The Painter Boy

Pine View was humming with pre-summer excitement on that late day in May. I closed the door of my cherry red Volkswagen Beetle, breathing in the humid, hot air. The hot Georgia sun was already burning the back of my neck since my hair was piled on top of my head. It wasn't even noon yet, either. 10 AM came early this morning, but business at Lottie May's was already booming. Lottie May's was my mother's dress shop that she named after me. My name is Charlotte May Williams, but my mother Magnolia always called me Lottie May. She loved dresses and she loved me, so Lottie May's dress store was opened when I was starting school. It was located in the smack middle of Pine View. Its pristine white bricks stood out proudly, the hot pink door welcoming all visitors new and old.

Lottie May's specialized in prom and wedding dresses. With prom season now out of the way, wedding season was hitting full force. The bells hanging above the door tinkled as I walked in and I heard Candie exclaim "Oh Lottie May, thank goodness you are here," followed by the popping of a big bubble gum bubble. Candie was my mother's best friend and she also happened to be my god mother. She reminded me a lot of Dolly Parton, if I was honest. Her huge, platinum blonde hair followed the motto she said often when helping brides and prom go-ers. 'Honey, the higher the hair, the closer to God.' She always had her lips painted a bright, fire truck red. She was the exact opposite of my modest, traditional mother, and I think that's exactly why they clicked the way they did.

Candie's eyes were frantic as she hurried over towards me. "Lottie, darlin', we have a Bridezilla in the dressing room and I know you're the only one who is going to be able to do anything with her; you're like your mother in that way. I always called it the Williams touch," she whispered wildly, her gum moving around crazily in her mouth as she shoved me towards the back dressing room.

That's when I heard it. Sobbing. Screaming. Snotting. Wonderful. "I look like a beached whale!" a shrill voice cried while other, quieter and somewhat frightened voices said "Jessalyn, you look beautiful!"

Ah. The Bride who was convinced she was fat but actually was smaller than my own size three. I rounded the corner, putting on my bravest face. "What seems to be the problem, Miss Jessalyn?" I asked smoothly, smiling at the back of a short, slender girl. She turned around and it was difficult for me to keep my smile from faltering since her face was red and blotchy from crying, not to mention absolutely covered in mascara.

"I am fat and I am not going to find a dress that will look right on me before my wedding... next month!" she wailed, throwing her hands up. I was waiting for her to stop her feet to complete the temper tantrum, but it ended there.

"Well, Miss Jessalyn, it appears that whoever had been helping you before was not showing you dresses that fit your frame..." I continued, moving over to begin taking her measurements. Whoever had dressed this girl had her swimming in fabric and her bust was causing the midsection of the dress to flow out and make her look pregnant. That was a struggle I would never know since I'm small all over, but I had seen it again and again in my years helping women find their dream dress.

Jessalyn finally calmed down and her family looked relieved. Two hours later we were finally ringing her up and she had settled on a dress that was similar to Cinderella's wedding dress. We'd had the dress in the store for awhile and I was proud that it was finally being sold to someone that filled it out perfectly. The woman leaving Lottie May's was nothing like the woman I saw as I stepped into that dressing room. She had washed the make up off of her face and instead of a horrifying scowl, there was a smile. That was what we loved to see at Lottie May's. A smile.

I had my own smile until I realized what time it was. It was nearing one o'clock. Daddy had asked me to be back to the house at half after noon. We were remodeling our home and he needed me to be home when the man who was doing the painting arrived. He wanted me to be there to explain what I had envisioned for my bedroom because he had no clue what he was talking about. "Candie, I have to go, my dad needed me home fifteen minutes ago!" I hollered towards the back, rushing towards the door and pushing the hair out of my eyes that had fallen down from the top knot bun I kept it in.

"That's fine, Miss Charlotte, tell David I said hello and you be careful," Candie responded, coming back from hanging the dresses that needed altered in the seamstresses room. She smiled brightly and waved as I ducked out the door and ran to my car. After burning my legs on the leather seats and my fingers on the metal clip on the seat belt, I was on my way home.

A few moments later, I was pulling into my place in the garage and sprinting through the door that connected the garage to the house. My father, David Williams, and I still lived in my childhood home in the nicer part of Pine View. It was a two story brick house, ivy climbing up the bricks. My mother always insisted on having magnolias planted in the front garden, and they still remained there today, but the rest of the house had gotten a little out of hand and was far darker than the bright, happy home I remembered as a child. My father and I had grieved immensely over my mother's death and the house's interior reflected that. This spring made eight years since my mother's passing and my father told me a few months ago, "Maggie wouldn't have wanted us living like this, Charlotte. I think in the spring we should remodel the house. It's time. I can practically hear her yelling at us to open some curtains and open a window," there was a smile on his face while he was talking that night. And I knew he was right. My mother would have been embarrassed at how we were carrying on. It was time.

"Daddy, I'm home!" I called, searching through the kitchen for him before I finally heard him talking to someone in the foyer.

"Yes, I want to hang a portrait of Magnolia in the foyer here that you can see right when you come in, I'd like the paint to match the peach of her sweater. I'll get you a copy of the photograph," my father said softly. I could imagine the small, sad smile on his face.

"Daddy," I said again before stopping dead in my tracks. My father said he was hiring a painter to paint the house since he was so busy with work, but when I think of painters I typically think of older men in paint splattered clothes with thick, white mustaches and crows feet.

I was half right.

Instead, a young man turned around to face me. He was what my mother would have described as tow headed. His hair was almost white. He had strong, broad shoulders and his clothes were white and splattered with a trillion different colors of paint. His jeans were torn at the knees and fit him in all the right places. He was simply beautiful. I didn't believe in calling boys beautiful, but nothing else would have described him. "You must be Miss Charlotte," he smirked, holding his hand out for me to shake.

I shook his hand and when his hand was wrapped around mine, I felt like I was being electrocuted. And in that moment, I knew that nothing was ever going to be the same.