I rested my hands on my hips. “Try this. How do the paintings make you feel?”
“Make me feel?” Lips, tinted the color of the pink lemonade Julian loved to drink, parted. She swiveled her neck back to the painting. She was quiet for a moment. “It makes me wish I’d joined my sons when they surfed.”
I glanced down at the glazed concrete floor, hiding my smile at the image of Carla on a surfboard. I cleared my throat behind a fist, my brows rising. “You want to surf?”
She looked appalled. “Goodness, no.” Her shoulders rose and fell on a resigned breath. She plucked a promotional postcard from the holder beside the painting. “I had no interest watching them. It’s not as though they’d do anything productive with it.”
Like compete at master-level tournaments. I bit into my lower lip, trying not to pick apart Carla in the way she analyzed my paintings. Every interest and activity of Julian’s fascinated me, and it would be the same with Marcus as he grew older.
She flipped the card over, read the painting’s description, then tucked it back into its slot. “You have a bold and fresh style. Your brushwork is very skilled.”
“You sound like an art critic.” And critical of her sons, which might explain why she vacationed alone. She said she’d once had three sons. She hadn’t said they’d died.
She smoothed a hand over cool silver hair and patted the flyaway pieces into place. Tied at the nape, her hair fell in a straight line parallel to her rigid spine. Carla’s posture and refined features spoke volumes. As cliché as it sounded, she came from money.
“I’m not a critic. I try not to be.”
My eyes narrowed slightly as a thought occurred to me. Assuming she did come from money, her youth would have been filled with dance recitals and music lessons. Art lessons. I looked at her fine-boned hands. “You’re an artist.”
She laughed as though my statement were ludicrous. She slowly shook her head. “Not for a long time. Not since before—” She stalled and walked away.
“I bet you used to paint.”
“In another life.” Her hand fluttered over a driftwood carving of a fishing boat. She lifted her face to look over at me. “I haven’t painted since I was younger than you.”
“Why did you stop?”
She shrugged a delicate shoulder.
An idea formed and I grinned broadly. I clapped my hands, the noise a loud echo in the gallery. She startled. I thrust a finger in her direction. “You have to paint again. Right now.”
Her mouth fell open, her expression almost comical.
“It’s never too late to learn to paint. Or, in your case, start again.”
Her hand plucked the top button on her blouse. “But . . . but . . . I don’t paint.”
“You used to. Why not start again? You’re on vacation.”
The corners of her mouth angled down. She clasped her hands at her chest, fingers interlaced. She was nervous, maybe a little scared. What had made her give up her art?
The need to ease her discomfort had me closing the distance between us in two long strides. I grabbed her hands. Her fingers felt as if she’d been outside far north of here in cool, brittle air. I gave her hands a reaffirming squeeze. “I have a studio upstairs where I teach classes. Pia!” I called over my shoulder. Carla tensed and I gave her a quick smile.
Pia, my receptionist, peeked over the worn pages of her romance novel. Dios! I wish she’d hide the cover from our clients. “Watch the shop,” I told her. “I’m teaching Señora Carla how to paint again.”
“Sí, Carlos.” She grinned at Carla before her face disappeared behind the book.
Carla pressed her lips into a thin line of disapproval.
I bent my arm and pulled her hand through, then gestured toward the door. The studio’s entrance was up a flight of stairs outside. “This way.”
Her step faltered when we reached the courtyard. She glanced up the spiral metal staircase. “I’m not so sure about this . . .”
I raised a finger. “One painting, then I won’t bother you again.”
Pia popped her head out the door. “Don’t forget about your three o’clock appointment,” she reminded me in Spanish.
I glanced at my watch. Two fifteen. “Let’s see what we can manage in forty-five minutes.”
She hesitated, then dipped her chin with a determined nod. “I’ll give you forty-five minutes.”
I grinned and led her upstairs before she changed her mind.
To my surprise, Señora Carla decided to stay when I excused myself for my appointment. I’d demonstrated some brushwork techniques, a crisscross stroke to create depth, layering light colors over dark for an uneven coverage effect, and stacking thin layers of translucent colors that mimic the look of glass. She picked up the techniques like a gifted athlete who’d taken several seasons off to recoup from an injury. And she wanted to paint flowers. I borrowed the bouquet Pia’s boyfriend delivered to the gallery the day before for their one-year dating anniversary. With an exaggerated wink, I promised I’d return the vase before the flowers died.
“Things disappear around you, Carlos,” Pia grumbled, waving her book with the soft-porn cover at me. “You’re a squirrel. You take things and hide them in that beach house of yours. What’re you doing? Storing for winter? Preparing for the apocalypse?”
Yeah. Mine.
“I only take home newspapers and books, and that’s after you read them.”
She hugged the romance novel. “You can’t have this one.”
My eyes went wide. “No worries there, Pia.” I closed the door behind me and hurried upstairs, taking two at a time. Once I’d arranged a scene for Carla to paint, I returned downstairs to meet a buyer who’d commissioned an acrylic for his restaurant. When we finished I returned to Carla. Engrossed in her painting, she startled. I rested a hand on her shoulder and frowned. She was trembling. I peered down at her. “Is anything wrong?”
She gestured at the canvas with elegant fingers. “It’s been too long. It’s horrible.”
Was she joking? An amateur admirer wouldn’t know the difference. Her color-mixing ability was genius. “It’s an excellent start,” I said as though advising a student and not wanting to discourage her. In truth, I was beyond impressed. She had skill.
Her hand arced over the palette of mixed oils. We’d started with a medium she was familiar with as opposed to acrylics. She breathed deeply. “I forgot how much I love this smell.”
I laughed. Only a serious artist appreciated the pungent, chemical odor of pigment. I patted her shoulder. “You’ve missed this.” I glanced down, almost missing her nod. “Good, because there’s something we must do.” I went to the storage closet.
“What must we do?” A note of panic lifted her voice.
I spun around and held up a finger. “Uno momento.” Then I flashed a big smile. Her eyes widened. I could only imagine what went through her mind. She probably thought I was crazy. Though in my defense, I did get a little zealous when a new student showed passion and promise.
I shook out a handled paper bag and loaded it with beginner brushes, three blank canvases, and a starter oil set and returned to her. She looked nervously at the bag. “We, Señora Carla, are going to make sure you keep on painting. Take these back to the house.”
“No . . . no, no, no.” She waved a finger. “This was a one-time trial. I can’t . . .” She looked from me to the bag in my hand.
“You can, and I insist you continue. You’re brilliant. Leave your painting here until it dries.” I motioned at the wet canvas. “Come back next week and I’ll give you another lesson. And you”—I jabbed a finger at the palette board, and the corner of my mouth twitched—“can give me a lesson in pigment mixing.”
She dipped her chin and smiled. It quickly disappeared, replaced by a frown.
“The second-floor loft at your house has excellent natural light and the windows in that room are huge,” I suggested.
“They are.”
“Perfect spot to set up a studio for the summer.”