Page 57 of Fast Currents
“You could cover her in a forest of leaves, and it still wouldn’t be enough,” Drew complained.
Gran Fenwick was a hoot, but I was glad she wasn’t my grandmother. Thoughts of family led to thoughts of Thanksgiving, and the question I still needed to ask Lucy.
“This I’ve gotta see,” Lucy said, brightening. Her earlier concerns about being blamed for Gran’s artistic choices vanished. Maybe she realized Gran would always outdo herself, drawing all the attention and any potential criticism away from anyone else.
I arched a brow at our friends, downing my water in one big gulp. “If you’ll excuse us, apparently we have a date with a curtain.”
Anya dropped a gentle hand on Lucy’s arm. “Fair warning. Mr. Reyes is back there too.”
“Joy,” I muttered, guiding Lucy through the crowd to the back corner.
As promised, Chaz had erected a free-standing black curtain to cordon off that section of the gallery. As we approached, a throaty giggle spread from behind the black fabric, making me pause. Lucy and I exchanged glances.
“Do we dare?” I asked.
Lucy grimaced, her distaste dissolving into a broad grin as a masculine chuckle joined the flirtatious sounds emerging from the corner.
“They say art is an act of courage.”
Ruefully, I whispered, “When it comes to Gran, I’m not that brave.”
Lucy laughed, tugging me by my jacket lapel. “C’mon, my dark underlord. We’ve got this.”
The sparkle in her eye, the lilt in her voice – both struck me like a blow to the heart. I ached to say the words again. But I’d promised not to. Not yet. The moment crystalized, frozen in time. Lucy’s breathtaking beauty, coupled with her confidence in our ability to handle anything together cemented my own certainty.
We slipped behind the curtain.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Chaz had played with the lighting in this section, choosing to be more subtle. It created shadows. Writhing shadows. I slapped my palm over my eyes. No one needed to see that.
“Hello, Gran.” Lucy’s voice sounded amused. “Nice to see you too, Mr. Reyes.”
Is it though? I’d like to see him dressed in his normal flannel. Not wrapped around Barbara Fenwick like a pretzel, clad in only a bodysuit and some well-placed fake fig leaves.
Gran cackled, the sound full of glee. Slowly, I let my palm fall. Mr. Reyes had shuffled behind Gran, no doubt trying to hide any bulges behind his fig leaf. I grimaced. No one needed to be thinking about Mr. Reyes’s fig leaf.
I cleared my throat, nodding at the older man. Graciously, he nodded back, as if we hadn’t caught him making out with his octogenarian partner in crime.
“There you are,” Gran said regally. “Our wonderful instructors. Ollie and I wouldn’t be here tonight without you.” Her wrinkled cheeks stretched in a grin. She’d tamed her pink hair into something more demure for the evening. “We had so much fun in class. Do you plan on running another session for winter?”
“God no.”
I choked off a laugh at Lucy’s vehement response. Clearing my throat, I tried for diplomacy. “I think we’ll keep this an annual thing. I’m glad you both had fun,” I said, including Mr. Reyes in my nod.
“Artistic expression is so freeing,” Gran said, a gleam in her eyes.
“You weren’t already free?” I’d uttered the words softly, not intending for her to pick them up, but Gran’s hearing was darn good.
She laughed, the sound long and full, ringing through the small space. She really did look happy. It was her joy I’d need to hold on to when the inevitable angry comments about tonight caught my eye on WNFH.
“I love helping out a good cause.” The way Gran stared me down before shifting her gaze to Lucy’s hand in mine made me think she was taking credit for more than just a boost to the visitors’ fund.
Gran smoothed her hair delicately, giving me a mischievous smile. “Well, children. My work here is done. Have a wonderful night.”
She and Mr. Reyes slipped out, hand in hand. Their butt leaves twitched in unison, oddly mesmerizing. Slowly, I shook my head from side to side, still not convinced anything fromour conversation with her was real. It had the cloudy aura of a dream. Or a nightmare.
Lucy’s expression was caught in a mix of admiration and fear. “You think we’ll be like that when we’re in our eighties?”
I slipped my hand into hers, squeezing. Grounding myself in her touch.
