Every Day (Brush of Love 2)

“So, failure isn’t a deterrent for you.”

“Nope,” I said. “The artistic aura of the place was more important to me than its location. If you find the right space where you can do your best work, people will come,” I said.

“Another one of your business philosophies?” she asked.

“Nope. Just one of my life ones.”

“What inspires your art?” she asked. “All of these paintings are so different from one another.”

“That’s because I painted them over the course of four years,” I said. “In the past four years, I’ve lived in six different cities and encountered thousands of beautiful souls. They are my muse. They are the reason I paint.”

“So, each painting is based on a person,” she said.

“Multiple people who affected me in similar ways, yes.”

“Some of them seem more heartbroken than others. Were those inspired by heartbroken people?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “they were inspired by some of my art therapy students that I lost.”

“I?

?m so sorry to hear that. What happened?” she asked.

“Some of my art therapy students come from rougher backgrounds, recovering addicts, foster children who age out of the system, people like that. Those types of individuals, their life expectancies tend to be lower than most.”

I couldn’t bear to say more than that, nothing about the people I’d lost and the number of funerals I’d attended over the years. It was positively overwhelming. I felt tears threatening to burst free, so I swallowed hard, hoping my emotion could keep itself at bay long enough to get whatever this was over with.

I suddenly wanted her gone a lot sooner than I had before.

“Does your own personal loneliness drive you to find beauty within it, so you don’t think you’re such a lost cause?” she asked.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Does your own personal loneliness drive you to—”

“I heard what you said. I’m just not sure why you asked.”

“Because I’m curious.”

“What makes you think I’m lonely?” I asked.

“The sadness in your paintings. It’s a sadness that could only come from someone who’s lonely,” she said.

“Takes loneliness to find loneliness,” I said.

I stood there with her as I took deep, steady breaths. This woman had walked into my gallery from off the street, tried poking her nose around in shit, and then was accusing me of being some lonely old soul who threw herself into her artwork because no one would love her. Who the hell did this woman think she was? All she did was report on people’s shit she shouldn’t be poking around in to begin with.

“Well, I like what I hear, but I’m not sure my boss will. We’re trying to put more uplifting stories in the column I write. Apparently, I’m drawn to the more morbid side of life,” she said.

“Tell him it’s a Halloween special,” I said mindlessly.

“And a sense of humor,” she said, giggling. “Perfect. Either way, I don’t think he’ll go for it, but I’ll make sure to mention your gallery in the story I do end up writing.”

“Thanks.”

I had to say, I was a bit disappointed. Even though she’d pissed me off to no end, the attention in the newspapers would’ve really helped business. But if it was meant to be, it would’ve happened. The only newsworthy hook I had anyway wasn’t my own.

It was Bryan’s and the hook that drew people to his business.