Draw Me A Picture (5 page)

The doorman clipped her ticket and handed it back with a smile.

“Enjoy the paintings, miss,” he said, opening the door. Weakly returning his smile, Michelle stepped inside.

Insignificant; she felt every letter of that word standing inside the bulwark building of artistic expression. The very air felt intimidating. Despite this, Michelle remembered that had come to see paintings, grandeur notwithstanding. Soft lights beckoned from the far end of the echoing antechamber; through tall, glass doors Michelle glimpsed couples walking and talking. Peeking amid the milling people was a painting, hung on a gray-hued wall, lit perfectly by tiny spotlights. Monet’s own works were just inside those doors.

Excitement flooded her. Although Michelle thought it silly to feel so thrilled at seeing art, she knew whence her emotions sprung. The paintings were really just beautiful monuments, testifying that one would live, work, love and die but the pieces of that life were somehow able to be preserved, and be appreciated. Eyes aglow, Michelle walked forward, grateful to be among those allowed to see and enjoy.

The museum offered a coat check. Unbuttoning her overcoat, Michelle enjoyed the way the embossed buttons felt in her fingers as she pushed them through the buttonholes. She tucked her hat and gloves into the pockets and reluctantly handed the coat across the counter. The black-clad youth slipped the coat onto a hangar, tagged it and gave her back the bottom portion of the ticket. Michelle uttered a low ‘thank you,’ before turning away. Walking towards the glass doors, she slipped the ticket stub discreetly into her bodice, having no pocket or purse. The glass door opened before her and Michelle stepped into the exhibition; she was immersed in an ethereal world of low voices, clinking glasses and art.

Insecurity gripped Michelle as she entered the room; she resisted the urge to find the darkest corner and hide. Glancing around, she did not see Patrick the street musician anywhere but that did not really surprise her. The ticket was worth a lot fenced. Forcing herself to act like a normal person would, she slowly made her way towards the first painting. The people milling around seemed more interested in conversations with one another than actually looking at the art, enabling Michelle an unobstructed view of the first painting.

It was exquisite. No other word even came close, but then Michelle did not see a mere collection of framed artwork. The people around her faded, the wall darkened and the painting itself blazed forth filling her view completely. Every brush-stroke beckoned; each color called out for attention. So ensconced was she in her perusal that a nearby server had to call to her three times. Michelle jumped as a middle-aged man in a server’s tuxedo lightly touched her shoulder.

“Wh-what?” she said, uncertainly, blinking at the waiter.

“Wine?” the server asked, offering his tray. The gleaming, stemmed glasses were half-filled with various wines, both pale and vibrant. Michelle shook her head.

“Oh... I’m sorry, sir,” she stammered. “I don’t drink but, thank you.”

“We have sparkling cider, miss,” the server said, holding out a tall, thin flute. Minute bubbles in the golden liquid rose, disappearing as they gained the surface. Michelle accepted the glass and inhaled its sweet fragrance.

“Perfect,” she said, smiling. The man nodded and swept off, balancing his tray with adept precision. Michelle was free to lose herself in the painting once more.

Across the room, a man with blue eyes stared at Michelle as she turned back to the painting. His expression was one of astonishment. William Montgomery indeed felt surprised; the young street artist with the unusual eyes was standing not thirty feet away from him. He was certain it was her... Michelle Gregory. The girl who’d drawn the incredible portrait of him and then yelled at him; the girl who’d run away embarrassed, never to reappear. She was the very last person he expected to see here.

William had tried for weeks to locate the artist. The private investigator he hired turned up some interesting information: the years at Stanford, her parent’s auto accident and the fact that over two years ago she was sacked from a very prestigious accounting firm. More inquiries established she’d not been fired for legitimate reasons; a former coworker informed the PI that Michelle Gregory was ‘brilliant’ with taxes, a little anti-social but was fired since she wasn’t willing to bend the rules for a wealthy client.

There the trail went cold. Her old landlord thought well of her but did not have a forwarding address. There were no post office boxes with her name attached to them, and none of the employment agencies had heard from a Michelle Gregory in almost two years. William tried code-calling the local hotels; they either didn’t have her there, or refused to give out any information. It was as if she’d fallen off the map. He walked by her vacated corner each day hoping to see her, to no avail. Yet, here she was… standing in the Guggenheim exhibition room looking as if she’d stepped right out of one of the paintings.

When she’d entered the room, his eye was drawn to her hesitant body language; the girl appeared inexplicably familiar to him, but he couldn’t place her. He’d studied the young woman as she moved, trying to remember who she was; he was about to walk over to her when she turned to face a server. Oddly-beautiful eyes looked out from her face; pale gold, with a little green in them. William knew her at once. Drifting closer, he weighed what to say to her; he couldn’t imagine admitting he’d been investigating her whereabouts, but he wanted her to know how much he’d been trying to find her.

“Hello. I’ve been searching for you… want to go out?”
William shook his head, a rueful smile lifting one corner of his mouth, and then he froze. Go out? The thought baffled William momentarily; he just wanted to meet her, to apologize for calling her homeless... why the jump to dating?
 

William looked at the young woman again. She hadn’t moved from the first painting; she was just gazing at it, standing like a graceful statue. “She definitely cleans up well,” he thought. William suddenly missed her eyes; he wanted to look into them and speak with her, to make her laugh... just to see her eyes light up. Perhaps she would go out with him. There were so many things he wanted to ask her; surely she wouldn’t run away again. William suspected that yelling wasn’t something she did frequently; she seemed embarrassed and surprised at herself that day at the corner.

“Well, here goes nothing,” he said to himself. Taking a large drink of champagne William began weaving his way through the surrounding crowd, toward the young woman in the pink dress.

Lost in a color-strewn landscape Michelle could almost see the painter standing in his Giverny studio: tubes of paint littered the floor and a wooden palette sat on a nearby stool. Paintbrush in hand, Monet stood with a serious expression on his face, his feet apart in stubborn stance. At that moment, the master painter was merely a fellow human... a little-known artist with stains on his clothes, wearing an odd, unfashionable cap that ‘unsettled’ everyone but himself. Michelle was comforted by the thought. Although fame and money were considered by most to be 'wonderful', she was glad the artist had not lived to witness the frenzy of popularity that ensued post mortem. She just knew he would have hated gushing fans and hordes of visitors invading his beloved haunts.

“Unknown, undiscovered artists are... happier,” she murmured.

“I agree.”

A man beside--and slightly behind—her spoke, but Michelle did not look at him. The voice was pleasant and refined with a clear, English accent… all horribly familiar. The painting blurred. Staring ahead, Michelle unconsciously gripped her cider.

“It’s Miss Gregory, isn’t it?” came the voice again. “I found your name on your drawing. Michelle Gregory.” The man’s head leaned a little more into her peripheral view. Michelle couldn’t get her voice to work; she wanted to say something but nothing would come out. She could feel his intent gaze on her face. “You’ve gone pale,” the man continued, quietly. “Does this mean you’re going to yell and toss your drink at me?” Mortified, Michelle turned away, feeling an overwhelming urge to bolt.

A hand on her arm stopped her.

“Please don’t go.” The man’s voice came again; he moved to block her way. “I meant no offense. It’s just... last time you ran off and didn’t come back. I know. I looked for you.”

Venturing a glance up, Michelle’s eyes met William’s; they were looking at her with concern. He was so very good -looking and as always well-dressed; the fine, gray-wool suit, gray shirt and dark gray silk tie suited him well. Michelle was amazed he was even speaking with her, let alone searching her face with questions in his eyes.

“I am so sorry,” she blurted out, surprising herself and her companion. “I never behave that way, and … oh, your poor mother! I... um...” Unable to continue Michelle looked down, biting her lip.

A soft chuckle brought her gaze back up. The blue-eyed man was smiling at her; not mockingly, per say, but as if he found her mortification amusing.

“Truthfully, Miss Gregory, your words were justified... however dramatic,” he said. “I should not have assumed you were homeless.”

“I’m not,” Michelle said, lifting her chin a little. “But, I do sell my drawings out there.” The man held out his hand to her.

“William Montgomery,” he said, looking down into her eyes.

“Michelle Gregory,” said she, gently taking his hand. “But... you already knew that.”

The man's palm felt a little rough; Michelle unconsciously gave it her attention. She expected a soft, manicured hand, but his had calluses and scrapes on it. William saw her scrutiny and grinned.

“I build furniture,” he explained. “I have a little wood shop at my apartment.”

“Oh.” Realizing she still held his hand, Michelle quickly let it go. “Uh... as your occupation?” she asked, looking up at him.

Momentarily William’s gaze was caught up in her strange, beautiful eyes. If his heart had the capacity to flutter, it would have. The young woman looked quite stunning in her pale, pink dress. Her sable-colored hair seemed to glow in the soft light. William thought he could faintly smell apple blossoms. Suddenly, he imagined them picnicking together in some sunny apple orchard, the air scented with rosy flowers. In his vision she smiled up at him and he leaned in for a kiss...

“Mr. Montgomery?”

A soft voice interrupted William’s reverie. The orchard disappeared, but Michelle was still in front of him.

“Er... ah... no. Hobby,” he stammered, attempting to clear his head. His brain reeled from the vibrant, imaginary scene. “I’m a corporate lawyer… Brownstone & Peters. I only wish carpentry was my sole occupation, but... one must pay the bills.” He gave Michelle a wistful smile. She looked at him steadily for a moment and then took a sip of her cider.

“Not much money in hobbies,” she returned. “Being a ‘starving artist’ is not for the faint of heart.” William noted her wry tone. Leaning forward a little, he looked down at her.

“You may be slender, my dear but hardly emaciated,” he said, lowering his voice.

Michelle felt her face turn red. She looked away and drained her cider. Smiling, William halted a nearby server. “Two more champagne,” he directed at the man.

“Not for me... thank you,” Michelle managed to say. William looked at her with one eyebrow raised.

The waiter recognized Michelle and held out a different flute.

“Sparkling cider for the lady,” he quipped. Michelle nodded and let William relieve her of her empty glass.

“You’re a bit dressed up to be a devout teetotaler,” William remarked, taking a drink of his champagne.

“I have never liked the taste of alcohol,” Michelle explained. Taking a step towards the next painting, she saw William fall into step beside her. “It’s not a religious thing, more of a personal preference. I do cook with it, though.”

“Do you?” William said, smiling. Michelle gave him a sidelong look.

“Yes,” she said. “I do know how to cook... for myself, anyway.”

William was pleased at their conversation thus far, though he was finding it difficult to concentrate on the paintings when a living one was standing right next to him, delicately sipping her drink. She seemed to be enjoying the cider very much.

They approached a large painting. The canvas nearly covered the wall.  Michelle’s eyes grew wide at the sight of it.

“I can see him,” she said, almost too softly to be heard. William caught it, however. Lifting an eyebrow he looked at t he painting, then over at her.

“Who?” he inquired. Michelle started, looked at William.

“Oh... sorry,” she replied. “I didn’t realize I said that out loud.”

“Who did you see?” William asked, gently, leaning closer to her. He already liked the way her soft voice threaded its way through the surrounding chatter.

Feeling a bit silly Michelle took a deep breath.

“Monet,” she admitted. She pointed to the floor in front of her feet. “He must have stood just this far away to paint this part. I can see him... in his paint-spattered clothes, his garden clogs... wearing that little cap that everyone loathed.”

William smiled but did not interrupt. The change in her face fascinated him. Her shyness was gone and her face glowed as she described the scene in the studio, the painter’s face and how he held the brushes.

“So…” he said, as she paused. “What is he doing?” Looking at the painting, Michelle’s mouth curved into a little smile.

“He’s gripping his hair, like all painters do, saying: ‘That corner is not right! Alice! Where the
hell
is my lunch?!’”
 

William threw back his head and laughed; his companion's expression and the subtle French accent she’d lapsed into were hilarious. Some nearby socialites were bothered by his outburst and moved away, whispering. Michelle was delighted; she sipped her cider and enjoyed the sight. Her companion’s laughter sounded like cheerful music.

“You have quite an imagination, Michelle,” William said, recovering his composure; his blue eyes appeared bright with humor. Michelle noticed William had beautiful teeth; so much for the stereotypical Englishman with crooked choppers. His were very white and straight.