Blame it on Cupid by Jennifer Greene Page B

ships ever really come in.”
    â€œShips?”
    â€œNever mind. The point is that there’s no reason we can’t store those paintings in a nice, safe closet, is there? I mean, if you happened to paint something you liked better and actually wanted to look at every day?”
    By midafternoon, the sky suddenly turned darker than a nightmare. When they pulled in the driveway, a howling wind chased them inside. Merry doubted a Virginia winter storm could rival a serious Minnesota blizzard, but either way, it was a good time to hole up inside.
    Charlie watched warily while Merry set up. Once she draped newspaper all over the kitchen floor, she pushed kitchen chairs together to work as make-shift easels. The chairs weren’t remotely the right height for the big white canvasses, but she couldn’t think of another one. Charlie came through with a couple of old T-shirts to wear over their clothes, while Merry organized the brushes and bowls of paint. Last, she flipped on all the lights against the gloomy afternoon and turned up some music—some nice, loud, hip-gyrating rock and roll. “Okay, let it rip!”
    â€œLet what rip?”
    Merry showed her, taking a brush dripping with sun-yellow and swathing it across a canvas. “Now, your turn.”
    â€œWhat color am I supposed to use?”
    â€œAny color you love. That’s what we’re going to build. Canvases that are big splashes of colors we love.”
    â€œThat’s all we’re trying to do?”
    â€œThat’s all,” Merry affirmed.
    Charlie gingerly brushed on a streak of khaki green.
    Merry ran over and put a moosh of cherry red on an edge. At Charlie’s shocked look, she said, “Go on. Go put something on mine.”
    â€œYou mean wreck yours?”
    â€œYou won’t be wrecking anything. We’ll just be creating something different than anyone else would create.”
    â€œIn the entire universe,” Charlie agreed dryly. But she went over and dabbed a few spots of orange on Merry’s canvas.
    Merry responded by dipping her entire hand in the sky blue and putting palm prints all over Charlie’s picture. Charlie took off her socks and did feet prints—in dark purple—on hers.
    For the first time, the very first time since Merry got here, she could taste just a wee bit of elation. They were having fun together. They were being together. And if they could just start being together, Merry figured the rest had a prayer of working out. Charlie wasn’t going to recover from her dad’s loss overnight. Merry wasn’t going to turn into a parent overnight.
    But hell’s bells, at last she had a taste of hope.
    The two of them slashed and streaked and stroked until a half dozen canvases were completely dripping in various crazy colors and shapes. At some point Merry realized the two of them were head-to-bare-feet covered in paint as well—but who cared? Finally, though, enough seemed enough. Merry stepped back to give their fancy art a critical eye. “Hot damn. Are we good or are we good?”
    Charlie made the strangest sound. “Hogwash.”
    â€œHuh? Hogwash? What’s hogwash?”
    â€œIt’s—” Abruptly she made that sound again, as if there was a little choke gurgling at the very back of her throat. Her so-careful expression suddenly seemed to crack.
    Merry stared, disbelieving. It wasn’t just a smile taking over that face. Charlie actually bent over, clearly in response to how god-awful she thought their artwork was—and let out a laugh. A rusty laugh. A little-girl-not-trying-to-be-brave-right-then laugh. In fact, it was a downright boisterous giggle.
    Only then…the lights went out. The lights, the music, the fridge, the furnace, the everything. Whatever cut off the power, the kitchen was abruptly dark as a cellar.
    And that one precious moment of silly joyfulness disappeared faster than smoke.
    Â 
    G IVEN THE ICE