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Mrs. Reynolds stood beside me as I pushed the shelf away from the wall. “Are you able to shimmy the canvas free?” I grunted.
Mrs. Reynolds used both hands to pull on the piece of art, but it didn’t move.
I pulled a bunch of canvases off the shelf to lighten the load and tried again. “When I say go, I need you to pull as hard as you can. Ready?”
“Ready.”
I gripped the steel shelf and pulled it toward me as hard as I could. Groaning from the strain on my muscles, sweat trickled from my forehead. The shelf didn’t feel as heavy as before, but I still couldn’t get it to move more than a sliver. “Come on, dammit. Move!” I grunted.
“It’s moving!” shouted Mrs. Reynolds. “Just a little more.”
Planting my feet and imagining a second chance with Grace, I pulled on that shelf as though my life depended on it. My muscles burned, but the sound of metal grinding against concrete was music to my ears.
“I’ve got it!” yelled Mrs. Reynolds just before she fell backward, landing on her rump. “Oof!”
I ran toward her. “Are you all right?” I asked, extending my hand to help her up.
“Yes. Yes. Fine. This rump can withstand a lot more than a fall.”
I cleared my throat and banished any thought of Mrs. Reynold’s rump from my mind.
“Here you go,” she said. Then, “Oh, no!”
“What’s wrong?”
She frowned and bit her lip. “I’m sorry, Luke. But the portrait is ruined.”
She turned it over for me. Written in black spray paint were the words: Meany Sweeney. I sighed. “I know, Mrs. Reynolds. That’s why I’m here. I want to restore it. Do you know how I can fix it?”
Crossing her arms and tapping a finger to her lips, she stared at the painting. “It’s going to take a lot of work and even more patience, and I still don’t know if it’ll work.”
“I’ll try anything. Just tell me what to do.”
“First, soak only the spray paint with olive oil to loosen it up. Let it sit for a few hours. Then try to scrape it off. This probably won’t remove all the spray paint except for the thickest parts. Then, using a paint thinner—or maybe acetone may be better—pat the rest and be careful to only remove the spray paint and not the oil paint underneath. Did you get all that?”
I nodded, making a list of supplies in my head when a sense of excitement that maybe this would work came over me. Turning to my old school teacher, I rushed to hug her and wound up swinging her half a turn in my excitement. “Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds,” I said.
She patted her hair when I put her down. “Well, that was quite exciting.” She put her hand on my wrist. “I hope it works out for you, Luke. I can see that painting is very special to you.”
“It is,” I said and meant it deep in my heart. “I’ve got to go. Thanks again, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“Anytime,” she said, waving me off. “I haven’t had this much fun since that seance with my late husband.”
Seance? I was ready to ask her about it but thought better of it. “I’ll see you later,” I said instead and strode back to my car with a three-foot canvas in my hands. I drove back to my home and started on the restoration.
I grabbed the bottle of extra virgin olive oil from my pantry and brushed the oil onto the thickest parts of the spray paint. While I left that soaking, I went in search of acetone. I didn’t have any, but I remembered some turpentine I kept in the garage. However, I worried using it would remove some of Grace’s work. So, I got back into my car and drove to the nearest pharmacy.
“Where would I find acetone?” I asked the cashier.
She stopped clicking her gum long enough to stare down at my bare fingernails. I rolled my eyes. “It’s not for me.”
She blew a bubble. “Do you want pure acetone or just a basic nail polish remover?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Well, one takes off acrylic nails and the other takes off regular nail polish.”
The first one sounded stronger. “The acrylic one.”
