I'm Not Charlotte Lucas(78)

“How are you, Mr. Kirkham? How are your kids?”

“Here somewhere, actually,” he said, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up on his nose. “They’re all in high school now, believe it or not.”

It was hard to believe the three little kids who would run around the school during our after-school projects were old enough to be in high school themselves, and I told him so.

“But enough about me,” he said, his smile unrelenting. “How are you? I check the galleries occasionally, and I’ve yet to find something by Charlie Lucas, so I assume you must be living somewhere else. Come, tell me all about it.”

“Oh, well, actually I am living in Bellmead.” I wasn’t about to admit that I was still in my parents’ house. He didn’t need to know that.

“Oh,” he said, his thick, dark eyebrows rising. “I thought you planned to go to school.”

“I got my bachelor’s in art, but I just haven’t done much with it. I’m working at a bank currently.”

“A bank?”

“Yes,” I said, my smile widening, stretching taut over my teeth.

“Forgive me—I’m not trying to be rude,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just never imagined you’d be in finance. I thought you’d take over one of the galleries on Main Street by now.”

He didn’t realize how much he was twisting the knife. His words hurt, but I hoped I wasn’t showing how much.

I lifted a shoulder. “I just wasn’t cut out for it.”

Mr. Kirkham scoffed. “Says who? You have a gift, Charlie.”

My resolve hardened. “That’s one opinion. But college opened my eyes to a world of critiques, and most of them didn’t agree with you, to put it nicely.”

Mr. Kirkham looked dumbfounded. He shook his head, his eyebrows pulling together. “I don’t understand. So you gave up trying for galleries? You still paint though, yes?”

“Not really. I mean, I’ve dabbled . . . but I just have too many other things going on.”

Pity gleamed in his eyes, and I really didn’t want to see it anymore.

“Well, I should probably go find my parents,” I said, hitching my thumb awkwardly toward the lobby.

“Yes, don’t let me keep you. But,” he paused, running his fingers over his lips while he considered something. “Can I just say one thing?”

“Sure.” What could it hurt? He’d already built me up to an insane degree of confidence just to let me fall. And I’d fallen hard. I was tougher now.

“Some people aren’t cut out for the arts.” His words were carefully chosen, his eyes fixed on me. “It takes a sturdy backbone and a certain level of skill to disregard unkind opinions. Those things are immensely true. But the pieces you created at seventeen, even sixteen years old, were incredible, and I can only believe you’d improve further with time. I hope you don’t think it’s too late now to try. It’s never too late, and the world deserves to see your creations, Charlie. They’re special.” He reached forward, squeezing my shoulder. “You are special. At the end of the day, do other people’s opinions really matter if you love what you paint? Or the joy you get from painting it?”

“I wanted the scene of Elizabeth overlooking the cliff,” a woman said as she passed us in the aisle, and I moved to give her more room. “Absolutely breathtaking.”

“It’s funny, actually,” Mr. Kirkham said, “but I thought those paintings reminded me of you. Then I saw you sitting here, and I figured they had to be yours.”

“What paintings?”

“I guess that answers that question,” he said, chuckling. “There are easels set up in the lobby depicting scenes from Pride and Prejudice. They are just on show for the premiere. They aren’t for sale, but maybe they’ll give you a bit of inspiration.” He winked. “Anything to get a paintbrush back in your hands.”

I nodded mutely, but the thought niggled the back of my mind that I had done many scenes from Pride and Prejudice, and I was curious how they compared to the art in the lobby.

“Were they done by kids here at school?” I asked.

“No,” he said, chuckling. “My classes can’t produce work like that. They’re clearly professionals.” Mr. Kirkham narrowed his eyes. “You sure they aren’t yours?”

I gave a hollow laugh. “If they are, no one asked me if they could present them.”

He laughed before clapping me on the shoulder again. “Good to see you, Charlie. Please, don’t be a stranger. If you ever need a cheerleader or support, I’m still here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kirkham.”

He nodded, then tucked his hands in his pockets and walked away. I should’ve had the self-control to sit back down, but the intermission was about to end, people were milling back into the theater, and I wanted to see another person’s impressions of my favorite novel.

I snaked through the incoming crowds, hearing snippets of opinions about the play thus far and the paintings in the lobby. By the time I exited the theater doors and made it into the room that housed the ticket booth and concession stand, most people had gone back to find their seats.

My parents included.

But standing in the center of a ring of easels in the lobby was Liam, tall and handsome in a navy sports coat with his hand in his pocket and the other holding a water bottle.