The Art of My Life (14 page)
Read The Art of My Life Online
Authors: Ann Lee Miller
Tags: #romance, #art, #sailing, #jail, #marijuana abuse
Cal lay on his stomach examining the
bow repair. They hadn’t pulled the boat out of the water for the
repairs, so he didn’t have the opportunity to repaint Aly’s
figurehead. He considered painting from the dinghy or the dock, but
the bounce of the
Escape
would distort his rendering. He
sighed. The figurehead had been a whim. It shouldn’t matter so much
that Aly had never seen it.
Last week he’d stayed at Henna’s till
one a.m. three nights painting Aly in her glasses. It was like some
switch inside him turned on, and he couldn’t slow it down. He had
to rebuild trust with her, make the wariness in her eyes disappear.
That would take time. But there was no reason he couldn’t rebuild
trust and make out with her at the same time. He pushed himself to
a squat and glanced down the pier.
Aly walked toward him in jeans and a
sweatshirt, finally done with the bank. They’d be together all day
every day. Today’s agenda: get close to Aly.
Two boats down Fish greeted a customer
in a hat covered in fishing lures. “Hey, Aly, how about a ride on a
real boat today? One with customers.”
Aly planted her fists on her hips.
“What’s with you? You’re not usually mean.”
“
True. I was really nice
last night.”
“
You wish.” This coming
onto her act was getting old. Aly crossed the
Escape
’s
gangplank. Her gaze smacked into Cal. “What?”
Cal pressed his lips into a thin line.
“Nothing.”
Aly nailed him to the deck with a
look. “Tell me.”
“
Fish can’t wait to get
his hands on you.”
Aly sat on the cabin. “It’s all talk.
I don’t know why he’s acting so weird.”
“
He’s trying to piss me
off.”
“
Then, don’t get
mad.”
“
Obviously, too
late.”
“
Do you see me hanging out
with Fish? I don’t care if he’s proposing marriage and eight kids,
I’m not going out with him. I’m not going out with anybody.
Ever.”
“
Ever?” The absurdity of
Aly’s statement made him laugh. “That would be a waste.”
Fish jogged over to the
Escape
.
“I have something for you.” He handed Aly a rolled up
Wall
Street Journal
. “I read it. Stop by after work and we’ll talk.”
He shot her a grin.
“
I’m done with
men.”
“
What? Not me. I never did
anything to you.”
“
Especially
you.”
“
You’re killing me. Read
the article about health care reform.” Fish jogged back to his
boat, revved the engine, and yelled to his guests to cast off the
mooring lines.
Aly tossed the newspaper through the
open hatch and slumped, her elbows propped on her knees on the edge
of the cabin. “You still see me as Aly-the-slut who will go out
with anybody who asks.” Tears sheened her eyes when she looked up
at him. “I haven’t slept with anyone since Gar and the pregnancy
scare.” She rubbed her eyes with the balls of her hands. “Even you
are disgusted with me.”
Van Gogh licked her face. Aly pulled
away from his tongue and petted his head absentmindedly.
Cal squatted down in front of her.
“Aly, I don’t ever want to hear you call yourself a slut. Yeah, you
had sex with your boyfriends, five or six spread over a lot of
years. Most people wouldn’t think it was a big deal. You’ve never
disgusted me. Sure, I hated those guys for using you. I hurt when
they hurt you. I cared about you. I didn’t blame you.”
“
They didn’t mean anything
to me. You meant everything. You were my friend.” She stared at the
dock.
Cal lifted her chin with his palm.
“I’m still your friend.”
“
I feel so dirty deep
inside. I begged God to forgive me, but I don’t think it
took.”
“
God’s forgiveness is
easy.” Cal gave a dry laugh and glanced at Fish’s empty slip. “It’s
people who don’t forgive.”
“
Easy? How can you say
that? Didn’t you feel guilty about… Evie?”
Shame forced his gaze away from hers.
He didn’t want to answer, but Aly needed to hear. “Every… time.” He
barely forced the words out.
Two giant tears rolled down her
cheeks. “I want…. Help me, Cal.”
He wiped them off with his thumbs.
“I’ve got a thousand Bible verses crammed in my head like songs you
never forget. One of them says that if you admit what you did was
wrong, you’re forgiven, clean.”
“
You believe
that?”
“
How can I afford not
to?”
Aly sucked in a strangled breath.
Tears streamed down her face. She slid off the cabin into his
chest.
He reached a hand behind him on the
deck to keep from losing his balance.
Aly knelt on the deck in the circle of
his arm, sobs racking her body.
Van Gogh hovered around them, licking
at Aly’s elbow, hair, the back of her hand.
She sat back on her heels and dug in
her pocket.
Morning breeze cooled the space
between them. His sweatshirt felt damp against his skin. He watched
Aly blow her nose, warm him with a hopeful smile through bloodshot
eyes. She’d never looked more beautiful.
Van Gogh nosed his head under her chin
until she pushed him away and laughed. “I feel sort of like the
tears washed away my mistakes.”
Cal boosted himself onto the cabin and
shook the sleep out of his legs. “That’s what forgiveness feels
like.”
Aly scooted onto the cabin beside him
and slid her hand into his. “Thanks.”
He’d never measured up to Raine’s
spiritual ruler, but for Aly, he was enough—even in his dubious
spiritual state of mind. He touched his lips to Aly’s, a
benediction on what had transpired. “I still… care.”
When he opened his eyes, Evie stood on
the dock glaring at them.
Aly mumbled something about having
work to do. Her face blanched beneath the tear tracks, and she
tugged her hand out of his.
November 10
Sometimes a friend has the
one answer you desperately need to fix the cracked mosaic of your
life. Now, you’re free to become who you were originally supposed
to be. Happy becoming!
Aly at
www.The-Art-Of-My-Life.blogspot.com
Cal sprayed Van Gogh with the hose,
one hand clamped around his collar. He glanced up at Mom where she
sat on the dock box, wondering why she stopped by. It wasn’t like
her to just shoot the breeze. He squirted doggie soap onto Van
Gogh’s coat and lathered his front legs and chest. “That’s a good
boy. Now see if you can stay out of the river for a few days,
champ.”
Starr picked up their conversation.
“Do you see why I’m so excited about being told my childhood was
sad and lonely?”
“
Yeah, I get it. Kind of a
you-figured-it-right-all-along moment.” He scrubbed Van Gogh’s
back.
A seventy-degree breeze blew across
the dock.
Mom cleared her throat. “Sometimes I
think you understand me in a way your siblings can’t—because you’ve
lived in the world I grew up in….”
He cupped his hand over the pressure
sprayer and dribbled water onto Van Gogh’s face. Part of him warmed
at her words, but another part wanted her to understand how
differently he viewed his grandparents. His gaze settled back on
her. “Funny. Henna’s has always been my happy place where no one
expected me to be perfect. I could be myself. I could have a pet. I
could get dirty. Henna has always loved me just the way I
was.”
“
Wow. I sure didn’t get
that from my mother.” The bitterness in her voice said more than
the words. “There must be something to grandparenting that gives
you a second chance at getting it right.”
Cal soaped the dog’s hind legs. “I was
a preacher’s kid. You expected me to be perfect, live up to the
role—like Jesse. And Missy was so dang cute, that was all that was
required of her. At home you wanted me to be the ideal kid, too.
Nothing I did was ever good enough.” He narrowed his eyes, watching
for her reaction.
For a moment her eyes looked misty,
then she swallowed. “I wanted you to fit into New Smyrna Beach
because I didn’t. In my school photos, braids stuck out of my head
at odd angles because my parents were always passed out when I left
for school. Look at Henna—she didn’t even buy a bra till she got
her AARP card. Kids called me hippie girl. I wanted better for
you.”
“
I could have used some
acceptance. Answer this: Have I ever done anything that satisfied
you?”
Soap bubbles pooled around Van Gogh’s
paws in the silence.
“
How can you even ask
after I watched you smoke a joint?”
He felt the familiar knife thrust to
his gut and stood, shaking his head. “Do you even get that you’re
doing to me what Leaf’s father did to him?”
“
There’s only one thing I
want you to change. For your own good.”
Her pleading tone, the anguish in her
usually shuttered eyes, only twisted the knife inside
him.
He moved mechanically as he sprayed
down the dog, then coiled the hose and hung it on its hook beside
the dock box. “Yeah, well I’m an adult. I guess I get to choose how
I live my life.” He walked down the finger pier, boarded the
boat.
Van Gogh shook and rattled his
collar.
Cal glanced up as he stepped on the
top rung of the companionway ladder in time to see Mom sluice
wetness off her arms. She shivered, and her face looked old and
tired. She slid off the dock box. Van Gogh’s tongue slurped her
knuckles. She started to wipe off the doggy spit on her jeans and
halted, looked up and caught him watching.
The naked pain looking back at him
from her eyes felt too much like his own. He descended the ladder
and shut the hatch overhead.
He slung himself into the dining nook
and spewed the whole conversation with his mother to Aly. “Mom’s
judgment sprung down on me like the metal bar of the same mousetrap
that’s been nailing me my whole life.”
Aly shut her laptop. “At least you
know she loves you and wants to be part of your life. That’s a
whole lot more than my father is dishing.”
“
She loves some imaginary
picture of who she wants me to be.”
“
She’s kept you in oils
and canvas for years. She believes in your art.”
“
Only because she thinks I
got the artistic gene from her. It’s all about her. A guy could
kill himself trying to please her.”
“
Maybe you sabotage
yourself to get back at her.”
“
Or maybe her everlasting
criticism is a monkey I’ve never pried off my back.” He paced the
cabin. “Thank God I didn’t marry Raine. She was Mom’s twin. I never
measured up for her either.”
“
Raine—”
“
What?”
“
She has a baby
now.”
“
Hard to imagine when she
wouldn’t even let me kiss her. She probably spent an extra thirty
minutes on her knees thanking God she didn’t get stuck with me when
I went to jail.”
Aly stood and got in his face. “You
are a brilliant artist. Genius. Andrew Wyeth infused with Van
Gogh’s color and texture; your own passion. The director of the
Atlantic Center for the Arts bought one of your paintings. Do you
have any idea how many artists pass through that place? And she
bought yours. You have an incredible work ethic. You’re constantly
sketching or painting. Your paintings are stuffed in every
relative’s attic, garage, the backroom of Starr’s
studio.”
Aly caught his face in her hands. Her
palms pressed against his cheeks as though willing him to accept
her words, pretty words, words he’d believe if he could.
“
You’re loyal. You’ve
stuck by Starr regardless of how she’s treated you. You’re an
excellent sailor and tattoo artist. Stoney hires you back every
time you ask.”
Her eyes seared into him with hazel
fire. “You’re the kind of guy who makes friends for life. You’re…
important to me. People bail on me. They don’t come back. You
did.”
Aly searched his eyes, and he felt
like she could see the cocktail of belief and disbelief swirling in
him. She leaned toward him in slow motion, her eyes welded to his
until her lips branded the words into his spirit.
He couldn’t consume enough. “Aly.” Her
name came out with a groan, and he folded her against his chest.
His lips returned to hers, thirsty, gulping great draughts of her
confidence in him.
Her arms twined around him. She tasted
of Juicy Fruit gum and his future.
For the first time in as long as he
could remember, he felt like a man instead of a poser. His fingers
curled into her ribs, and her softness melted against him until
their jeans and T-shirts felt tissue thin.
Aly broke the kiss and stepped back,
her hands still resting on his shoulders. Her chest moved in and
out with shallow breaths. Her eyes looked unfocused. They wandered
to her hand on his right shoulder, and she jerked back from him.
“What about Evie?”