Page 4 of Fast Currents
My first two classes went smoothly. The younger kids seemed excited to try mimicking my brushstrokes as I demonstrated creating an acrylic landscape of the Cattle Point Lighthouse. The local landmark made the perfect subject for our first project. Simple lines, lots of creative options for interpreting the setting, it was a beginner artist’s dream. And a lot of them weren’t half-bad.
I wandered between my second class, refilling color palettes and helping with corrections as my upper-grade class wrapped up their projects. By the time the activity bus left with my charges, I’d finished cleaning up and resetting the tables for the senior group.
Each class was limited to ten students. When I’d agreed to volunteer as the art teacher, that was my one stipulation. Even ten was pushing the limits of my patience. But no one tested me like Clay. He’d returned halfway through my first class, pausing to admire each student’s work, charming each kid in turn with compliments before disappearing into his office.
His closed door mocked me. When he’d talked me into this volunteer gig, he’d promised to be with me every step of the way. But it was only class one, and he’d already disappeared. Which shouldn’t matter. Not a bit. Ilikedworking alone. Preferred it, actually. If I complained, he’d accuse me of missing him.
And he’d be right.
“Hello, Ms. Millen.” Peggy Collins, a round and cheerful grandmotherly woman, shuffled into the visitor center. “Do I need to sign in?”
“No, please pick a seat, Mrs. Collins. You can call me Lucy.”
“And it’s Peggy, dear.”
Two couples walked in together. They had the look of the long-married, matching in a way that was difficult to put my finger on. Short or tall, round or thin, it wasn’t their appearances; it was the way they moved. Perfectly synchronized by the habits of a long life together.
A group of three gray-haired women arrived next, laughing and chatting, followed by Mr. Blacksmith. Mr. Reyes had the hunched posture of a man who’d spent too many hours at a desk, though his flannel shirt and jeans looked well-worn. He had improbably dark hair, slicked back from his still-handsome features. The ladies who arrived before him kept glancing from beneath their lashes as he took a seat to my left, clearly checking him out.
The clock struck six-thirty, and I cleared my throat, preparing to start class. The door blew open, rattling on its hinges. Difficult to do with a new building.
“I’m here, and I brought reinforcements,” a familiar piercing voice called out.
Barbara Fenwick, affectionately known as Gran in my friend group, rolled in, giant sunglasses perched atop her bright pink hair. She wore an equally vivid sweatsuit, the hoodie straining over her generous breasts. It took me a moment to register her“reinforcements.” Wine. Two bottles. Her idea of artistic support would be popular with van Gogh. I wasn’t so sure about Clay and the park rangers.
She bustled forward, dropping a bag at her seat and extracting disposable cups before twisting the top off the first bottle, splashing wine in glasses and distributing them to the other students.
The class eagerly accepted Gran’s offering, passing around red cups until each had one. I ignored the interruption. And the disregard for any park rules. Enforcing them was Clay’s job. Picking your battles was always a wise move when it came to Gran.
I led the class in a demonstration, walking them through the steps to craft their backgrounds and lighthouses, losing myself in my canvas. When I was creating, the world fell away. And while I hadn’t quite reached Bob Ross levels of self-talk, my instructional patter didn’t really intrude on my focus. It wasn’t that different from what I did when I was alone, working with my glass. My studio was my kingdom. My sanctuary.
“Ms. Millen, can you please help me? I think my lighthouse looks…off.” Peggy waved her brush at her canvas.
“Sure.” I sidled up behind her canvas. Peggy had decided to paint Cattle Point Lighthouse at sunset. In a very unfortunate shade of peach. I coughed.
“Do you think it looks a little…” Peggy trailed off. Her voice wavered, like she didn’t want to say it aloud.
“Like a dick?” Gran offered, peering over her neighbor’s shoulder. “Nice. Though I like mine a little girthier. I think you’re doing the lighthouse a disservice. It has a stout, sturdy base.”
I coughed again to hide my laugh. She wasn’t wrong.
“Here, hon,” Gran held up her wineglass, “take the edge off.”
“I’m good. Peggy, I think it might help if you focused more on the blue tones than the pinks in the sunset. Think shadows.”
“And the good hard ones always have a purple tinge, amirite?” Gran smirked, adding a wink.
I reached for her glass, downing the wine in one swallow. Arguing dick tones with Gran wasn’t in my job description. I deserved hazard pay, but since I was a volunteer, wine would have to do.
“Let me help you blend a new shade,” I said instead. Peggy seemed mollified by my offer of help. Making color adjustments occupied me for the next few minutes. I glanced up. “Sorry, folks. Only five minutes left in class. Time to wrap up and clean your brushes.”
A few students focused on their canvases, while others began the process of cleaning up, carrying their brush cups to the sinks in the bathroom. A few did double-takes as they passed behind Gran’s station. She seemed oblivious, lips curled in concentration as she dabbed at her painting.
I eased around the table, inspecting each piece. Mr. Blacksmith had managed a perfectly respectable rendition of the lighthouse on a summer day, a bald eagle swooping in the distance. The married couples had churned out paintings that were eerily similar. I bit back a smile. Where would they display two nearly identical pieces of art? Shirley from the trio of ladies struggled with perspective. Her lighthouse dominated her landscape to the exclusion of everything else.
I finished my lap with Gran Fenwick. She hunched over her canvas, brush in hand.
Gran had started the lighthouse like a good little student. She’d decided on an early-morning setting, with the sun cresting the horizon in the distance, keeping the lighthouse itself center-stage in its brilliant white glory. But she’d improvised on theassignment, adding people.Nakedpeople. In NSFW positions I couldn’t even name.
