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“Neither do I.”
His hand brushes mine again. This time, I let my fingers curl around his.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kell
The Wednesday after our walk, the email arrives while I’m cleaning brushes at the worktable. I almost ignore the sound from my phone. Paint is drying in a thin red line along the edge of a canvas, and I’m deciding whether I like what it’s doing. Then I remember my art show application. I wipe my fingers on a rag and pick up the phone.
It’s from the Springfield Regional Art Show. I can read that without help now. The first sentence takes longer. I move through it twice, sounding out one word quietly until I recognize it.
Selected. I read the sentence again.
My red painting has been selected for the show. I look toward the green painting leaning against the far wall. I still like it. It did exactly what I wanted. The red one didn’t.
I call Laura. She answers on the third ring. “Hi.”
“I’ve been accepted into the Springfield Regional Art Show.”
There’s a beat of silence. “You entered an art show?”
“Yes. It was juried. They let me in.”
Her voice changes immediately. “Kell, that’s wonderful.”
I look toward the red painting leaning against the wall. “They accepted the red one.”
“The red-and-black one I saw the other day?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I was.”
“Why?”
“Because the red one got away from me in places.”
Laura is quiet. “Maybe that’s part of why it works.”
“Maybe.”
I scroll farther down the email. I can read the date and time without help now, along with most of the next sentence. One word stops me.
“Reception,” I say.
“What about it?”
“It says there’s one when the show opens. What’s a reception?”
“They’ll have an event when the show opens. People come see the art, probably drink bad wine and pretend cheese cubes are dinner.”
“That sounds inefficient.”
“It’s art. Efficiency doesn’t seem to be the goal.”
I look around my studio at the paint on the floor, canvases against three walls, and a brush I forgot in a jar yesterday.
