Page 122 of Hot Tea & Bird Calls
Plus, Thalia loved a “kooky love story.”
The run to the car dealership took about half the day. Longer than what she’d hoped, but Skye had her own showing to prepare at her and Luce’s house. Twirling a key fob ring on her pointer finger, she eyed the front room leading to the hallway, coming up with a strategy to clear the space.
“Skye?”
When Luce arrived, Skye had been buffing the kitchen counter with their citrus-vinegar cleaning solution. Other than areas designated for creation, it was customary to make the house spic and span for her parents. An unfounded demand, since Aisha and Gael thrived in “just enough messiness,” as they dubbed it. Nonetheless, Luce set up Cosmo’s old bedroom with hotel-quality amenities for them.
“I’m coming over there,” Skye called back, drying her hands on a towel.
Here goes everything.
“Whose car’s parked out...” Her grandmother faded as she loaded her floral pocketbook onto a wall hook. She’d been catching up with an old vendor friend of Granddad’s, where they probably spent more time reminiscing about Walter than updating supply contracts.
Standing before her, Skye infused her words with as much confidence as she could. “Welcome to my pop-up gallery.”
Luce handed off her hat to Skye. She absently patted her white hair, ambling to one of nine pieces waiting for her, propped onto various wooden stands and display cases that’d accumulated in and around the house over the years.
Unlike most gallery-goers, Luce touched. With the nimble fingers of someone in her field, she held a single mosaic sugar maple leaf above her head. The light played upon it like a friend, reflecting alternating orange and goldenrod. She hummed at her fingers barely showing through the translucent petals, and hummed again when the petals swayed on their metal hinges, bending but not breaking. That hum inched into a laugh. A littlechuckle that came rarely to Luce at artsy venues, curving lips painted with rouge.
At Pokeno, Celene called Luce beautiful. Right now, Skye couldn’t help but think that, too.
Mouth dry, Skye touched her labradorite.
Luce shuffled onto the next piece. The cardinal flowers. Unfinished, but enough for Luce to test every one of them. She’d grown fond of moving the hinged leaves already.
Every piece was incomplete. Still, Skye carried no shame about that. Her journey as an artist encapsulated this theme: under construction, open to more.
If Celene’s pickleball-playing father had a health scare, that reminded Skye of life’s inconsistencies and its unfairness. Her grandmother should see what she could donow, instead of it being closed off like a dirty secret under her roof. Once Skye hung up the sun hat, she shadowed Luce and watched her manipulate, experience her pieces like Skye experienced the true versions outdoors. Its temporary, fragile quality added to the appeal. As in nature, nothing lives forever.
Though Skye trusted Luce’s expert hands, none of her pieces would snap today.
She kept the Forever Fuchsia locked away, however. Only for her beautiful commissioner’s eyes.
Skye attended innumerable gallery showings. Nothing prepared her for the tension, the thirst for validation. Especially by Lucille Florentine, who’d made a direct impact on someone without an organized background in anything visual. Those turned out to be the best teachers—the ones who guided without pressure. Without the expectation to follow in their footsteps.
Pink Rhododendron bunches.
Wild Lupine in blue-purple glass.
Branches of an Eastern Hemlock, dotted with ceramic pinecones.
The white, three-petal Trilliums lined in a row.
Luce studied each in lengthy intervals and with flattering fascination. By the time she’d interacted with the eighth statue—a spindly branch of witch hazel—Skye muffled her tears into her sleeve. Living with this woman on and off for years overflowed with strong memories, but they’d never connected like this. She hadn’t borne her soul and passion with anyone in her family this way, regardless of their support and openness. And then there was the ninth segment of the showcase. The scariest one.
The ninth piece wasn’t a piece at all. Maybe likened to a small-scale installation—a single tablet propped in the middle of a cabinet top. On one side of it stood a framed photo of Granddad Walter. On the other, Celene’s living fuchsia, the planter’s ropes wrapped around its base. To give context to Skye’s confession. To keep what’s important in the forefront.
“Mahdi fromChromatique Flairmessaged me,” Skye mentioned, delaying any understandable questions. Hands shaking, she seized the tablet and turned it on, facing herself. She heaved in a deep breath and mentally counted the exhale, like Celene taught her. “I’d like to start with apologies. Hiding this—” a head tilt indicated her makeshift showroom, “was important for me to discover myself as a creator.”
Luce nodded shallowly, eyes on the photo of her late husband. “What else are you apologizing for?”
“I made a gigantic mistake. I’d been drowsy and disoriented after a nap—after staying up all night working on one of my projects. Like that, I incorrectly unloaded a relief slab, and it brought another one down with it. Segments of them smashed loose.” Skye didn’t miss how her grandmother’s eyes snapped closed. Her hands balled at her sides, too. “I could’ve called you. I should’ve. But...” Her spaciness probably came to mind; how, at her age, these mistakes were unacceptable. “I guess I wanted to prove something to you. To myself.”
Skye passed the tablet showing a slideshow of the attachments sent from Mahdi’s team; her shaking hands preceded something complicated ahead. Luce squinted at the wobble, then Skye’s unsmiling face, before she took in the screen’s contents. Photo proofs from the shoot, made available for artists to pinpoint oversights—like something hung upside down or the wrong lighting. The reliefs had been captured exactly as Skye wished, in the correct order and composition, bathed in soft white lighting.
Skye’s heart drummed in her ears.
They were astounding.
