Portrait

            “You’re sure?”

            “Yep.”  Sean tipped his head to one side, critically examining his cream-colored sheet of drawing paper.

            Bridgette signed and shifted in her chair.

            “Stop wiggling,” Sean ordered.

            Bridgette stilled obediently.  “But I don’t understand why you won’t...”

            “Because I don’t want to.”  Sean looked back and forth between his sister and the paper on the worktable in front of him, and sketched a few more lines into the drawing of Bridgette’s brown curls, which were hanging loosely over the arm of the chair.

            “But it’s only for a few hours,” Bridgette coaxed.

            Sean ignored her, focusing on catching the exact curve of her eyebrow.

            “You’ll have fun.”

            “How do you know?”  He rubbed his putty eraser across the eyebrow and tried again.  His friends couldn’t understand how he could focus so completely on his art and yet carry on a conversation, but he had always been able to do it, as long as he didn’t have to think too hard about the topic.  Arguing with his sister required no mental exertion.

            “Because I’m your sister,” Bridgette said haughtily.  “I know you better than anybody else alive.”  She scratched her nose with one pale pink fingernail, but quickly returned her hand to its former position dangling over the side of the big red armchair.  “Sorry.”

            “You should be,” Sean replied lightly, attacking the page with his eraser again.  “I have to redo that whole line.”  He wasn’t truly angry; he knew when he asked his sister to pose for him that she would not be able to sit still.  But he’d wanted to draw her for months, and he’d finally gotten the chance this weekend.  He didn’t want to lose a moment of it.

            “It’s a shame you’re being so stubborn,” Bridgette said too casually.  “Lindsey is a wonderful girl -- long, pretty hair, bright green eyes, good figure...”

            “Stop talking while I work on your jawline,” Sean replied.

            The silence drifted in waves around the pair, broken only by the soft scratching of Sean’s pencil on the paper.  After about five minutes, Sean spoke.  “I hate blind dates.  You know that, Bridge.  I don’t understand why you keep trying to set me up.”  He made two short strokes with the pencil and added, “You can talk again.”  The pencil drifted down the side of her neck and began on the neckline of the dress.

            “But this isn’t just any blind date.  I’m the one setting you up.”

            “Why does it matter who sets me up?  I’m the one who has to get dressed up and spend money to hang out with some girl I’ve never met before.”

            “But I’ve met her, and she is exactly your type.”  Bridgette’s voice was firmer now.

            Sean sighed as he flicked the dark pencil-point across the paper.  “How do you know my ‘type,’ little sister?”

            Bridgette giggled, a quick, high-pitched sound that caused Sean to jump and look up.

            “Sorry, but you’re just so funny.”  Bridgette tried to hold a straight face, but gave up after a moment.  “I’ve been watching every girl you’ve gone out with for six years
. . . or seven . . . how long have you been dating?”

            Sean erased the dark line he had made across the paper when he jumped.  “I was fifteen when I went on my first date.”

            “Eight years, then,” Bridgette said with a satisfied nod.

            “I’m glad you can add,” Sean retorted wryly.

            “Careful or I’ll start moving.”  Bridgette’s brown eyes flashed with mischief.

            Sean just raised an eyebrow.  “You promised.”

            “I know.”  Bridgette sighed.  “The point is that I know exactly the type of girl you like.”

            “How?”

            “From watching the ones that worked and the ones that didn’t.”  Bridgette shifted ever so slightly, but stilled at a glare from her brother.  “Tiffany was too flighty.  Julia was nice, but she wasn’t very attractive, and she was clingy.  Sara was too impressed by the football players, and Nicole was dumb as a rock.  Then you overreacted and went out with Rachel, who was so smart she made you look dumb.”

            “Gee, thanks,” Sean muttered.

            “Then was Melinda...”  Bridgette trailed off.  “She was your type.”

            Sean winced.  “Yeah.  But I guess I wasn’t hers.”  Melinda had dumped him more than a year ago, but he had only recently been able to think about her without sending pain through his chest.

            “Then Elizabeth was obnoxious and Deanne was too busy for you,” Bridgette finished, naming the two girls Sean had rebounded with after Melinda left.  “And you haven’t been on a date since then.”

            “Deanne and I didn’t break up that long ago.”

            “It’s been almost six months,” Bridgette replied sharply.

            Sean looked up from the paper.  “Has it really?”

            Bridgette’s face softened.  “You’ve been wrapped up in your art, Sean.  You need to get out.  Go meet people; do things.”

            “I get out,” Sean protested weakly, but he knew that Bridgette had a point.  He hadn’t been on a date in months, and he hadn’t done anything other than draw, paint, eat, sleep, or watch TV in at least a week.  “So, what’s Lindsey like?  Other than pretty, I mean.”

            Bridgette grinned.  “She’s a senior at U of I, so she’s only a little younger than you.  She’s a business major, and she’s going to work as a receptionist at a vet’s office after she graduates.  Eventually, she wants to open a pet store.  She’s got a good sense of humor, she’s independent, and she’s been single for a while now, but she’s not desperate.”

            Bridgette paused, and Sean rolled his eyes.  “What’s the best part that you’re dying to tell me?” he asked sarcastically.  He recognized her expression.

            She pouted, but only for a moment.  “The best part is that she loves art!  I told her that you were an artist, and she was so excited.  She says she would be an artist if she had any skill at all.”

            “Everybody has skill,” Sean replied automatically, caught up in the complexity of the curve of Bridgette’s fingers.  “It’s a matter of practice and a little teaching.”  He stopped in mid-stroke, realizing what he had said.  Glaring firmly at his sister, he said, “That does not mean I am volunteering to teach her.”

            “You said it, not me,” Bridgette pointed out.

            Sean grunted and went back to drawing the hand.  Amazingly, Bridgette remained silent for almost seven minutes.  And then it was he who spoke.  “If I agreed, would we have to do anything fancy?” he asked.

            “Nope.”  Bridgette was grinning so widely, he wondered if something in her would pop.  “You could just take her out to dinner.  If it goes badly, at least you can focus on your food.”

            “Yeah.”  Sean fell silent again, still concentrating on Bridgette’s hand, which was now twitching.  He sighed and set the pencil down for a moment, rubbing his eyes.  “If I agree to go, will you hold still until I’m done?”

            “Yes!”  Bridgette immediately froze.

            An hour and a half later, Bridgette hopped off the chair, stretched, and gave Sean Lindsey’s number.  Ten months later, Bridgette walked down the aisle as the maid of honor in their wedding.

 

 

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