sliced apples, ground cinnamon, and white sugar was a panacea for every mortal complaint. It was almost too good. If demand grew for the treat, it would be removed from the menu.
For now, the colonoscope salesman could enjoy its pleasures. Transferring a thick wedge of the pie onto a dessert plate, she closed the door behind her.
Without saying a word, Zhou pushed his fork through the pie’s flaky crust. His expression changed as his mouth closed over the treat. “This is fresh. Not commercial.”
“Naturally.”
He offered no further conversation, his fork clicking against the plate as it swept away the rest of the pie.
Mrs. Norton pulled the empty chair back from the table. Avoiding her customer’s sport coat, she sat on edge of the seat. “Zhou is a Chinese name, isn’t it?”
He nodded, removing the fork from his mouth. A flake of golden crust dangled from his lower lip.
“I knew a Zhou family once. Pig farmers, from the Sichuan Province.”
“You’ve been to China?”
“Hundreds of years ago. Or so it feels at times.” She rested her hand upon his forearm. “I hope you don’t have to run off.”
The fork in Zhou’s hand wobbled. Incredibly, he blushed.
She said, “All those years ago, back when China and I were both so much younger, I found a most interesting curio in the Hualong Valley. Do you know of the area?”
“It’s in the Songpan mountains.”
“Exactly,” Mrs. Norton said. “You really should see what I found. It’s interesting, so very special. I think you’ll be amazed.”
“Amazed?” The thought pleased him. “For something amazing, I might spare a moment.”
“Wonderful.” She rose from the chair. “It’s upstairs.”
Belatedly, Zhou climbed to his feet. Mrs. Norton went ahead of him, confident he’d follow after her.
By the time he reached the stairway, she was already on the second floor’s upper landing. His gaze traveled up the stairway to find her.
“Join me, Mr. Zhou,” she said.”Come and see our little piece of magic.”
Chapter Nineteen
Propped up by an oversized pillow and loosely covered by a lavender sheet, Susannah Guitierrez rested on the living room sofa. Her warm brown eyes were slightly unfocused as a pleasantly empty expression played about her features.
What a waste of time , Becky thought, the bristles of her paint brush skating over the rectangle of hardwood. This painting will never, ever sell.
I’m not just wasting my time, I’m wasting Susannah’s time. I’m wasting my supplies.
Once she finished the piece, she’d be lucky to give it away. Susannah wouldn’t want it. Her townhouse walls were crowded with photographs. Should she decide, one fine day, to hang a painting in her home, it wouldn’t be this painting. This painting wouldn’t appeal to her at all.
Will it appeal to anyone? Lowering her paintbrush, Becky rested its handle against her hip.
Trying to consider the painting objectively, she admitted it wasn’t remotely realistic. With so many bursts of different colors on the board, an outside observer might question if her subject was even human. Instead of calling it, “Portrait of S. Guitierrez”, she should have named it, “Explosion at the Paint Factory”.
She pressed her brush to her pallet into a circle of Cremnitz white. So why do I feel so happy?
Because...well, because.
No, “because” isn’t an answer. Try a little harder.
Because I’m not doing this for the money, she decided. No one commissioned it. I’m not expecting anyone to buy it. It’s not important if anyone else likes it.
This one is for me. No reason to even send it to the gallery.
A mental stab struck at her with the last thought. If Larry at the Centerville Gallery saw the painting, he’d have a heart attack. In Lincoln City’s Centerville Square, abstract art didn’t sell.
“Abstract art is worthless,” Larry declared, not five months ago. “Who wants it? It doesn’t mean anything.”
We’ll have to
For now, the colonoscope salesman could enjoy its pleasures. Transferring a thick wedge of the pie onto a dessert plate, she closed the door behind her.
Without saying a word, Zhou pushed his fork through the pie’s flaky crust. His expression changed as his mouth closed over the treat. “This is fresh. Not commercial.”
“Naturally.”
He offered no further conversation, his fork clicking against the plate as it swept away the rest of the pie.
Mrs. Norton pulled the empty chair back from the table. Avoiding her customer’s sport coat, she sat on edge of the seat. “Zhou is a Chinese name, isn’t it?”
He nodded, removing the fork from his mouth. A flake of golden crust dangled from his lower lip.
“I knew a Zhou family once. Pig farmers, from the Sichuan Province.”
“You’ve been to China?”
“Hundreds of years ago. Or so it feels at times.” She rested her hand upon his forearm. “I hope you don’t have to run off.”
The fork in Zhou’s hand wobbled. Incredibly, he blushed.
She said, “All those years ago, back when China and I were both so much younger, I found a most interesting curio in the Hualong Valley. Do you know of the area?”
“It’s in the Songpan mountains.”
“Exactly,” Mrs. Norton said. “You really should see what I found. It’s interesting, so very special. I think you’ll be amazed.”
“Amazed?” The thought pleased him. “For something amazing, I might spare a moment.”
“Wonderful.” She rose from the chair. “It’s upstairs.”
Belatedly, Zhou climbed to his feet. Mrs. Norton went ahead of him, confident he’d follow after her.
By the time he reached the stairway, she was already on the second floor’s upper landing. His gaze traveled up the stairway to find her.
“Join me, Mr. Zhou,” she said.”Come and see our little piece of magic.”
Chapter Nineteen
Propped up by an oversized pillow and loosely covered by a lavender sheet, Susannah Guitierrez rested on the living room sofa. Her warm brown eyes were slightly unfocused as a pleasantly empty expression played about her features.
What a waste of time , Becky thought, the bristles of her paint brush skating over the rectangle of hardwood. This painting will never, ever sell.
I’m not just wasting my time, I’m wasting Susannah’s time. I’m wasting my supplies.
Once she finished the piece, she’d be lucky to give it away. Susannah wouldn’t want it. Her townhouse walls were crowded with photographs. Should she decide, one fine day, to hang a painting in her home, it wouldn’t be this painting. This painting wouldn’t appeal to her at all.
Will it appeal to anyone? Lowering her paintbrush, Becky rested its handle against her hip.
Trying to consider the painting objectively, she admitted it wasn’t remotely realistic. With so many bursts of different colors on the board, an outside observer might question if her subject was even human. Instead of calling it, “Portrait of S. Guitierrez”, she should have named it, “Explosion at the Paint Factory”.
She pressed her brush to her pallet into a circle of Cremnitz white. So why do I feel so happy?
Because...well, because.
No, “because” isn’t an answer. Try a little harder.
Because I’m not doing this for the money, she decided. No one commissioned it. I’m not expecting anyone to buy it. It’s not important if anyone else likes it.
This one is for me. No reason to even send it to the gallery.
A mental stab struck at her with the last thought. If Larry at the Centerville Gallery saw the painting, he’d have a heart attack. In Lincoln City’s Centerville Square, abstract art didn’t sell.
“Abstract art is worthless,” Larry declared, not five months ago. “Who wants it? It doesn’t mean anything.”
We’ll have to
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