Racing Toward Providence by Laurel Mills

Author:Laurel Mills [Mills, Laurel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ! Yes
ISBN: 9781933113920
Publisher: Intaglio Publications
Published: 2008-09-15T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

The faces came to me in a dream. I’d been thinking of making a series of paintings on the theme of secrets women find necessary to keep to themselves. I’d been struggling with how to go about it, and there it was all laid out for me while I slept. In the dream, I saw that each painting would be the portrait of a different woman, and her eyes would suggest some mystery that would never be fully revealed, no matter how long and hard the viewer looked at the painting.

Coming awake with excitement burning in my belly, I sat up in bed, turned on the light, and reached for the small sketchpad and pencil I kept on the bedside table. With the pad propped against my raised knees, I made quick sketches and notes.

In my mind, I saw the women I wanted to paint, each in a different posture and setting. The one thing they would have in common would be mysterious eyes. After sketching for several hours, I set the pad and pencil down and drifted back to sleep with the images of women cramming my mind.

A few hours later, I woke to a day swathed in light. Timmy was in the kitchen fixing his breakfast, but I was hungry in a different way. I dressed quickly in a loose-woven shirt and khaki shorts, slipped my feet into sandals, and ducked my head into the kitchen to check on Timmy. “Did you remember that Jean’s taking you down to the store with her today?”

He looked up at me, his face beaming. “Yep. I have to look after Badger. He gets lonely while Jean’s working. That’s what she told me.”

Just then, there was the beep of a horn and the quick bark of a dog. “Sounds like they’re here,” I said. “You all set to go?”

He dropped his spoon into his cereal bowl and wiped milk from his mouth. “Yep.” He sprinted toward the door.

“Just a minute.” I grabbed his shirt as he went by.

“What?” he asked, impatience in his voice.

“You do whatever Jean tells you.” With my thumb, I wiped a drop of milk from his chin. “And be a good boy for her.”

“I will.” He dashed out the door, and I soon heard the truck door slam shut and Jean backing out of the driveway.

The whole morning stretched out in front of me, and I felt almost giddy with the luxury of solitude. Grabbing a bottle of water and a bagel from the fridge, I started up the stairs to the loft. After a few steps, I turned back and went into the kitchen to set the timer on the stove. I didn’t trust myself to remember to pick Timmy up at noon otherwise.

I looked around my studio and began to doubt myself. What was I thinking? With Timmy here for the summer, how could I even think about starting a series of paintings? Yet, here it was, burning in my mind—these portraits of women whose eyes stared out at the world, eyes hinting at some trouble lurking just below the surface.

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