitions that separate one artist’s section from another.
Several black-and-white photographs of an old woman’s weathered hands catch my eye instantly, and I want nothing more than to get closer and check out the sharp detail and the gray and black tones that make up the shadows. But the next thing I know, Luke is leading me away from the display floor and in the opposite direction.
“You’ll like Melinda,” he says, pulling me along gently beside him with his fingers collapsed around my hand. I feel like I have feathers in my stomach and a tiny fire burning behind my pelvic bone.
We approach a set of wide steps that lead not onto a second floor, but a platform floor of sorts that overlooks the art display area. As we make our way up the carpeted steps, a woman with curly black and gray hair, and wearing a pair of black slacks and a pretty white blouse, sees Luke and her eyes light up.
She makes her way over without hesitation.
“I’m so glad you came,” she says sweetly, taking him into a hug with her thin, frail arms. She pulls away and smiles over at me and instantly I like her; there’s warmth and honesty in her that reminds me of my mother.
Luke introduces us and she shakes my hand.
“Looks like things are coming along,” Melinda says, glancing out at the display room. “I didn’t expect the artists to start bringing in their pieces this soon, but if you need space to set up, you can have it all moved into the room down the hall.”
“Yeah,” Luke says. “I told a few they could go ahead and start bringing it in if they needed a place to store it—especially the larger pieces.”
Melinda nods and looks between us both, beaming; her hands are clasped together down in front of her like a little basket.
A few more people ascend the stairs, and Melinda makes note of them right away, as if preparing to have to mingle with them next.
“Are you going to hang around for a while today?” she asks Luke.
“Not for too long,” Luke says, and I feel his eyes on me briefly. “I’ve got a day planned with Sienna. She’s only here for two weeks and there’s a lot to show her.”
“Oh, well, that’s wonderful,” Melinda says sweetly. “Where are you vacationing from?”