Carried Away - P. Dangelico Page 0,16

Can I come in?” Am I curious about what he’s doing in there? You bet. I mean, who is this guy really? An artist? Why does he live here? Does he have a boyfriend? What’s his story? And God knows I love a good story. Is he equally curious about me? Probably not.

“Suit yourself,” I hear an eternity later.

Slowly, I turn the knob and peek my head in. The room is large and well lit. Stretched canvased populate the room, leaning against the walls, on the floor. They are everywhere. Some virgin, others covered with tarps. Yikes. He must be really bad at this if he’s covered all the finished paintings with tarps.

I step inside and find Turner by a large window standing in front of an easel and side table. He’s in the process of cleaning a brush with a rag.

“Do you need something?” he says without looking at me.

An abandoned stool sits close to the door. I stroll over and lean my butt against it. “No, I’m just…really bored and I can’t seem to concentrate enough to read.”

Glancing around, I take note of all the different paint staining the old wood floor, the rolls of linen stacked against the wall. “Is this what you do for a living? You’re an artist?”

“Not for a living…but I do sell them.”

Which begs the question,“What type of art?” I mean, he has them all covered up. He’s clearly broke; this house is the pits. He’s probably not selling many….and I ate his food. I’ll send him a check when I get back on my feet, I decide.

“Landscapes mostly.” He’s still not looking my way, and I’m getting the acute feeling that I’m bothering him.

“Did you always want to be a painter?” A memory jumps out. Of me gathering the personal items on my desk and shoving them in the worn-out LL Bean tote I’ve had since high school. The look on the security officer face as he watched. I may as well have been at Harry Winston planning a heist. A chasm opens up in my chest. This is really not how I saw my life going.

“No…played hockey for a while.”

“Oh, yeah? I could see that.”

He looks my way for the first time since I interrupted his work. “You can see what?”

“You playing hockey.” It certainly makes more sense than Turner, the sensitive artist. Although he does have the tortured thing down pat. “Your size––for one thing. Were you any good?”

All I know about hockey is that most players are large, bearded, and have missing teeth. In other words, nothing that interests me.

“I was alright.” He goes back to cleaning his brushes.

“We can’t all be superstars, right?”

“Right,” he answers, and if my eyes don’t deceive me, tightly.

A full two minutes pass without a word exchanged. Conversation is akin to waterboarding for this guy, and I’m losing the will to try.

“What do you do?” he finally says and part of me feels a tickle of pride. Getting him to engage is no small feat, and I accomplished it.

This is how low my standards have sunk. That I get a thrill out of this guy reluctantly asking me a question.

I watch him arrange tubes of color, his fingers smeared in bright blue, red, a rich royal purple. He dips a rag in a clear solution and wipes his fingers clean with it.

“I’m a reporter,” I automatically answer. Because I still am––regardless of what Ben or his overlord think of me.

Standing upright, Turner’s head whips around, his speculative gaze meeting mine. “A reporter?” His face takes on a peculiar expression.

“Uh-huh, yep. A reporter.” I’m not about to explain all the failings of my life to a stranger. I can barely explain them to myself.

“You’re a reporter?” he repeats, expression morphing into borderline disbelief with a side of simmering anger.

This is weird.

For a second I question whether he recognizes me from my profile picture. Heck, maybe the guy is an NFL fan and was following the story. “Umm, yeah,” I reply with less confidence. Lord help me if he’s on Twitter. I really don’t want to hear all the things he would do to the holes in my body. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t like it.

His eyes narrow as he silently stares at me. This is probably the worst glare he’s leveled at me thus far and it’s beginning to worry me. He finishes cleaning his paint-stained hands with the rag and slaps it down on the cart. Then he squares up, turning to face me,