Portrait of Us (8 page)

“Some kind of doughnut emergency, I guess,” he said with a chuckle as he came back to me. “Anyway. I had returned to Ohio after studying at the patisserie in Paris. What a wonderful experience that was. I was excited to start my own bakery. Your grandmother was doing some kind of political polling and had come in here because she was parched and wanted a soda—we'd only been open a few weeks at that point, actually. And the rest is history.”

“But . . . you said you guys were different. How did you make it work out?”

Grandpa stopped cleaning and looked at me. “If you want something bad enough, you make it work. Don't get me wrong—I was plenty scared. She and I didn't see eye to eye on a lot of stuff. Those first years were all about compromising. We fought quite a bit as we learned how to deal with each other. But love made us keep trying.”

I'd never seen Grandpa's face so open before. It was obvious he still loved and missed her, though the bittersweet smile he gave me showed he had no regrets. That at least he'd had time with her—a long time, at that.

I pursed my lips, considering his words. Grandma had always been vocal, pushing me to do everything I wanted to, even as a young kid. I remembered the way she smelled, like soft linen and sunshine. How she'd braid my hair and tell me I was smart and was going to be somebody. She'd inspired me; I'd wanted to make her proud.

Somehow, the two of them had compromised—and not just on an art project or something temporary. On life. In love.

Love. The word brought a hot flush to my face. I didn't have time for infatuations, much less love. But that didn't mean a small part of my heart didn't leap whenever Matthew jumped into the front of my mind. Which was all the time now. Or when I happened to glance at him as he worked on his projects in class—the careful focus and diligence in his art was magnetic. It was ridiculous, I knew, but I couldn't help my reaction.

He drew me to him, despite how hard I fought it. How hard
I tried to keep this just about one project. There was something in his eyes that made me want to get to know him more. Did he feel the same way about me, too?

Grandpa went to the back to bring out fresh supplies from our fridge. His eyebrow shot up as he peered over at me. “You have that look on your face,” he said.

I fought the urge to press my hands to my heated cheeks. That would declare me as guilty. “I don't have any look. I'm just wondering how I can make it work out with Matthew on our project. Do you have any ideas for what our subject can be?”

His eyebrow rose higher but he didn't comment on my blatant lie. “I'm sure it'll come to you, honey. Just try to relax and invite inspiration in.”

I nodded. The door rang again, and a steady stream of customers filtered in, keeping me busy for another solid hour. Not busy enough to stop my brain from whirring while I worked, however.

Okay. This was getting ridiculous. Matthew was cute—I'd already admitted that to myself. But he and I weren't going to fall for each other or anything. It was just one project. A summer thing. When school started again, I'd go my way and he'd go his. And hopefully we'd come out of it all with an art show win. My goals . . . I just needed to keep my focus. Eyes on the prize.

Grandpa appeared from the back, holding my cell phone; apparently he'd fetched it from the back room. “It just dinged,” he said right after I finished serving the last customer in the crowd crush. “Figured it might be important.”

Who was trying to reach me? Everyone knew I was working Saturdays here. I peeked down at it. A text message from a number I didn't recognize.

Hey, it's Matthew. We should figure out a regular time outside of class to meet for our project. When?

My heart did a thud-skip, and I could feel my cheeks burning. I'd given him my cell number after class yesterday, but I hadn't expected to hear from him so soon. My fingers were shaking as I typed out,
Tuesdays and Thursdays r good for me. U?

“Is that him?” Grandpa asked with a knowing smile. “The boy you're working with in the class?”

I caught myself before I rolled my eyes at his smarmy look. “Yes, it is. He wants us to meet to work on our project. That's all.”

My phone buzzed.

Those days work for me too. See u Monday. :-D

I handed Grandpa back my phone, trying to breathe normally. Like this was just your average run-of-the-mill conversation, not something I was nervous about. “It's not a big deal,” I continued. “We're just art partners. That's all.”

“You keep telling yourself that, Corinne,” he said with a sly wink as he went into the back room.

“Look, Maxine—it's working!” Charlie pointed in excitement as the sun hit their sleek wooden car's solar panel, and the car went whizzing down the sidewalk.

Maxine gasped and gave him a high five, the sun glinting off
the light brown highlights in her hair. “Yes! I knew it would.”

I laughed and shook my head, shifting on the warm wooden bench. Apparently the scandal of the stolen kiss at the pool was water under the bridge. There was no lingering awkwardness between them right now, so Charlie must have decided to let it go. Which was good, because they'd been friends for so long. I hated to see things awkward with them.

Just before I was leaving to meet Matthew at the park, Charlie and Maxine had come into the living room, begging me to let them go too. They claimed they needed the vast open space offered in the park, as opposed to the busy residential street where our house was. I'd reluctantly agreed.

Truthfully, watching them run around gave me something to focus on while my stomach fluttered with masses of butterflies. My palms hadn't stopped sweating, and it wasn't just because of the warm weather.

“Are you watching?” Charlie called out to me with a wave. He and Maxine were probably fifty feet away now. “Did you see how far the car went? It just shot down the sidewalk!”

“Good job,” I called out in response.

My gaze skittered away from them and moved across the park, searching out Matthew. I whipped out my notebook and stared down at it, looking at my list. I'd tried to let it go and let inspiration come to me, as Grandpa had suggested, but after spending a half hour staring at the ceiling, listening to classical music, I had to admit it wasn't working.

So I went online and looked at my favorite art websites, plus checked out events happening around town. My list now included the pier in downtown Cleveland, a few local festivals—sure to be rich with people watching—the cultural gardens on the east side, and the Metroparks. Surely we could find something among those we agree on. And if not, there was always his list.

I glanced up to see the object of my thoughts striding toward me with a slow, confident walk. When our eyes connected, his smile deepened and a dimple flared. The wind teased his hair, fluttered it in the breeze, and I itched to touch it.

My heart squeezed in response, and I swallowed.

Oh boy, I had a suspicion that I was so in over my head.

Chapter
Eight

Y
ou made it,” Matthew said
, giving me a wide smile. His teeth sparkled, and I found my own smile growing in response.

“Well, we have work to get done,” I said, trying to regain my businesslike persona. I wasn't here to flirt or to admire how his shorts and T-shirt made his lean body look even taller. Nope, I was keeping my focus.

He nodded and slipped onto the bench beside me. Heat radiated from his body, only a few inches from mine. He grabbed a small notebook and tugged it out of his pocket, flipping a few pages in. “So, I have a list of ideas,” he said.

I handed him mine, then looked his over. Even his penmanship was confident—solid letters. Not hurriedly scrawled, but purposeful. I blinked and made myself read the actual words.

My brow furrowed as I moved down the list. He'd put down stuff like city hall, an abandoned set of train tracks, a homeless shelter, a large hospital on the east side. The twist in my stomach grew a little tighter. Where was the beauty, the art in those things? There was nothing on this list that appealed to me.

I drew in a few steady breaths and dared a glance at him. His face was unreadable, eyes fixed on my list. He looked up, and I noticed a few small freckles on the bridge of his nose.

“Hmm. Our lists are . . . very different,” he offered.

“We have nothing even close to being in common.” I almost wanted to laugh because of how absurdly different our thoughts were. It would be hilarious, if there wasn't a lot on the line. “Ideas?”

“Okay.” He tilted his head, thinking. “Is there anything on my list that you don't absolutely hate?”

I was unable to hide the small sigh as I looked back down at it. “Um . . . I guess the train tracks isn't too bad. But the rest of it isn't quite . . .” My words stalled. How did I put it without sounding like an art snob? What would Ava say? “The rest isn't what I would enjoy working on. It's not my personal style.”

Matthew's lips thinned, and he quietly took the list from my hand. “Have you ever considered working outside of your style? I know you're not a modern art fan, but there's a lot of it out there that will change you, make you see the world differently. If you give it a try.”

Something about his words made embarrassment burn in my chest. Was it my fault that I didn't like his style? I jutted out my
jaw and crossed my arms. “It might be easier to connect with work if it wasn't a bunch of random splatters on a piece of paper, or a canvas with colored blocks. How is that supposed to ‘change' me? What worldview will that give me, huh?”

He narrowed his eyes and offered me back my notebook. “Corinne, have you ever been to a contemporary art gallery?”

I shook my head. “No offense to you and your style, but nothing about that appeals to me. I stare at those pieces and see nothing, feel nothing. Some of them look like they were painted by a baby.” Okay, that was a bit of a low blow, but how could he deny the truth in my words? Blunt, but honest.

Matthew stared at me so long I started to squirm. The sun beat down on the top of my head, and a line of sweat dribbled down my face. I resisted wiping it away, not wanting in that moment to look weak.

Then he startled me. A rich, warm laugh poured from his mouth. “You don't hold anything back, do you?” he said, mirth dancing in his blue eyes.

My jaw loosened a bit, and I gave a small smile, the tightness in my chest easing up as well. “I have a lot of strong opinions. But I think most artists do.”

Matthew watched a small drop of sweat slide down my neck. I swallowed, frozen in place. There was a curiosity in his eyes as he raked his gaze over my face, really looking at me like it was the first time he'd ever seen me. I'd never felt so thoroughly . . . studied. “I think the problem is you've not been exposed to a lot of
contemporary art. Yes, there is some like the stuff you're talking about. I admit it—I don't understand it all. Nor do I think I'm supposed to,” he continued in a rush when I opened my mouth to reply.

“Then what's the purpose?” I asked, this time out of genuine curiosity, not hostility.

Charlie and Maxine ran through the grass in front of us, breaking the strange thread of connection building. Good. I needed a moment to pull back from this intensity. Regain myself.

“Sometimes the purpose is for us to interpret the work as we see fit. From our own perspective. We're not always supposed to ‘like' it. But it makes us think.” Matthew's words were quiet but powerful, and he turned his attention to stare off at the park. There were a group of teen guys playing on a basketball court now, laughing and shoving each other. Was he wishing he was out there instead of with me?

“I challenge you,” I suddenly said, surprising even myself.

His head whipped around, and a fresh openmouthed smile broke out on his face. He raised an eyebrow. “A challenge?”

I thrust my chin in the air and gave him my most intense, serious look. “You show me anything that can compare to the classics, anything that really moves me the way the old artists' works do, and I'll eat my words.” I didn't know why I said it. Did I really want to be changed? Possibly. But something about the passion with which he spoke about art moved me. I wanted to feel that.