The Painter & the Pretty Girl

c h a p t e r t w o : george

Let all that you do be done in love.

1 Corinthians 16:14

THE ITALIAN SUNSHINE COULD do wonders for a man. But it couldn't erase the stain of guilt on my heart, or wash away the hurt I'd inflicted on my sister. No, greater miracles than that had been performed by far grander powers than the mere taste of amaretto and sight of the Mediterranean, as lovely as both were.

It was with these depressing thoughts in mind that I got out of bed that morning and hopped into the shower. As I towelled my hair dry with a brief but vicious rub—the salt air and breeze would dry it anyway—I caught sight of the dark circles under my eyes. The same eyes my sister had.

I'd left her. I shouldn't have, but I had. Her last words to me had been accompanied by the saddest smile, by the brightest tears falling. She'd never been a particularly emotional or expressive person, especially not after the death of our mother--but I had seen how my departure hurt her.

Wandering the globe for years had been thrilling at first, and it had been easy to put aside the thoughts of my demanding, stern, and micromanaging father, and even to cast away the sorrow of my sister, when I was telling myself that I was finally free. Free of demands, free of expectations to be someone I could never be, someone my mother had never wanted to be.

I had felt free at first. After a while, the globetrotting felt like nothing more than repetition. What had once been exciting--even making me feel like a swashbuckling pirate or a vagabond of old--was now nothing new. I'd seen all the tourist sites, heard every new sound of music, tasted each new flavour of culinary artwork at every new place. I'd sold some paintings, wandered through museums, and had begun to feel like I was living with a ghost--my father's--or maybe my own.

Until I'd met her yesterday.

Though, despite my last words to Georgia Philips, I doubted I'd see her again.

God certainly couldn't be that good. Not to me.

Shaving, I checked the battered appointment book I'd purchased at an airport eight months ago. Today, I had a job as a photographer for a prestigious magazine in Italy, since the magazine's editor had apparently liked my work enough (though I wasn't much of a photographer, preferring brushes and paint) to hire me. I only had the appointment book on my person, preferring to stay off the grid without any phones or computers. In reality, as much as I would have wanted to attribute the choice to a hipster lifestyle or some kind of radical digital minimalism, it was a coward's choice. The coward's decision to not have to face my father, or my sister.Until it was too late.

If it had been too late then, it was certainly too late now. Now that my father was ailing, now that he was dying, which was something I'd read in an interview he'd done in the business pages of the Montreal paper I'd picked up off the train in Toronto. I had been so close to home, yet so achingly far I could taste nothing but wind and exhaust.

Throwing on a flannel shirt, I dashed out the door to get a cup of espresso around the corner from my apartment. It wasn't much, but it didn't need to be when I wasn't staying for long. I never did.

My thoughts fell upon Georgia Philips once more as I sipped my bitter espresso, remembering how she'd never actually given me an answer before her friend, the redhead, had dragged her away. She'd looked at me like she wasn't sure how to respond, like the question I'd posed to her was in a foreign language she was learning and she was trying to puzzle out the words.

Or maybe that was the excuse I was giving myself for her rejection.

Finishing my coffee and pastry, I left a few euros on the table and jogged to catch a taxi toward the magazine's offices where the photoshoot would take place. My camera swung around my neck as I hopped onto the seat and gave the driver directions in rusty Italian. Fortunately, he spoke a smattering of English and the destination was fairly well-known in the city, so we didn't experience too many barriers.