Color Me Pretty: A Father's Best Friend Romance

“I know that isn’t what you wear when you paint, so go change,” I told her again. It wasn’t a suggestion. I knew what she got messy in, and it wasn’t her school clothes. The black jeans she wore now were destressed, showing a lot of skin through the tears, and I knew her father would have hated it. He’d made comments on the style before. She never wore things like that because of it. I was glad to see her do her own thing, even if I agreed too much was exposed.

It made me snort.

“What’s so funny?”

I waved her off. “Change.”

She mumbled, “bossy” under her breath as she walked into her room, closing the door behind her.

Ramsay ran over to the door and pawed at it, making me shake my head. The rodent loved her, that much was easy to tell. He was usually happy to see me when I got home, but the day she’d dropped him off I came home to find a puddle of piss he left in the kitchen since she decided not to share her TV tip with me in the note she left. Guess that was payback for me being a dick. Then again, I liked to think the dog was being loyal to her by making a mess, his way of telling me I was an asshole.

Guess what, rodent? I already know that.

When she was ready, paint-covered overall shorts covering her body and hair in a messy updo, she eyed me where I still stood in the kitchen. “Are you going to watch me paint?”

It wouldn’t be the first time. “Did you eat yet? Figured I could make dinner while you worked.”

“I’m not that hungry.”

“Della.”

Her shoulders tensed. “I mean it. I ate this afternoon, but I just don’t have an appetite tonight. I’ve been stressed.”

I knew I was partially to blame for that stress, so I felt obligated to help her. “Go work. I’ll make sure the dog, and you, are fed. Don’t think about fighting me.”

The last part was directed at her parted lips that held a retort, but no words passed them. Whatever she mumbled was lost on me as we went our separate ways—her to the spare room where she painted and me to the cabinet where I grabbed the dog dish and food.

“Animal Planet,” I murmured as I squatted down to give the dog its dinner. Running a hand down his furry back as he dove into the kibble, I chuckled. “You’re one spoiled rodent, huh?”

“I can hear you!” Della called from across the hall. The door was cracked open and I knew sound traveled, so it didn’t surprise me. I’d been caught giving Ramsay extra treats, letting him on any furniture he wanted, and Della made sure to point it out with those knowing eyes of hers, like she found it amusing I secretly spoiled him. It wasn’t something I necessarily hid. I just didn’t advertise it.

The apartment fell to silence as I cooked us dinner. Ramsay had laid down outside the spare bedroom door after he was finished eating. I bumped it open with my hip carrying two plates of eggs and toast inside. When I saw Della sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the room staring into space, I nudged her leg until she finally looked up at me.

Her fingers wrapped around the plate I offered and blinked down at the food. “Thanks.”

“Eat up.”

She eyed me and uncrossed her legs. “Are we eating in the living room? There’s probably something on the television we could watch. I won’t even subject you to murder mysteries. Remember that cooking show we watched before? I set up a bunch to record.”

Sitting on the edge of the desk off to the side, I picked up a piece of toast. I might not have understood why she liked those shows, but I enjoyed watching them with her simply because it was time together. “You said you wanted to work. We can eat in here.”

“So…you do want to watch?”

That was a loaded question. Instead of answering it, I bit into the toasted bread and looked at the canvas. There were tints of pinks and purple taking up the upper half of the canvas, looking like it was forming some sort of circle with rougher edges. That was what I liked about Della’s work. They were always colorful, emotional, whatever they turned out to be. “I like watching you lose yourself in your work. It reminds me of better times.”

Her eyes remained on her plate. “You mean with Mariska? I know she spent a lot of time in the studio.”

I hadn’t meant my ex-wife. Della had always been interested in art. When she was younger, she’d constantly draw pictures for everybody and expect them to be hung on the walls, refrigerator, or anywhere people could see. I still had a collection of her crayoned originals stored away in my office that she’d gifted me over the years, not that she knew.

“Of you,” I simply stated. “Eat, Della.”

“Stop telling me what to do.”

Setting my plate on the cluttered desktop, I crossed my arms over my chest and ignored her feeble demand. “There was a picture framed in Mariska’s studio that she’d always look at whenever she was stuck. Do you remember what it said?”

Her head bobbed. “It was a Pablo Picasso quote that said, ‘Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth.’ She said it was one of her favorites.”

“She told me once that she’d wanted it close by to remind her why she started painting in the first place.” Mariska was always passionate about her art and insisted that no creation was good enough unless there were pieces of truth in each one. “What’s your truth, Della? What do you have to say that the world doesn’t already know?”