Maybe it wasn’t about working on these paintings. Maybe he should try a new medium. Maybe he should be trying a new life. He groaned to himself. Frustration ate at him. He would have to go out, get away from here, and rethink what he was doing. Because, if there was one thing he did know, it was that he couldn’t continue this way. It was driving him crazy.
He sat back down with a second cup of coffee and stared around the small apartment and then back out to the dreary, rainy, cloudy day outside. He’d never been a big proponent of everyone saying Seattle had coastal weather and how it was rarely sunny, because he’d seen lots of sun in his life here, but this last week? Man, the dismal days had really gotten to him. He was depressed, uncertain, and frustrated.
Finishing his coffee, he got up, checked that he wasn’t covered in paint, grabbed his light jacket, and headed outside. Anything was better than sitting here, hating who he was, while he admired everybody else around him. Surely there had to be a better way to get what it was he needed from each of these paintings. He knew what he was doing and why he was doing it. He just didn’t want to express it. He’d rather run from it than acknowledge that he felt empty inside. Some things were just too hard to refill, and, without these paintings in his world, in his life, this artistic bent, what did he have? And the only answer that would come to mind is nothing. And that was unacceptable. He needed to refill his own well to be something, to be someone. But it just wasn’t working.
*
“Halo,” Hildie said with a happy smile. “I haven’t seen you around lately.” She handed him the hot take-out cup. “It’s the last of the pot, so it’s on the house.’
Gingerly he took the cup and sniffed the aroma. She said the same thing every time he was here. She was a good person. Some people were. Until life dished them something they hadn’t seen before, … that was bigger than them, … then they let all the bad out.
Sometimes the bad stayed out.
He eyed her carefully, looking for signs of the bad. But she looked the same as she always did. Then so had his mother. Good boy. Bad boy. Good boy. Bad boy.
The litany continued in his head, long after he’d finished his coffee.
Chapter 10
Cayce sat on the floor, glaring at the four white cans, each a different shade, different color, different temperature, and not one of them was right.
Frankie walked in just then and said, “I’m not sure what it is you’re looking for,” his tone helpful, in a calm and relaxed way.
She looked up at him with that glare still in place. “Not these. This isn’t what I ordered.”
He pulled out the manifest and checked. Bending down, he checked the numbers from the lids of the cans to his manifest. “Well, these are the numbers that you ordered,” he said slowly, as if dealing with a child, afraid she would blow up and throw a temper tantrum.
She reached over, checked the numbers, then tapped the manifest. “No. See? This one is off by a number.”
He looked at it in surprise. “You’re right. So what color was this one supposed to be?”
“Winter white,” she said instantly. “I need a blued white for that permafrost look.”
He nodded, looked up at the large brick wall that they were doing. “How much of it do you need?”
She glanced at the manifest and said, “Well, if they’ve got four gallons there, that might work.”
He said with carefully hidden relief, “Okay. Do you want me to run and get them?”
“Take these back or get somebody else to do it,” she said, “because we’re short on time again.” She put a heavy emphasis on those last words. “I can’t keep up with my usual speed since …” Her voice trailed off.
It was hard to even sleep at night anymore. The loss of her friend, someone she kept close to her heart, was eating away at her insides. It just was so unfair that a beautiful light like Elena should be snuffed out without a care, tossed into a dumpster, like human garbage. That Thorne had joined her in a different dumpster by the same hand was so unacceptable. Cayce didn’t even know how to operate. So, she focused on her work, tried hard to keep the momentum going.
She groaned, as she stood. “I’m not sleeping well,” she said. “Sorry if I’m short-tempered.”
He looked at her warmly. “You have reason to be,” he said quietly. “You’ve lost a close friend. But we do have to keep going.”
She nodded as she glanced down and said, “Get me four cans of the right paint, and I’ll start in the top-right corner with the clouds.”
“You’ll have to blue under them though.”
“I can probably blend it at that corner,” she said.
He shook his head. “Why not just give me a chance to get the paint? You probably haven’t even had food today, have you?”
She looked at him and groaned. “I don’t even know when I last ate.”
He pulled out his phone. “I’m calling to have something brought to you. Go sit over there, have a cup of coffee, and relax.”
“But—”
“No buts,” he said immediately. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes with the right paint.”
She stared at him. “Surely somebody else can do that.”
“This is what happens when somebody else does it,” he said, tapping the manifest in his hand. “We can’t afford any more screwups.”
“No, you’re right,” she said. “Thank you.”
He gave her a brief smile, touched the back of her hand, and said, “Go sit. I’ll get coffee and food to you in about ten minutes.”
She started to protest, then realized it wouldn’t do any good. She got up, walked away from the
