The Artist and the Actor – 1

 

It was early Monday afternoon when Colin paused to step back, tapping his chin with the end of the brush as he studied the painting. It needs… He started to dip the brush into the magenta paint on his palette then shook his head, restraining himself. If I try adding more I'll overwork it.

 

He knew that was true. He'd done it before with other paintings, although not recently. He'd learned to control his need to add just one more touch…or two, or ten.

 

"It's finished," he said under his breath. "It does what I wanted it to, so stop." With a brief smile, he covered the palette to keep the paint from drying until he could deal with it, and then took his brushes to the sink to wash them out.

 

After putting the brushes away, he left his studio—which used to be two bedrooms on the second floor until he'd had the wall between them removed to convert them into one large, airy space. Going downstairs to the kitchen, he wondered what to fix for a late lunch. His phone, turned off so he wouldn't be bothered by calls, was on the counter. Ignoring it for the time being, he made a sandwich, added some pickles to the plate, and sat down at the island to eat. When he finished and washed up, he finally turned the phone on to see if he had any messages—which he did. One was from his agent, two from the owner of the galley where he had a show opening at the end of the week. Ignoring his agent's message for the moment, he called the gallery owner.

 

"Michaelson Gallery, Thomas speaking. How may I help you?"

 

Colin snorted. "Since you know it's me, I think the question is, how can I help you?"

 

"Get the last two paintings over here so we can hang them," Thomas said, his voice tight with frustration.

 

"Tomorrow," Colin replied. "I just finished the final one."

 

"Colin…" He could envision Thomas shaking his head.

 

"Yeah, I know, my bad as the kids say. I promise, I'll have them there in the morning."

 

"See that you do."

 

"Have I ever not had them there in time?" Colin said to a dead phone.

 

He considered calling his agent, and didn't. He knew what the woman would say—that she'd gotten a call from Thomas and that Colin had better do as the man asked. Or you'll drop me? As if. I make you too much money, Vanessa.

 

He stuck the phone in his pocket, returned to his studio long enough to clean his pallet and then went back downstairs to the living room to find something to watch on TV that he hoped wouldn't put him to sleep. He made it halfway through before his eyelids began closing. Shutting it off, he headed up to bed. As he undressed, he paused to look at the pictures hanging between the dresser and the closet. Some were of him from openings at different galleries in the city. Others were of his family. As always, his gaze went to the one of his brother, taken a month before he'd been murdered by, as the police termed it, person or persons unknown.

 

That had happened ten years previously. Colin would never forget that night, or the days that followed. It was March of his senior year and he was home from college for spring break. He and Kenny, who was a year older, were supposed to meet at their friend Jim's house for a reunion barbecue he was throwing for people they'd gone to high school with.