Hailey

Halloween was only four days away, and my studio was packed. My hand-carved pumpkins were flying off the ground displays faster than I could make them, Anna was trying her hardest to keep the slots on the walls full of appropriate paintings, and all the while I was trying to work through my headaches. The lunch hour seemed to be my busiest hour. People would come from work to see what I had to offer, and then they would cross the street and go eat at the diner. I loved looking over and seeing how packed they were. It made me feel like I had unintentionally helped their business as well.

But once the floodgates closed and everyone left with their purchases, I went back into my little painting room and began carving out more pumpkins.

I was annoyed that Anna was forcing me to meet with Bryan. I sent her home after the lunch rush, telling her I needed some space. I knew she had some bullshit up her sleeve when she told me she would do anything to help. She got his number out of my phone and called him without my permission, and I wasn’t happy with her about it. I was ready to cast him aside and keep trucking. I was ready to completely flush him out of my system and move on with my life.

And now he was apparently coming to see me soon, at some designated time known only to him.

In a way, I understood why she did it. She wanted to take care of me the way I was taking care of her. She wanted to exert her sisterly muscles over the man who had broken my heart, and she wanted to put him in his place. She wanted to rid me of the hurt and the anguish I was feeling, so I could get back to smiling again.

I just wasn’t sure I was ready to look him in the face after what happened the last time we were together.

I reached into the pumpkin and dug out the guts. I threw them into a clean bucket, so I could take them home. Then, I set to work on drawing the outline of what I wanted this pumpkin to be. I was going to be carving out a ghost on this one. A ghost that was floating underneath a massive tree. I had seven more pumpkins to get rid of before Halloween rolled around, and I was taking stock of the patterns that were the most popular. Ghosts, fall trees, and the ones that said ‘Happy Halloween’ were the most popular, so those were the three images I was sticking to for these last seven pumpkins.

But the front door opening caused me to sigh as I put down my stenciling pencil.

“Take your time looking around!” I called out. “I’ll be out in a second.”

“Don’t stop your artwork on my part.”

The accent hit my ears and a small smile crept across my cheeks. I dipped my hands into the water bucket sitting at my other side, quickly washing the goop off my arms before I grabbed a roll of paper towels. I dried myself off while I walked out onto the floor, and there he was in all his glory, Max Wentmore with his tailored suit and his broad shoulders and his light accent. He was staring at the paintings, studying them as he slowly walked around the room. I could see his face falling slightly, and as I threw the paper towels into the small trash bin behind the cash register, I felt my stomach slide to the floor.

“I wish I could exchange artwork the way you can,” he said.

“Well, your first three paintings that you gave me finally sold. I’m ready to cut you a check if you’re ready to take it,” I said.

“Oh, yes. I’m ready for it,” he said. “But every time I come in here, there’s something new on the walls. Not because you change them out, but because they actually sell. I wish I knew what your secret was,” he said.

“How are the paintings doing that I gave you?” I asked.

I watched him reach into his pocket while I wrote him his check. He put something on the counter as I tore the check out for him, but as I gave it to him my eyes looked down at the check amount he was handing me.

It was over by one hundred dollars.

“Here’s your check,” I said mindlessly. “Why is this check for so much? If the paintings sold—”

“Your paintings did so well in my shop that people are starting to believe my gallery is an off-shoot of yours. They wrote you a check for a donation. The extra amount is that donation,” he said.

I felt him slide his check off the counter as I picked mine up. Someone had wanted to donate to my gallery?

“I’m so sorry that happened, Max. I can’t imagine how—”

“This painting doesn’t look like yours. The style’s a bit brighter.” I saw him pointing at one of the paintings my in-home artist was doing. She was incredibly talented. Didn’t have her own gallery yet, but her artwork really resonated with the community I was pulling in. The painting he was looking at was a portrait of someone looking in a mirror. The woman sitting in front of the mirror was wiping tears from her eyes, but her reflection in the mirror was smiling. It was a very demure and saddening picture, which I knew would resonate with Max. But her use of bright colors to juxtapose the depressing nature of the picture is probably what drew people to her paintings.

But I didn’t have to tell Max any of this. I could tell by his eyes he was already thinking about it.

“It’s not mine,” I said. “There’s a local artist who paints on her back porch. I told her I’d put up a painting or two of her things to test out the community. See if they enjoyed it.”

“Do they like her stuff?” he asked.

“They do. She’s been up for a couple of weeks now,” I said.

“How many has she sold?”

“Max, don’t.”

“How many, Hailey?”

“Four paintings in the last two weeks,” I said.

“Four paintings,” he said.

“Max, in the whole of San Diego, there are multiple trends of art, all with different audiences who have different tastes. Maybe this side of town isn’t the audience for your art. Maybe you should do some of the park art showcases and take notes.”

“Take notes,” he said.

“You know, take stock of who’s interested in your art. Get their numbers. Start an email list. Ask them where they live. What they enjoy doing. You said you’ve been having some success online, right?” I asked.

“Oh, yes.”

“Then you might be one of those lucky artists who could do everything from their home. Maybe you don’t need a gallery. Just your online audience, a way to ship out your paintings, and a place to paint.”

“If your gallery was failing, and your only choice was to relegate yourself to your little home and do everything online, would you give this up? What you’ve built with your own two hands?”

He finally turned to me, and I could see the sadness in his beautiful multicolored eyes. His bright features that had once drawn from me giggles and flirtatious blushes were now muted tones of sadness and depression. Before I could catch what I was doing, I walked over to him and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. I felt him stiffen at first before he caved, wrapping his long, languid arms around me.

I could feel his face burying into the crook of my neck while I comforted him in the middle of my studio.

“If it’s any consolation, I adore your aesthetic and your style.”

“You do?” he asked.

“I do, and if you give it enough time, and you want to keep showcasing your artwork here, I’m sure others will, too. Your business cards with your website and your address are flying off my counter faster than I can keep them restocked. Get some more to me, and I’ll keep them up as well.”

“Thanks,” he said as he released me.

“Max, I’m serious. You have to give it time.”

“I’ve been here for two years. You’ve been here less than two months,” he said.

“But I traveled for years. I’ve been everywhere. Phoenix. Denver. The twin cities. Seattle. Los Angeles.”

I had to close my eyes and draw in a deep breath to keep myself steady during this conversation.

“The point is, many of those cities didn’t enjoy my artwork. The twin cities were merciless, and I had to take on a part-time job just to keep myself afloat in Denver. If worst comes to worst, maybe the city isn’t right for you. I failed on many occasions. Some failures were much bigger than others and cost me more than I even care to admit.”

“I’m sorry for all you’ve suffered,” he said.

“I never said anything about suffering,” I said, snickering.

“You didn’t, but your eyes did.”

I looked up at him and felt his hand graze my cheek. I studied him intently, allowing his smooth voice to sink into my ears. His thumb stroked my cheek gently, rising up within me a blush I couldn’t control. For an instant, I thought I saw the faintest smile cross his cheek before he dropped his hand and cleared his throat.

“I adore San Diego. For all the failure of my own artistic pursuits, it’s been kind to me in other ways. I’m not ready to give up on it yet.”

“Then don’t. Give it time. People will come around. I’m sure of it.”

“Could I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” I said.

“You have a wonderful storage shed out back. I noticed it the last time I came. I had to park all the way out there to find a place to put my car.”

“Then you probably came at lunchtime,” I said, grinning.

“Is it always that busy around here at lunchtime?” he asked.

“It’s coming to be that way, yes. I’m sorry I missed you. When did you come?”

“It was a couple weeks ago. Not a big deal. I only came by to see if my paintings were still on the wall or not.”

“Well, the next time you come in, track me down. You’re starting to become a nice sight for sore eyes,” I said.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, smiling.

“Ah, there’s that smile. All right. What about my storage shed? You curious as to where I got it? Because if you are, you’re out of luck. It was here when I purchased the building.”

“Actually, no. What do you keep in there?” he asked.

“Paintings, mostly.”

“Paintings you’ll eventually showcase?”

“Not really,” I said. “They’re from an artist who passed away.”

“Why wouldn’t you showcase something like that? It would be a great way to honor their memory,” he said.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that. I also keep it as an overflow space for things I sell in my small little shop.”

“When you’re not gutting pumpkins in it?” he asked, grinning.

“Exactly. But I’m sure people wouldn’t want me to be gutting pumpkins where I’m usually painting, so I moved that whole workshop back here. Don’t worry. I keep everything nice and clean,” I said, winking.

“How did you know the artist?” he asked.

“Hm?”

“The artist who died. How did you know them?”

I closed my eyes while I tried to keep the memories at bay. If there was any person I was going to talk to about all this, it most certainly wasn’t Max. He was a nice guy, and I had to admit he had a natural charm about him, but that subject was deeply personal. John’s paintings didn’t just conjure memories of Los Angeles and our art therapy classes together anymore.

They also conjured memories of Bryan, a man I’d come to hurt more than I’d ever intended.

“I’m just waiting for the right time, I guess. It’s a personal venture, too, and I’m not quite ready for it.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I can respect personal ventures. Let me know when you start hanging them. I’d love to come take a look and dive more into the story behind all of this,” he said.

“I’ll keep you in the loop,” I said.

“Well, I must be heading off. I have a check to cash, and I can finally get you a couple of new paintings I just finished.”

“Wonderful. You can drop them off anytime, and I’ll get them on the wall,” I said.

I turned and went back into the small little room where I had started tracing the stencil on a massive pumpkin. Max bringing up John’s paintings threw me back to this inevitable meeting I was having with Bryan. He deserved to know the truth, the absolute truth, no matter what it did to him. He needed closure. Bryan deserved the kind of closure I knew I could give him, but if I somehow didn’t get through to him, I knew it would truly be over for both of us.

I didn’t only want to communicate what happened to his brother and my memories of him, I wanted to communicate to him that none of this had been planned. I hadn’t planned to settle in San Diego and track him down. I hadn’t planned on falling in love with him. I hadn’t planned on giving myself over to him like I did. It had just happened. I needed him to know I still loved him, and I was still willing to work on things, despite how he tossed me out onto his porch after using me.

I knew Anna wouldn’t be happy with that truth, and I knew Bryan wouldn’t be either, but there were things he needed to say like there were things I needed to say.

I picked up my carving knife and made the first of many incisions. I allowed myself to be swept away by the rhythmic cutting of the pumpkin’s flesh, the orange slowly giving way to the picture I wanted. I heard my phone buzzing on the counter near the cash register, but I had no intentions of picking it up. It was probably Anna, trying to figure out if I needed anything here at the gallery, but all I needed was for her to back off.

All I needed was to get this talk with Bryan over with.