Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

Now that Cole's portrait is dry enough to not smudge, it's time for my triumphal march to deliver the painting to the gallery. I'm terrified of something happening on the trip over, but the whole goal was for it to hang proudly for others to see my name and my work. And I need it out of the house, otherwise I'll never stop replaying our kiss every time I walk past it. It makes my knees go weak and I just…don't want weakness right now.

To the gallery it goes, with four little cardboard triangle wedges at the corners that hold up a big piece of foam core and keep it from touching the paint, and tape gently holding everything in place.

When Lorraine opens the back loading door for me, I exhale with a sigh of relief. We made it.

"I am dying, Tia, dying to see it in person," she says as we go through the shipping and staging room to the front of the gallery.

"Close your eyes. I want to take off all the wrapping before you see it."

Lorraine groans but covers her eyes and faces the wall as I remove the piece of foam core covering the front of the canvas. My heart squeezes as I look at Cole again. It really is so good, but only because he is so, so handsome.

A thrill runs down my spine, and I can't keep the smile off my face as I say, "Now open."

Lorraine's jaw is on the floor and her eyes are wide as saucers. "I am speechless, absolutely stunned. Wow, Tia. What are you going to call it?"

"I don't know yet," I say. "Can you call a painting ‘Hottest Corpsman in the Navy' or does it have to be something more serious?"

Lorraine chuckles as the bell at the front door gently chimes.

"Lorraine," I hear in a sing-song voice. A blonde woman in a white silk blouse, trendy jeans, and fine gold jewelry is standing inside the door to the gallery with her arms held out, anticipating a hug. Lorraine goes wide-eyed and with a shriek belying her age, she runs to the woman and they hug, swaying side to side and giggling.

"When did you get back?" asks Lorraine, leading the woman towards the register.

"Just two days ago. I've been swamped, though. Our household goods were delivered an hour after we got the keys to the house. It's been a seamless PCS and—get this—nothing is broken. Can you imagine? Pigs are flying somewhere. Only took over twenty years."

Lorraine laughs, then turns the woman towards me. "Tia, this is Heather Montclair, one of my best Navy wife friends in the world. Our husbands went to the Naval Academy together decades ago, and we were inseparable during their first few tours. Of course, her husband is admiral of the fleet now, and mine is quietly enjoying his early dementia care home."

Heather gives her an extra squeeze as they both tear up for a moment.

"Tia, nice to meet you," she says.

Lorraine continues making the introductions. "Tia is a…protégé of mine. She lives on the island and is trying her hand at painting portraits for the first time."

"Oh, lovely! That's perfect!" Heather's enthusiasm is already making me smile. "Have you finished one yet?"

"Okay, look at this," says Lorraine, and before I can protest, she brings her in front of Cole's portrait.

Heather gasps, her hands pressed to her chest. "No. That is stunning. Oh, my word."

"Right?" says Lorraine.

I feel like I'm close to reaching full capacity of congratulations and acknowledgment of my art, something I never dreamed was possible. To feel my own pride in the painting is one thing, but to hear Cole, Lorraine, and Heather responding so viscerally to it is nearly overwhelming.

"Is he a Marine?" asks Heather, pointing to the USMC on Cole's sweatshirt.

"He's a greenside corpsman," I answer.

A sigh escapes me and Heather shoots me the most knowing look I've ever gotten from a stranger. With a small smile and prolonged eye contact, it feels like she sees everything hurtling me forward towards Cole—love, respect, pride, devotion, courage—and the inverse that's holding me back—fear, anxiety, the desire for independence.

"What an incredible painting," she says. "You know Lorraine got into painting when our husbands left on their first deployment together. It was her lifeline."

"And yours was DIY projects. Furniture flips, re-tiling bathrooms, gardening."

Heather starts laughing, "Remember the raised garden bed debacle?"

Lorraine rolls her eyes then turns to me. "Heather was trying to use a tree saw to cut a two-by-four, and she literally came over with her hand wrapped in a tea towel soaked in blood, and casually said, ‘Lorraine, are you busy right now? Cause if you're not, could we go to the hospital?'"

I grimace at the mental image, but they're laughing so hard, like it's clearly a good memory for them.

Heather chuckles to herself. "And you weren't without incident, Miss Deer Murderer."

"That was a freak accident," Lorraine protests. "He jumped on my car out of nowhere! I was just trying to go see Glenn in San Diego for his port call."

"Going to San Diego for a port call was never incident-free."

"What about the Singapore trip?"

"We don't talk about the Singapore trip," argues Lorraine.

Heather leans over to me with a conspiratorial whisper. "We were supposed to meet our husbands in Singapore, but at the last minute, the fleet canceled port calls, so Lorraine and I wandered solo around the city. We got food poisoning our first night and then flew back home to face another three months of deployment all weak and exhausted."

Lorraine rolls her eyes. "The worst. The pre-baby days were something else, that's for sure. How is Ellis, by the way?"

I try to keep my face neutral, but my ears prick at the name Ellis. The Ellis? Denny's Ellis?

"Oh, you know. Strong and brave, trying to find her way in the world."

"Wouldn't expect anything less from a daughter of yours."

"Isn't that the truth. You know why they call military kids ‘brats,' right? Because they're brave, resilient, adaptable, and tough. That's my Ellis," says Heather. "I'm so sorry, am I interrupting you two? Were you in the middle of something?"

Lorraine waves away her apology. "Tia and I are getting ready to hang her painting and list it online, but we're in no rush."

"No problem. I'll let you get back to it. I just wanted to come get a hug and say hi. Lorraine, lunch sometime soon, please? Tia, it was so good to meet you." She leans forward with a conspiratorial whisper. "If the guy in your painting is one of the good ones—because not all Navy men are—I hope it works out for you two." She gives me a wink and then waltzes out of the gallery with a wave.

As soon as the door closes behind her, I turn to Lorraine, my hands on my hips. "How did I not know you were a Navy wife?"

"It never came up," says Lorraine, looking at something on the computer through her reading glasses. "I'm happy to talk about it if you want. Do you want to talk about it?" She takes off her glasses and faces me. "And does this"—she points to Cole's painting—"have something to do with it?"

I ignore her last question. "How are you so easy-going about it? I mean, some of the things you were talking about sounded awful. You could write an article about why not to be a military spouse."

"I'll give you the short version," Lorraine says, pushing her glasses to the top of her head. "I loved Glenn, and I trusted him to take care of me. I had my fears, but I believed him with all my heart when he promised he would take care of me. He promised he would not quit when things got tough, he would never emotionally abandon me when I was stressed and scared, and he would refuse to give up the romance and love that brought us together in the first place."

"And did he? Take care of you, keep those promises?"

"He sure did. He is the best choice I ever made. We had so many adventures, so many memories." She smiles to herself. "I'm the treasurer of those memories now and they are priceless. I'm happy and content with the life we lived, I couldn't have asked for more."

"But you would move and he was gone and his job changed all the time and you had to go wherever he went and sometimes it was dangerous?—"

"And the only thing you can count on is you can't count on anything?"

"Exactly! I can't do that. I want a life with stability and security and solid community."

"You want to live in Toledo, Ohio and marry a banker who works a nine-to-five job and live in one house for seven decades?"

"Well…okay, not exactly," I say, catching on to the teasing glint in her eye and laughing alongside her. "Although the one house thing sounds nice."

"Honey, I think you have a much bigger life ahead of you than what you imagine for yourself. Dream big and be ready for the adventure. And you want to know the best part? No matter where you go, or what you do, art will always be there too."

Her words ring in my ears all the way home.

Aunt Mari knocks on my door bright and early a few days later, waking me up alongside the sunshine slipping through the blinds. " Buenos días, te preparé un jugo, mija ," she says in a sing-song voice as she comes in. She sets a blue glass of juice on the nightstand and perches on the edge of my bed in her white eyelet muumuu, a red silk scarf tied around her hair.

I smile. "This is a nice way to wake up."

"Christiana, let's go get some breakfast together. It's been too long."

As I flash back through the last few weeks, I realize there is a lot I haven't had a chance to share with her. She just got back from her trip and we've been a bit like ships passing in the night.

She hasn't even seen the painting yet. I want to be sure I'm there when she sees it for the first time. I sip the fresh-squeezed orange juice and eye her over the edge of the glass. " Claro que sí. But there's something I want to show you first. "

Aunt Mari gamely follows me across Crown Island and down the main avenue, but when we pass Cafe 22, she hesitates for a moment.

"It's not something at work," I say, motioning for her to keep following me.

We're almost to the gallery, only one more curve in the sidewalk. This is my last chance to turn around, to do this another time, but we keep walking. Is she going to notice my name first or last? Will she put the pieces together? What will her reaction be? Breathing is important. If I stop breathing, I'll pass out, and then I'll miss Aunt Mari's reaction.

There's a glare on the glass, so you can't see the portrait right away, but once we can, I slow to a stop in front of it, taking it in, in all its glory.

Hi, Cole.

We've texted a few times since his pinning ceremony and he keeps saying he wants to talk, but work has been rough on him, something about him being on-call for different commands. I'm trying to be understanding, but I miss being teammates, our walks on the beach, and seeing him in person. I want to hug him and watch him smile and catch his sideways glances at me.

But right now, at this moment, I'm most concerned about what Aunt Mari thinks about my painting. I turn so I can watch her face gradually form into a look of shocking realization. The sign next to the painting says, "‘Courage' by Christiana Lopez."

She studies the painting, and I watch her eyes rove from top to bottom then back up again. It takes her a few nerve-wracking minutes—and it takes everything in me to keep my mouth shut and wait for her to say something first.

"Christiana," she finally says. Her tone is full of awe, wonder, amazement, and it floods me with relief. " Tú pintaste esto, ?no? "

" Sí, when you were gone on your trip."

She grabs onto my arm and squeezes. " Is this…him? The friend you told me about?" she asks in a slow voice.

"Yes," I reply.

" Me encanta. "

A grin takes over my whole face. She loves it. She can't stop staring at it.

"I didn't know you could do this," she says. "You have a gift, mija ."

As her words sink in, I turn away to brush off the happy tears running down my face. Years and years and years of feeling like I was walking against the wind when it came to my family and art, only to paint something that makes my heart happy and have it turn into the validation I so desperately needed. I have a gift.

"What is it?" Aunt Mari asks as she notices my emotion.

"You've never said that about my art," I say, laughing and crying at the same time. "You and Dad and Julio, you've never encouraged me. You know…"

She sighs as she finally turns to me. " Lo siento. " She hugs me as I start sobbing there in the middle of the sidewalk.

People walk by holding ice cream and carrying boogie boards, beach towels slung around their necks, while I shed tears of hurt beginning to heal, longing being met. Hearing Aunt Mari say I have a gift, that she is sorry for not encouraging me, has brought on a release that gives way to a sense of victory and accomplishment, but I scarcely believe it's real.

But it is real. I did it and I'll keep doing it. I struggled and I pushed through the hard times, and they led me to this moment.

"If someone wants to buy the painting, how much is it?" asks Aunt Mari.

"It's a thousand dollars," I say, taking a step back and wiping my face.

Aunt Mari sucks in a shocked breath, then swears in Spanish. " En serio ?"

I nod in reply, and she starts laughing. "Is someone going to pay a thousand dollars for that?"

"Maybe. I kind of hope not. But they might, and that could be the start of something for me."

" Mija …" she says with wonder. "What a life you have in front of you." She squeezes my hand. "Invite him to dinner. No excuses. He will come or you will leave my house."

Okay, then.

We decide to go to Cafe 22 for breakfast sandwiches and iced tea and Aunt Mari can't stop talking about the painting and art and all the possibilities for a future career as a painter or portrait artist. The back patio tables are available and we sit under a bright blue umbrella and finally, finally, I don't have to hold back or make excuses or let any sort of shame creep in. I feel fulfilled and confident. This is what I was born to do.