January 1

CHELSEA IN MALIBU, FOR NOW...

I N THE EARLY HOURS OF THE MORNING, C HELSEA WAS UP AND awake and putting the finishing touches on View of the Frozen Lake from the Window , which she decided to change to Summertime as the formal title of the painting. She’d painted what she remembered of that frozen lake, which was so different than the undulating body of water outside her window that continued into forever. Salt water versus fresh water, one was unchanging, seasonless, predictable to the rise and fall of the tides. The other was mutable, changing in shape and nature, of what possibilities it held—the lake in the summer months could be a time of sparkling enjoyment, while in winter a period of stillness, of quiet, perhaps of waiting for its better times. Chelsea hoped that she’d captured all of that in the image—what the lake had become in the winter as she experienced it and, below the surface, what the lake had been in the summer and would be again, as she imagined it. The lake was Chelsea, and her summer was on its way.

After the instant sale of Goodbye , Helena asked Chelsea for absolutely everything she had in the so-called Chicago series, which had not at all been a series before, either by intention or execution. But upon Helena’s strong suggestion, Chelsea realized that she should work toward the idea at least. Circumstances had changed for her, and for once, change was actually a good thing. Moreover, the five-figure funds had already hit her account in the wire of Chelsea’s personal portion of the sale price for her artwork. It was the amount that she and Helena agreed upon after a deduction for the overdue, but now fully satisfied, tax payment, and some portion toward the expenses of the house. A house that held nothing more for Chelsea to discover; a house that provided a view that no longer inspired.

Since her return from Chicago, Chelsea and Carlos had been in touch in a regular way. Sending a joke here, or a meme there. Chelsea sent him a photo of her view of the sky washed in orange sherbet and lavender at sunset from her outside deck. He sent her a photo of a unique vertical perspective of an office building looking all the way up into an unusually sunny wintertime sky. She sent a photo of Goodbye and typed to Carlos:

CHELSEA: Sold it.

CARLOS: Already? That one is amazing. The fire is back!

Chelsea’s hand hovered over the keyboard. A thought arrived of what she ought to do. It was the kind of thought that most people would ignore, an impulse or idea to be brushed away, one that was nice, perhaps, but too nice. A gesture beyond their character in the moment, a trusting of intuition beyond the seeming authority of the still-so-quiet voice within. But as an artist, when being an artist, sometimes it is only you and that voice; your art depends upon it. And Chelsea, being an artist, being more of an artist now than she had been in years, had a hankering to listen to that voice, to follow that idea, to see where it led.

CHELSEA: I’d like to buy the image that you took of me.

CARLOS: What image?

CHELSEA: At Ramona’s.

CARLOS: It’s already on your phone. I took it for you. I sent it to you. It’s yours.

CHELSEA: Not yet. It’s still yours. You took it. I want to buy it.

CARLOS: Girl, u crazy.

Chelsea smiled and then let out a laugh. Carlos , she thought to herself, allowing herself the swell of feelings . Over the phone screen, her fingers hovered and then set out again with quick tapping.

CHELSEA: How much is your show?

Immediately she saw the three bubbles. A message appeared with the sound effect for its arrival.

CARLOS: What show?

CHELSEA : Your show at the gallery. How much do you need for your show?

CARLOS: Dunno, I’m trying to save like $1200.

CHELSEA: Then, I’ll buy the photo for $600. Deal?

The dots again. Come on, Carlos , Chelsea thought. It was the one thing she wanted to do, that she needed to do. It was the follow-through on the feeling of truly connecting to someone, of loving them—when you want what they want. Chelsea’s wish was for Carlos. What she wanted most was what he wanted for himself. And she hoped that with what she sold, he’d allow her to do what she wished with the money.

CARLOS: I’m not trying to take your money.

CHELSEA: I’m not trying to take your work.

CARLOS: Send it back then! Haha.

CHELSEA: Carlos, please. It’s important to me.

Please . Chelsea pleaded with him silently, watching the three dots appear and then disappear in their message thread.

CARLOS: OK

Chelsea let her eyelids fall and let her breath release. She would love Carlos, and she would let him go. And perhaps they would have cause to meet again.

For now, it was done. Chelsea put her phone down and crossed back through her living room and its wall of windows. In her bedroom, she opened the blinds to let in the rising sun. It was something to appreciate now, having been away from it, and knowing that she’d be away again soon—writing another note to a new renter, maybe making an exchange, heading somewhere else, somewhere new and unknown, with all its colors to discover.

On the first day of the new year, for the first time in a long time, from her window, Chelsea Flint looked out upon the ocean with wonder, excited about where she’d go next.