I'm Not Charlotte Lucas(40)
I stepped closer to her, shooting the gallery manager a look that I hoped said, Give us space. I placed my hand on Vera’s elbow. We’d been gallery-hopping all afternoon, and so far, nothing was quite what Vera was looking for. “Do you have a specific concept in mind? Landscapes, objects, people?”
“No,” she said apologetically. Her oversized sweater made her thin legs look like sticks, and she pushed her large, round reading glasses up on her head. “I hoped I would know it when I saw it.”
I understood. Art was so personal, and the process of choosing the right piece depended on the person or sometimes the person’s mood. Vera usually knew right away when something spoke to her. “The Vienna Canal wasn’t doing it for you?”
“It’s a lovely painting,” she agreed. “But it was placed in a prime location in my home, one I look at frequently. I don’t want to be reminded of a lovely vacation I enjoyed a decade ago, dear. I want the painting in that space to mean something more to me now.”
Then I really wouldn’t be very much help. I didn’t know what would be meaningful to Vera now. If someone held me at gunpoint and forced me to tell them the most important things in Vera’s life, I would have guessed travel and other cultures. Her grandsons next, but I really hadn’t heard a lot about them growing up except for the odd mention here or there.
I did know that the most meaningful paintings were the pieces that spoke to one’s soul. No one else would be able to choose that for Vera but her.
“Maybe you should just paint it yourself,” I said.
Vera’s head snapped up. She narrowed her eyes at me. “That is a wonderful idea.”
“Oh.” Surprise backed me up a step, and my hand slipped from her arm. I had meant it as a joke. “Do you paint?”
“No,” she said, a satisfied smile playing on her thin lips. “But I know someone who does.”
We stood on either side of a modern compilation of asymmetrical shapes, Vera grinning and me keeping my mouth closed. The idea of a commission literally sent me into an anxious fit, and I was doing my best to command my heart to settle down. I did not have to agree to this scheme.
“What do you say?” she asked confidently.
“I can’t.”
“I will pay you very well.”
“It’s not about the money, Vera. I can’t paint commissions.” Currently, I couldn’t paint at all. I shrugged, lifting my hands. The worry eased from me as I refused. “My creativity just doesn’t work that way.”
She clucked her tongue. “I’m not telling you what to paint, dear. Just paint something lovely.”
“You want it to be meaningful,” I said, exasperated.
“If it comes from you, it will be.”
I shook my head. It was too tall an order to fill. “That’s a lot of pressure, Vera. I’m not kidding when I say I don’t have the time right now.”
She stepped forward, resting her bony hand on my arm. Her voice was soft and low, caressing the air as it traveled my way. “When was the last time you picked up a paintbrush, Charlie?”
I was instantly reminded of Beth convincing me to go on the date with Liam and asking me when I had last kissed someone, only this felt far more intimate. I felt attacked, like my life choices were being called into question. Like being the assistant branch manager of a national bank wasn’t good enough. Like I wasn’t good enough. Vera was unearthing the big secret I’d buried in the deep recesses of my heart, displaying it before me to be examined and inspected. But I didn’t want to examine it. I’d shoved it away on purpose.
“I can’t,” I said, with more finality than I realized I’d possessed. The surety in my own voice fueled me, and I stood firm. “I’m sorry, Vera, but I can’t.”
Her lips pressed into a firm line. “Well, I can’t force you to.”
Exactly.
We had another gallery on the agenda for that sunny Saturday afternoon, but the excitement I’d felt had dissipated. When I’d agreed to help Vera choose a painting, I had imagined us spending a few hours in some of my favorite galleries in town until she settled on the right one and we wrapped up our outing with dinner on the square. We’d done this a few times before. Vera and I had such similar taste in art; it sometimes felt as though we were soul sisters in that respect.
But now I wanted nothing more than to go home. To pop in the DVD sitting on my shelf and let Jane Austen drown my real-life troubles with the fictional romance of hundreds of years before. A simpler time. An easier way of life, where accomplished women painted for the fun of it—not to make a sale.
“Should we pop over to Fresco’s?” Vera asked, stepping forward and stringing her arm through mine. “I think I’m quite finished with paintings for the day.”
I offered her a wan smile and ignored the gallery owner as I followed Vera onto the street. We were two blocks from Fresco’s, and I realized I hadn’t even agreed to dinner when we were stepping indoors and being seated by a young waitress.
Vera ordered me a Diet Coke and sat back in her seat, appraising me. “You look as though you’ve traveled through a windstorm.”
Liam appeared at our table, slightly out of breath, and my heart jumped at the sight of his smiling eyes. “Sorry I’m late.” He leaned down to kiss Vera’s cheek. He gestured to the fourth place setting at our table—had I heard Vera request a table for four? No, I didn’t think so. If I could escape the fog clouding my mind for a moment, I would be able to recollect that she’d simply given her name, that she had the reservation settled already. “We won’t be needing that. I couldn’t get Spike to come.”