Back In the Game by Holly Chamberlin Read Free Book Online Page A

I put aside making paintings after I was no longer required to make them to earn my degree? It’s true that my job involves lots of creation, but my own work, what was once my serious work, is not what I do with my students.
    My serious work.
    With a sigh I put the tube of paint back in its place on the shelf.
    The truth is that Simon is far more talented than I am. And Simon needs tending; his spirit needs succor; his inspiration needs to be protected. With my work ethic and his gift, we’d make the perfect successful artist, if by successful one meant an artist who creates and shows regularly.
    We certainly hadn’t made the perfect husband and wife.
    I turned to leave the aisle and stepped right into a person.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry!” I cried. It was a young man, maybe in his early twenties, wearing a T-shirt that said LIFE IS GOOD.
    The young man smiled. “No, please, it was my fault.”
    â€œNo, I wasn’t paying attention.”
    â€œWell, neither was I. So, we are both at fault, okay?”
    â€œOkay,” I said.
    I expected the young man to move on but he didn’t; he stood there and smiled at me again. “What are you buying?” he asked.
    â€œOh. Well, nothing.” I gestured to the shelves of oil paints. “I was just looking at a tube of cobalt violet.”
    â€œIt’s a beautiful color. It conveys passion.”
    â€œYes,” I agreed, “it does. But it’s so expensive and I don’t really have any immediate plans to paint so . . .”
    The young man lightly, briefly touched my arm. “I think you should buy it anyway,” he said, “even if you do not use it right now. If it is in your home, your studio, maybe it will inspire you to work. I am Alfonse, by the way.”
    Alfonse—I’d detected an accent—held out his hand and we shook.
    â€œI’m Grace. Nice to meet you.”
    Alfonse smiled again and I found myself engaged in a lively conversation about painting in general and a current show at the Fogg Art Museum in particular.
    Maybe it was the smile, maybe his generally warm manner and good conversational skills, maybe it was thoughts of a long and lonely summer. For whatever reason, I bought the tube of cobalt violet and a few new brushes.
    Alfonse accompanied me to the cashier and then outside onto the sidewalk.
    â€œWell,” I said, “good-bye.”
    But Alfonse had another idea. “Would you come with me for a coffee?” he asked.
    Of course I won’t come with you for a coffee, I thought. I don’t know you and . . . What will people think?
    What people, Grace? A voice from inside me posed this question. I’d never heard the voice before. What people, indeed? So what if someone thought this boy was my—nephew? Simon dated women barely out of their teens and no one batted an eyelash.
    Why couldn’t I do the same? This boy—young man—was adorable and sexy and he looked at me with such intensity, but not the creepy kind, the kind that makes you go weak in the knees. It had been a very long time since a man had made me go weak in the knees.
    â€œSure,” I said. “Okay.”
    Alfonse smiled that lovely smile. He offered to carry my package and I let him. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk, protecting me from any cars that might leap the curb. He had been trained well. I wondered how old his mother was. And then I pushed that thought away.
    We found a little café, somewhat dingy, just down the block. There I learned that Alfonse had been born in Frankfurt, Germany, and that he’d been in Boston for a year, working as a graphic designer at a small firm owned by an American exchange student he’d met back in college.
    â€œSo,” I asked, “do you like it here in Boston?”
    Alfonse nodded. “Yes. I have work and there is much to do here for fun. But I miss my home. I am close to my sister and her children.”
    We talked