Page 16 of Beyond the Stroke

Cal chuckles, then adds. “Well, so do I.”

I smile, untangling the dogs’ leashes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He gives me a wave, as I drop my skateboard onto the dock and pedal to get started.

“Summer,” Deb, one of the town’s security officers, calls, “no wheels on the dock.”

“Come on, Deb. Make an exception for Cal’s meals on wheels,” I call as I fly by with the dogs running along beside me.

She gives me a stern look, but waves me on.

Once I’ve dropped the dogs at their homes, I turn left at Nude Food, Coral Cove’s organic and waste-free market, and make my way down Ocean Breeze Avenue toward the library.

Before I pull the canvas out of my bag, I glance around to make sure no one is around, then unlatch the closure and slide it out before placing it on the window ledge of the library, under the water-resistant awning in case it rains.

Recalling the wave of panic that the couples’ inquiry at the café today had brought on had me questioning everything.

The anonymous paintings had been a way for me to take back my art. To pour the passion I have for painting into something fun that didn’t require me to be seen. But now that the paintings have become something, the notoriety of what the townspeople and visitors have dubbed Coveys, that old feeling is starting to emerge again. That I’ll be found out and everything will be taken away.

I’m a grown woman now.

I am in control of my passions and joy.

No one can take that away.

I stand back and take in my work.

I’d passed the beach bungalow on Hanover Way a few days after I’d arrived in Coral Cove. I’d taken Edgar on a morning walk and I’d gotten lost when I’d stumbled upon the quaint gray bungalow with the yellow door. Although the beach house could use some love, and another artist might make adjustments to the reality of it, I’d captured it as it stood. Unruly grasses blocking part of the large front windows. Rugged wooden path in need of repair, and a picket fence with a missing section in front. It’s one of my best pieces. As I reach to set it on the bench beneath the overhang, I hesitate, the ache in my chest making it difficult to part with it.

There will be others.

In three months since I moved to Coral Cove, I’ve left nearly twenty pieces around the small coastal town. Walking the dogs has gotten me familiar with the town and people’s comings and goings. On our morning walks, I’ll usually scope out a place I think would be good to leave the next painting, then later, after my shift at the café, when dusk has softened the shadows, I’ll leave it for someone to find and hopefully bring joy to their space.

The aspect of sharing my art in this anonymous way has been thrilling. There’s no pressure, no face behind the art, just joy, and that’s all I want.

I take one more glance at the beach house painting, then hitch my canvas backpack over my shoulder and head for home.

six

. . .

RORY

My phone rings for the third time in a row. I pull it out of my pocket to silence it but this time it’s not my ex, it’s Vivian, the team’s publicist.

“Hey, Viv,” I answer.

“Don’t ‘hey, Viv’ me.”

It’s immediately clear that she isn’t just calling to catch up.

“It was an innocent situation taken out of context,” I preface, knowing she’s going to bring up what everyone else within a ten-mile radius of Coral Cove already has.

There was nothing salacious about the mermaid situation, but someone snapped a photo of me hovering over her on the bench and that image is making the rounds. You can’t see her face, just me on top of her, hands down her pants. I mean, tail. It’s fucking ridiculous.

While I was talking to the club’s security officer and manager, she vanished without any explanation and without backing my account of the situation. The club manager apologized once he realized who I was and dismissed thesecurity officer. Annoying, because I hadn’t done anything wrong, and that should have been reason enough, not my local celebrity status.

“That, my friend, is eighty percent of my job,” Vivi jokes.

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