Page 77 of Painting Her Fate

My eyes begin to burn with frustration. This has to be a setup – or at

the least it’s a mock gallery event for everyone’s entertainment. Yes, that has to be it. It’s just a micky (mock) event, I reassure myself. There is no reason why anyone would purchase these things.

A familiar friend of Raymond’s walked to us, the owner of the gallery. He is a portly mid-fifties man in the early stages of balding and dressed in a finely tailored five-piece suit with a sapphire bow tie and matching pocket square. What always drew me to him was his joyful nature as well as his rounded glasses, a similar styling a hero dons in the books I grew up reading.

What child doesn’t love Harry Potter?

I let go of my dad to kindly greet the man whose establishment has

been in my heart ever since I was little. What I would give to have just one of my items on display. To have someone professional critique my work. Could I handle it? Potentially, yes, I believed I could.

He takes my hand in his clubby fingers, kissing the top of it. That thick

Irish brogue of his is filled with enthusiasm, “Hello Ms. Hayes, my name is Peter McCall, I am so happy to have your art in my establishment. Everyone is here to support you and all your hard work. You’re quite talented, love. Many have taken a notice, a few wanting a bit of your time tonight to speak to you.” He gestures around the room, “do enjoy the evening my dear, and have the happiest of birthdays.” His rosy cheeks have me wondering if he’s had maybe one too many and is getting his wires crossed. He nods then gives me a smile and a wink.

I’m still shocked at his words. A man such as him found my art to his liking.Myart? But I haven’t brought my portfolio here for him to see. *Denial* I must be right, he is sloshed. Puzzled and a bit overwhelmed at everything happening so quickly, I thank him and watch him move on to greet and mingle with his other guests.

“I have to agree with him. He’s got a keen eye for this trade and isn’t fibbing.” Dad chimes in after Mr. McCall is out of ear shot.

“He was being polite. He doesn’t care for my juvenile creations.” I turn to my dad, he’s studying my emotions, finding a slew of them no doubt.

His eyes soften, “sweetie. I’ve studied every piece of art you have on display tonight, and I have to say, I’m amazed. My little girl is always surprising me.” His eyes gloss over before he blinks and grins sheepishly, a nervous chuckle escaping him, “hell, I can’t even draw a stick person, but your talent,” his grin is wide, “I’m so proud of you,” he says then kisses the top of my head and points at a picture nearby, “that one over there has to be my favorite. It reminds me of my sweet girl, so pure, beautiful, and full of life.” I follow where he is pointing and feel my breath leave in a rush.

“Wha-?” I begin but lose my voice as we make our way to the painting,mypainting.

It’s named,‘Paix Lavande’ or ‘Lavender Peace’ andis the focal point of the night. The blooming field of rolling lavender, the sun peeking through stubborn high clouds, the trees in the distance, and the rocky ledge beyond. It’s all there. I can recall the way the crisp floral air smelled, the breeze that swept through my hair whilst sat on the balcony, and the way the fresh baguettes felt on my tongue. Pure bliss.

Shaken from my memories, I whip around to pinpoint Gran.Where is she?I spot her nearby listening to two attendees chatting and laughing, her eyes watching me with intent.She did this, all of this, because she loves her granddaughter to no end.She’s been talking with Mr. McCall and must’ve asked to have a showcasing of my work for my birthday.

Looking back, she’s been more attuned to what I have created these many months, has spent countless hours with me, and has given me many of the ideas I’ve added in my portfolio recently.

She knows I’ve caught on.My cheeky Gran. What would I do without you?

I mouth to her, ‘I love you’, which in turn she sends me a kiss from her hand and blows it my way. It’s one of the little mementos we used to do every day before I left her music room.

I hope she can see the sliver of that sweet, innocent little girl coming back to life within.

I’m here Gran. Thank you for not giving up on me.

_Present day_

Exiting the lift at the hospital, I make my way down the corridor to my dad’s room. The stress at being confined in a hospital is that of a papercut now, it pales in comparison to the usual serrated blade stabbing my chest.

Spending the morning playing my guitar, something I have not done in years, it allowed me to hand over a piece of myself to Zander. As he finished preparing breakfast I concluded withBetter Togetherby Jack Johnson. This song rang in my head the second he said‘trust’. Alexander trusts me. Maybe Hemmingway is right, I should trust first, not assume everyone is going to dig into secrets of my past. As Tamara tells me often I should,‘go with the flow’.It takes a lot for me to trust anyone; you never know who is going to stab you in the back or dig into places you’d rather they not.

Witnessing to just how grave his scars are, how close he came to being paralyzed, or worse, it had ice skittering through my veins. When first getting to know Emma, she mentioned an injured military brother. She didn’t elaborate any of the delicate details, and I didn’t ask. I wish I had. Then again, making art consumed my time, Tamara and I were, and still are, neck deep in craziness of our partnership foundation, *sultry* and Zane was a bright and shiny new plaything for my free time.

I lived as a different person then, if only it be two years ago. I’ve have grown stronger, wiser, and better selective of who is in my circle.

Speaking of circle, now that Zander is working his way in, he seems to be all that is on my mind as of late. Oh, and another thing on my mind.

Sex. More sex. Dirty, hot, make you want to scream, sex. I never knew sex could be that sensual. It was intense, it was awakening, and bloody frightening as hell. No one dare touch me how he had last night. He respected my wishes and kept me from falling into the abyss. Am I a bampot for wanting more?

This is not normal. It’s sick and twisted, and I’ve gone mental.

“Hi dad!” I ask him energetically as I enter. Time to switch my mood from thoughts of a hunky man to my superman, my dad.

Mack is here, I give him a wave, my smile bright and filled with not a single ounce of what I was thinking of moments ago. Nope, not at all.

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