Dream On(46)

My jaw goes slack and I reread the note two more times before setting the card gingerly on the mattress beside me. My breathing accelerates as I rip open the package, peeling back the brown paper in strips. I was right; it’s a wooden box—three times the size of a shoebox with a set of tarnished brass latches on one side. Flicking the latches, I open the lid.

And gasp. It’s an easel. A portable one.

I tip it onto its side and something rattles inside the easel’s boxy interior. I arrange the stand and extend the legs, adjusting several bolts to lock everything in place, and set the easel upright on the floor. A small groove in the center catches my eye, and I lift a thin panel to reveal a shallow drawer filled with twenty or so small tubes of acrylic paint. I remove them one by one and line them up on my desk next to the pitcher holding Devin’s lilies, which are now dry and shriveled. At the bottom of the drawer, I discover several paintbrushes of various sizes, an oval mixing palette, and three blank, eight-by-ten flat-board canvases. Although the easel is old judging by the patchy stain of the box, the paints and brushes look barely used.

Tears burn behind my eyes. “Damn you, Perry.” Laughing quietly, I pick up one of the brushes and drag its soft bristles across my palm.

This might be the most thoughtful gift anyone’s ever given me in my entire life. And it’s from Perry.

Excitement crackles through every cell of my body. Tossing the paintbrush onto my bed, I run down to the kitchen and fill a red Solo cup with water. I dig through the recycling bin under the sink, pull out a discarded neighborhood newspaper along with several rags, and carry everything upstairs. After changing into a T-shirt and a pair of old boxer shorts, I relocate the easel to a corner by my desk and arrange the newspapers beneath its spindly legs. My heart thunders as I place an empty canvas on the easel and step back.

Suddenly, my mind goes as blank as the stiff white canvas before me. It’s been years since I picked up a brush. I used to lose myself in art for hours—the glide of paint on fresh canvas, the symphony of colors, the act of creation. But now, what if that part of me is as dusty and broken from lack of use as a busted clock? I imagine a knot of cobwebs around my soul, and instead of a heart, a clanking, groaning set of rusty gears.

My phone dings from my bag on the floor. Sighing, I dig it out. I have a calendar notification: 9:00 a.m. Friday, client mtg w/Andréa.

All the excitement seeps out of me. It’s almost ten o’clock at night. I should pack the easel away and take the time before bed to review the notes Andréa sent earlier about the client we’re meeting tomorrow and their case. That’s what Devin would tell me to do—seize every chance to wow Smith & Boone so I land the job of my dreams.

My gaze drifts back to the blank canvas on my easel. Outside, thunder rumbles in the distance.

Screw it. I deserve to claim one night—one hour—for myself. I have Andréa’s notes. I can review them in the morning.

Heavy raindrops splatter against my window. I sigh and let my eyelids flutter closed. Another summer storm. Sucking in a sharp breath, I open my eyes.

I know exactly what I’m going to paint.





“Cass. Hey, Cass! Are you awake?” Brie calls from somewhere above me.

“Go away,” I groan, pulling my comforter over my head to block out the unwanted light.

She shakes my shoulder. “It’s nine thirty. Shouldn’t you be at work?”

My eyes fly open. “Did you say nine thirty?”

Bright sunlight cascades across Brie’s worried face. “Yeah, are you—”

“Shit! I’m late!” Flinging off the covers, I launch out of bed. My toe catches on something lumpy, and I careen into the wall. “Why didn’t my alarm go off? Where’s my phone?” I pat around my nightstand and under my pillow, but it’s not there.

Brie squats to search through the tote bag on the floor, which is apparently what I tripped over. A second later, she holds up my phone. I snatch it from her and tap the screen. It’s dead. “Noooo, I forgot to charge it last night.” That must be why my alarm didn’t go off.

She takes my phone and plugs it into my wall charger. “Get dressed, I got you covered.” She jogs out of my room, brown leather booties squeaking against the wide-plank floor as I tear open my closet to grab whatever I see first. She reappears less than a minute later, when I’m in the middle of buttoning up a light blue oxford. “Take this, it’s my portable charger. You can use it at work today.”

“Thanks, Brie,” I say, fastening the final button and returning to my closet.

She narrows her eyes at me. “Hey, what’s with…” Her voice trails off when she catches sight of the easel in the corner and the freshly painted canvas filled with splashes of color. She whirls on me, eyes wide. “Holy shit, did you do that?”

“Yeah.” I hop as I kick off my boxer shorts and yank on a navy pencil skirt.

“Cass, that’s the first time you’ve painted in years.”

“And now I’m paying for it.” I have no idea what time I went to bed last night, but it was way later than I planned, and I overslept as a result. It’s not okay for summer associates to be late. It’s unprofessional, irresponsible, and certainly not the kind of impression I need to make if I want a job offer at the end of the summer. Something niggles at the back of my mind, compounding my urgency like gasoline dripping on a flame, but I can’t recall what it is.