Page 102 of Something Like Summer
They continued singing inthe car on the way to their next destination. Ben suspected theywere going to hit a few clubs, but Allison drove them downtown toSecond Street. She found a free parking spot, acting as if she hadjust won the lottery. Ben had to chuckle, envying her enthusiasm.They walked together for a few blocks until they approached an artgallery where people flittered in and out.
“This is why we needed thefancy duds?” Ben asked.
“Mm-hm.” Allison nodded.“Piece of gum?”
Ben accepted it from herwith suspicion. “No blind dates?” he asked again.
Allison smiled broadly, andBen knew it was too late. He took the gum anyway. Ben scanned thepeople standing outside the gallery, looking for someone who seemedparticularly expectant or nervous. He didn’t spotanyone.
“We’re here to look at theart,” Allison said innocently.
Ben glanced through thenearest window and away again, before doing a double take. Thepainting on the nearest wall was of a bulldog, bounding through acanvas glowing with iridescent colors. Emotion raced through hissystem, centered in his chest and nestled there comfortably, gladto be home again after so many years.
“Want to go inside?”Allison asked gently.
“I don’t know if I canhandle this,” Ben confessed.
“I’ll sort of make youanyway,” Allison whispered.
“Okay,” Ben laughednervously. “Is he-- No, don’t tell me. Let’s just look at theart.”
They browsed through thegallery, Ben trying to focus on only the paintings, but his headwhipped around every few seconds in an attempt to spot the artist.He recognized some of the paintings from their younger days. Othershe had never seen before, pieces from a life that he hadn’t been apart of. One was beyond simple, a finger-painted frog on a box ofsome sort, that caused Ben to laugh despite his nervousness. Andthen there was the portrait of Eric, completed now and glorious inits beauty. A small crowd of admirers surrounded it.
The teeth-grinding sound ofmicrophone reverb cut through the gallery. “Is this thing on? Whoa!Too loud. Sorry.”
Ben practically ran towardthe sound of that voice. The rest of the gallery moved with him,clogging halls and frustrating his attempts to get there first. Bythe time he reached the main room, it was already half-full. Benstood on his toes, straining to see past the people in front ofhim. The old man just ahead moved to join his wife before a portlylady scooted to the side, perhaps sensing the laser beams shootingfrom Ben’s eyes.
And there he was. TimWyman. He looked fantastic. The pudginess was gone from his belly,the tight dress shirt revealing the all-too-perfect physique thatTim had before meeting Ryan. His jet black hair had grown out someand was styled messily around the silver eyes that no longer lookedtired. Instead they shone with a light that Ben had only seen intheir most private moments. Those eyes were searching the crowd,but before they found Ben, the portly woman had shifted back,obscuring him from view.
“Uh, I’m really glad youall decided to be here,” Tim began. “I’m not really good atspeeches, so bear with me.”
The audience laughed. Benbegan working around to the side of the crowd, hunting for a waythrough to the front.
“The art you see here isabout twenty years in the making. I’m sure most of you have seen mycrowing achievement, ‘Frog Goes Sailing on Boat’?”
The audience laughedagain.
“That’s from when I waseight and is the first painting I ever did.”
Ben had finally brokenthrough to the front, but was so far to the side that he was beyondTim’s peripheral vision. At least he could see him now, nervouslyshifting from foot to foot while mumbling into themicrophone.
“I owe this art to a lotof people. The subjects in each piece, of course. My dogChinchilla, or Eric, who was a father, a hero, and much more to me.Even strangers, like the old woman I saw lying in the grass at thepark, staring up at the clouds and giggling like a little girl atwhat she saw there.” Tim paused, searching the crowd again. “Somany people have inspired me, but only one gave me the courage toshow what I had painted to other people. I hope he’s here somewheretonight, and as I finish this clumsy speech, I’d like you all toclap for him, not for me. Thank you, most of all, to BenjaminBentley.”
The audience burst intoapplause. Ben blushed, even though he was effectively incognito.Tim turned off the mic and gave a little bow, and people slowlybegan to disperse. Some remained behind to talk to the artist. Benwatched them with envy. How easily they could walk up to Timwithout being overwhelmed with a decade’s worth offeelings.
Tim chatted politely, shookhands, listened, nodded, and all the other gestures a gracious hostwas supposed to make. Occasionally he would risk looking away fromthem to search the room again, looking slightly more disappointedwith each failure. Nerves buzzing, Ben walked to the center of theroom where he could easily be seen.
Tim nodded and said goodbyeto an elderly gentleman, and tried again. This time he found Ben,and without the slightest reservation, ran to him and scooped himup into his arms.
“I’m so glad you’re here!”Tim said, spinning Ben around a few times before setting him downagain. “And even more glad that you’re late! I just gave the mostembarrassing speech!”
“I thought it was reallygood,” Ben said, grinning when Tim turned bright red.
“I thought for a secondthat Allison had changed her mind.”
“Where is she anyway?” Benasked.
“Running an errand forme,” Tim said enigmatically. “Hey, have you seen much of thepaintings?”
