But something about this fragmentary piece haunted me. I suspected I’d regret dumping it instead of fixing it. Since it was a large canvas, I could see the false starts and the sections where I’d attempted to mask my errors. It taunted me in all its ugly, undefined glory.
Just take it off the stand and face it against the wall. Move on.
I sidestepped it and the lower left corner caught my eye. The dark colors, black, gray and shades of purple, looked angry—like a newly formed bruise. With the raindrop technique I’d used, the bruises appeared finger shaped. As if I was seeing a section of a body that’d been beaten down.
So if that was the result . . . what was the cause? In an inspired moment, I flipped the canvas, putting the image in the upper right corner. The ugliness of the murky image hadn’t changed, but it had definability.
It had a name.
Broken.
That’s when I knew why this hadn’t worked. In the opposite corner I’d tried to disguise the anger by surrounding the black slashes with brightness. In the center I’d used neutral tones, trying to downplay the darkness.
But this piece needed darkness—demanded it.
And I knew exactly how to fix it.
Immediately I grabbed my paints and brushes and got to work.
I’ve been lost in creative chaos too many times to count. It’s a fugue state where I am merely a conduit between what could be and what is. I’m pretty good about self-censoring my emotions so as not to affect the tone of a piece—too good sometimes. Whatever blockage I’d erected crumbled with the first stroke of my brush.
The downside of existing in that creative rush is the shock of the passage of time when you come out of it. When I finally deemed the painting done, I glanced over at the window to see the yard light had come on.
On automatic, I cleaned up my mess. I welcomed chaos in my work, but not in my workplace. I even had a shower installed so I could leave the studio as paint-free as when I’d arrived. A cleansing of sorts before I rejoined the real world.
I checked my phone. A flirty text from Walker was in my messages dated six hours ago.
Hope you had a great day. I’m around if you want to grab dinner after you’re done working. If not, I’ll see you tomorrow night at the community center. Just wanted you to know that I’m thinking about you. A lot.
I felt a little guilty that I hadn’t thought about him after I fell into a painting fury.
I texted back:
Thanks for the offer. As usual I lost track of time once I was in my studio and just finished. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow night. Sleep well.
I hit send and then immediately regretted it because I worried I sounded lame. And aloof.
I reread it.
Yep. Totally nailed both lame and aloof. Yay me.
Not to mention I’d texted him at one o’clock in the morning.
Ugh.
I pressed my forehead into the table. I wondered if there was a book Sending Sexy, Flirty Texts for Dummies.
If anyone knew the answer to that, it’d be Genevieve. So I fired off a quick text to her.
Only after I crawled in bed did my cat, Buttons, deign to acknowledge me.
WALKER
The offices of Flint & Lund were housed in an old fourplex that had been a single-family home at one time. We bought the property—and the vacant lot behind it—six years ago when I’d become a partner in the company. Gutting the brick building and renovating it to suit our needs nearly ended the partnership before it began.
But that’s why Jase Flint and I made good business partners. I was happier to get my hands dirty on the job site, letting him sit in the office writing bids and drawing up building plans.
So I wasn’t in the office long in the mornings. Jase and I kept each other updated throughout the workday, but meeting face-to-face over coffee every day had kept everything running smoothly.
It also helped that we’d hired a top-notch office manager. Jase and I joked that the only way we’d ever let Betsy quit was if she ran for president. If anyone could inspire parties with opposing political views to cooperate for the overall greater good . . . it’d be our scarily efficient Betsy.
As usual, Betsy was already in her office when I arrived. Without glancing away from her computer screen, she said, “Good morning, Walker. Tell Jase I’ll be right in after I type up these notes. There’s coffee in the break room.”
“Who made it?” I asked warily. Jase’s coffee looked like sludge and tasted worse. Megan, our receptionist and Betsy’s tyrant in training, made it so weak it tasted like water.
“I did.”
“Thank you.”
She waved me off.
After I filled my insulated mug with coffee, I scaled the stairs to the conference room.
Jase sat at the end of the table muttering to himself, his glasses sliding halfway down his nose.