The Dream Canvas Read online

  “Touché. You didn’t answer my first question, though,” I reminded him gently. “I think I’m going with the paella a la valenciana tonight.”

  “To be honest, I am a big fan of your work. My sister brought a few of your paintings home after her trip down here. When I saw them I had to have them. They reminded me of my dreams…” he said and folded his hands on top of the table. “Oh, and what is paella a la valenciana? This is all Greek to me.”

  “First of all, it’s Spanish not Greek,” I attempted to bat my eyelashes at him so he knew I wasn’t being a total bitch. Then I second guessed my method of flirting. People don’t bat their eyelashes anymore, do they? Seemed like something a woman from the 1950s might’ve done when her beau came a-calling. Grandma might’ve been proud of me.

  “And second, they remind you of your dreams? That’s really odd because when I painted them, they were inspired by actual dreams of mine.” Was he a mind-reader and a stalker? No, just a hot firefighter who I noticed was not wearing a wedding band. Thank God. The Lord knew there was enough married men running around Tampa cheating on their wives. We didn’t need another one.

  “Okay. This is a little creepy, don’t you think? That we’re dreaming the same dreams? And is it coincidence that my sister brought those paintings back to New York with her?” He waited for my response. The dimples in his cheeks made an appearance every time he smiled. A little voice inside me was screaming, make him smile again! I never thought I’d find a guy with dimples attractive let alone as magnetic as this guy. I was being drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Like a fat kid to a doughnut. Like a zombie to a fresh pile of raw meat. I was ready to dig in.

  “I guess it’s creepy. Just coincidence though. And I doubt they’re the exact same dreams.” I put emphasis on the exact part. Then I tried to change the subject. “The paella a la valenciana is a slow-cooked rice dish with seafood and pork. I think they use curry and Spanish spices. It’s pretty damn good.” The bust line of my dress was sagging a bit so I pulled it back up before Isaiah looked up from his menu.

  Finally, the bouncy young waitress clicked over to take our drink order. I spouted off an order for a glass of sangria and Isaiah ordered an imperial stout. Maybe I should have ordered something stronger. Like a jug of tequila. Or an elephant tranquilizer. No matter the strength of alcohol, I couldn’t stop from feeling sheepish around this man. Were my knees still shaking? I reached down to check them. Yep. It was a good thing I could hide them under the tablecloth. If he saw how bad they were shaking, he might’ve thought I was having a seizure.

  “So who is your favorite artist of all time? Let me guess…Picasso? Dali? Rothko?”

  “All predictable guesses. This may surprise you, but I don’t have a favorite. There’s too many for me to choose, and I happen to favor realism over abstract. I mean, I paint abstract but my taste leans towards realism. Lately I’ve been into Chardin’s work, for example.”

  Isaiah grinned from ear to ear, “You are something of an anomaly, Dottie. How are we just meeting each other?” his full lips turned up at the corners. They were just begging me to kiss them. And how did he smell so amazing? With every move he made, the smell of a mountain overlooking the ocean wafted in my direction and made me drift off into a world where there was only me and a dozen of him.

  “Well, I’ll be honest with you. You’re not typically the type I’d go for. Also, you live a thousand miles away, so how would we have met?” Insert foot in mouth. It was the truth though. Usually I went for guys with tattoos, piercings, long wily hair and no motivation. Not a firefighter with muscles, dimples and a sweet demeanor like Isaiah McNally.

  “Well, you’re not typically the type of woman I go for either, but hey it’s always nice to try something new, right? Speaking of new things, I think I’m going to order this paella la valenciata too.”

  “It’s valenciana. With an N,” I corrected him.

  “Right, I knew that,” he replied.

  His cheesy humor reminded me of my father’s. My Dad would’ve liked this guy. He always told me when I grew up I needed to be with a real man who would love and protect me. If this guy was anything like the vibe he was putting off, he could’ve been that man. A lot of achy feelings started to rise to the surface rather quickly. These emotions were very different from what I’d felt with Rory. They stung as they were coming up. Made my ribcage ache.

  “So what’s your take on our dreams syncing up?” he broke the momentary silence just as the server came back to take our meal orders. We both ordered the paella, and I’d hoped the conversation was going to switch to something a little less awkward. I wanted to ignore the idea that our dreams were the same. I never answered him.

  “What do you think, Dottie? What are we going to do about this situation?” he asked again with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. He reached out across the table and took my hand in his. His skin was warm and inviting. I could feel the rough callouses covering his palm. No doubt from wielding an axe or a firehose. I got a vision of Isaiah McNally with his shirt off, sliding down a pole. Instantly a burning wave of goosebumps rushed up my thighs. I shook the fantasy from my head and tried to concentrate on what he was asking me. I pulled away and folded my hands in my lap. This was moving way too fast.

  “There’s nothing to do. Just let it go. Let’s have a nice meal together.” I didn’t know what to say to this guy. I didn’t know what to think about what he was saying to me – his dreams matching mine? Hard to believe. Sounded like a line to me, and my Mother would’ve agreed. Isaiah nodded and sipped at his beer.

  After a couple glasses of booze, our server brought out a huge bowl of steaming hot seafood and rice. We dug in. We didn’t speak for a while as we both scarfed food into our faces. I ate like I hadn’t eaten in days. He ate like I pictured a firefighter would, shoveling food into his mouth so fast you hardly noticed he had eaten at all. I wondered if he grew up with a lot of siblings and had to fight for his meal.

  If it wasn’t for the meal, the date might’ve ended already. My confusion over Isaiah’s true intentions would typically have been enough to drive me away. My plate was almost clean before either of us spoke again.

  “I realize you don’t know me, and that I’m coming on strong. I also realize that I live nowhere close to you and that you and I are just a pipe dream, but can’t you just let loose and have fun with me? Can’t we just be two single people who share the same dreams and interests? I’m not asking you to do anything out of the ordinary here. Let’s just enjoy each other’s company.”

  Wow, this guy was good. I wondered how many other women he’d seduced with this same pick-up line. Muscular arms, a dimpled smile, and smooth words might have caught me like an unsuspecting bug in a venus flytrap before, but I’ve lived through a hostage situation by the name of Rory. And I’ve come out on the other side. I know what it’s like to be manipulated, used and abused by a man. And I wasn’t about to let it happen again. Especially since I actually felt something for this man. Something I didn’t want to feel. Feelings can be dangerous little things. I refused to be one of those women who allowed her emotions to cloud her judgment.

  “How do you know I’m single?” I asked him. For all he knew I could’ve been married to the mayor.

  “I’m assuming you are, because you aren’t wearing a ring, and you wouldn’t be on a date with me if you were taken.”

  “Good point. However, I had a fiancé up until recently. And you never said this was a date,” I couldn’t believe I was bringing up Rory. Who talks about their exes on a first date? I do, I guess.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. But not too sorry, because now I’ve got a chance. So who is this loser and why did he leave,” he replied.

  “His name is Rory. I have no idea why he left. He just up and took off one day and hasn’t come back. He was always a flake.”

  “Did this experience inspire you to paint a picture, perhaps? It’s Never Play-time?” Isaiah asked.

  “How did you…neve
r mind,” I was impressed he’d actually paid attention to the themes in my work. Maybe he wasn’t lying to me. His foot brushed against the side of mine, and instead of recoiling, I let it stay.

  “Look, Isaiah. I think you’re a really nice guy, but I’m just not in the best state emotionally right now.”

  “Like I said, I’m not expecting anything of you. This is just a casual meeting between two people who enjoy art, remember? And if you’d like to call it a date, we’ll call it a date. If not, no biggie,” he lifted the glass to his mouth. His beer was almost gone.

  “Okay. You’re right. I’ll relax and try to enjoy myself. Besides, it’s been awhile since I’ve been out with anyone. And we can call it a date, if you’d like to.”

  “Good. Let’s toast to that.” He held up his glass of beer, and I held up my third glass of sangria. Our glasses clinked. I smiled in spite of myself. This man was going to be something I couldn’t resist. As much as I wanted to keep my emotions on lock-down, I decided to liberate them from their cage for just one night. Even if it meant this man would be the death of me - at least it would be a pleasurable death.

  We had finished our meals, and I was sipping on my fourth glass of sangria. The server just kept refilling my glass, and I wasn’t arguing with her. The sweet, fruity taste had contrasted well against the salty, savory Cuban dish, reflecting the contrast between Isaiah’s fervor for art and his raw masculinity. Salty and sweet.

  The families and couples around us had changed at least twice since we’d been there. The server finally brought over the check. Before I could pick it up, Isaiah scraped it off the table and handed over his card. I truly didn’t expect him to pay the bill. Being Rory’s fiancé meant many date-nights where I paid the bill. Not that I minded. I’ve never been one of those women who thought men should always pay. It is the twenty-first century, for crying out loud.

  “Thank you for dinner. It’s been fun talking about art with someone other than my cats for once.”

  “Thank you for taking a chance on a stranger you met online. It’s not often I get to go on dates and have a good time. Hell, it’s not often I go on dates in general.” Such bullshit. Some of the stuff coming out of his mouth is just too good to be true. A good-looking firefighter from New York that doesn’t go on dates often? Somehow I found that very hard to believe.

  “Can I walk you to your car?”

  “I don’t drive. I don’t even own a car, actually.”

  “How do you get around then? You all don’t have a subway here, do you?” he replied incredulously.

  “I walk or ride my bike. If I have to go far, I take the bus,” I shrugged my shoulders. “I’ve always been one to try to help the environment when I can.”

  “I could’ve guessed that.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It just means you seem like you’re into the Earth and all. Trust me, it’s not a bad thing.”

  Returning with Isaiah’s credit card, the server thanked us and made sure to touch Isaiah’s arm before prancing away from the table. Really, lady? While the man’s clearly on a date? Some women just don’t have any class.

  “Yes, I’m a hippie if that’s what you’re getting at. And what are you? Some meathead firefighting hipster? I’ll bet your closet’s full of flannel and ugly sweaters.” Could he take the heat? Any man I’m with has to be able to handle a lot of shit-talk.

  “Hipster?” He repeated. “So just because I have a beard and wear flannel that makes me a hipster? What are we in high school? I’m just a lowly firefighter living in Queens, trying to make ends meet and raise my kids. And I happen to like art. If that makes me a hipster, then oh well. You’ll be the hippie and I’ll be the hipster.”

  We spent another five minutes talking about his kids and his difficult divorce. A daughter named Brittany and a son named Ben. Cynthia was the bitch who cheated on him and broke his heart. He didn’t tell me that. I figured it out by his body language. I was opening up to this guy before I could even stop myself. It just felt right. He felt natural.

  We ended up leaving the restaurant on a high note. High on life. High on each other.

  Chapter 10

  Dottie

  As we pushed the restaurant’s heavy doors open, the sticky Florida air smacked us in the face. The smell of a cigarillo swirled out from an open bar, and we could hear the laughs of drunken college kids bouncing off the city walls. I couldn’t help but stare at Isaiah. Once I even pinched myself just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming or tripping on ‘shroom tea. I’d had so many dreams where people seemed to be real and then disappeared in the blink of an eye. This had to be one of those dreams. A man like Isaiah McNally just didn’t exist in my world, and if he had he never would’ve been interested in me. Maybe he’d have been interested in climbing into bed with me, but nothing more than that. Just a quick bang.

  “Since you don’t have a car, can I walk you home? I have to make sure no one messes with you. Seems like these people get a little nuts at night.”

  “Yes, there’s something about the air here that makes everyone want to get so wasted they wake up in an alley somewhere with no pants, lying in a pool of hypnotiq-flavored cheeseburger vomit. People make stupid decisions in Ybor City. Like I said, it’s something in the air that sucks the intelligence right out of people’s brains.”

  “What’s with the chickens?” Isaiah inquired. Everyone who visited Ybor City wanted to know why there were chickens free-ranging in the streets. They never bothered me much, and I was so used to seeing them I barely noticed they were there. The only time I did notice the chickens was when they’d wake me up before my alarm clock in the mornings. Or if I was particularly hungry and craving meat.

  “They’ve been here for centuries, apparently. It’s kind of like if you go to Cuba or Puerto Rico, they have them there, too.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “If we had chickens in New York, I’m sure they’d be washing windows and peddling for money by now.” We passed by the seventh bar since leaving the Columbia and Isaiah asked, “Another sangria?”

  “Screw the sangria, I need a whiskey!” I grabbed his hand and pulled him inside. The wood on the bottom of my sandals slapped against the tile floor of a local Irish pub. The place was packed.

  I was out. I figured I might as well enjoy it while it lasted. I had to stop feeling sorry for myself. Rory left and he wasn’t coming back this time. It was better that way. Besides, this man was beyond gorgeous and was actually interested in hanging out with me. Maybe even hopping into bed with me. Time to live a little.

  “Whiskey? Are you my mother or my date?” he poked a finger into my ribs.

  “Poking? Really? Are you my brother or my date?” I snappily retorted. “Your Mother knows how to drink like a real woman.”

  As we stood at the bar waiting to order, Isaiah leaned over and covered my lips with his. It caught me by surprise, but I didn’t fight it. Every ounce of my being was saying to give in. Let it happen. This kiss was unlike any other kiss I’d ever had. His lips were soft and slowly moved in rhythm with mine. A feeling of complete bliss welled up inside of me. His arms wrapped around my waist. He pulled me close to him. So close I could feel the pulse in his chest against mine. If I wasn’t careful this man might completely destroy me. For a minute I wished we weren’t in public, and we were in a bedroom somewhere. Twisted up in one another. Bare skin sliding over bare skin.

  “What can I get you two lovebirds?” the bald bartender yelled over the boisterous crowd, pulling us out of our time lapse. My cheeks flushed.

  “I’m going to have a red bull and vodka, and she’d like an Irish whiskey on the rocks. Do you have Jameson?” The bartender nodded and sauntered off to get our drinks. He wasn’t in one bit of a hurry even though the line to the bar snaked around and out the front door.

  Isaiah’s attention turned back to me. A light shined from his eyes as they peered deep into mine. I hadn’t noticed just how icy blue his eyes were until that moment. As clear co
balt as the ocean waves in the Caribbean. More vibrant than a freshly polished sapphire. Pure perfection. Even in the dimly lit bar, they glowed. And the man behind those eyes? Mysterious. Probably not trustworthy. Was I falling for this guy, or was it just the booze and pheromones talking? I told myself I needed to pull it together. It was a one-night stand, not the ending scene from Sixteen Candles. I had to stop ogling this guy like some bimbo boy-band groupie. Next thing I knew I’d be wearing a cheap midriff top with the words “Team Isaiah” screen-printed across the chest. No fucking thank you.

  “Hey, you alright?” Isaiah nudged me with his elbow, and I realized I had zoned out and hadn’t heard a word he’d said. Not that you could hear much over the crowd anyway.

  “Oh yeah, sorry. I couldn’t hear you over the noise.” I lied. I was happy he couldn’t read my mind.

  “Yeah right,” he yelled over the crowd. “So I know you didn’t want to talk about it earlier but maybe you’ll talk about it now that I’ve gotten you drunk.”

  “I’m not drunk!” At least not until I start slurring my words.

  “Okay…buzzed. Anyway, I wanted to ask you about the last painting you did. The one with the two people on horseback. Was that a dream, too?”

  I gave up. Might as well answer his questions. “Yes it was a dream, and I’d had it the night before painting it.”

  Not a word out of Isaiah’s mouth. If we weren’t in a bar, there would have been one of those long, awkward silences between the two of us. The kind where you can hear crickets chirp and pins drop.

  Then a girl who looked way too young to be in a bar walked by, tripped over Isaiah’s foot and spilled her cold drink all down the front of me. A stream of blood-red cranberry juice ran down my right boob, trickled down my stomach and into the front of my underwear. Great.

  “Oh my God! I am so sorry,” she said as she picked herself up and grabbed a soggy, used napkin off the bar. She was so drunk she started blotting the juice off my boobs, not realizing what it was she was patting so brazenly. Pieces of peanut shells that had been stuck to the napkin now clung to the front of my dress like gross little hitchhikers. The girl looked so young, I almost asked her why she was out past curfew. She should’ve been home doing her social studies homework, not out at some sleazy bar.