Gala reached into their cabinet for the homemade blackberry preserves and grabbed a freshly-baked lemon meringue pie from atop the stove.
"Sally, would you fetch the biscuits outta the oven please?" she called through a double doorway from the screened-in porch.
Saldorini left reluctantly Aurora, his painting from a dream of God's where greens dripped from pinks onto an azure plate called here in Bristol " sky," and then splashed in lavender lace bands toward the divine hand right above a gilded plane of splotched grays and olives footed of organic clay.
"What's that?" Shelly inquired innocently.
"Your mother's brain." Sally shot with sudden alarum. "Why aren't you at practice?"
"Quit early. Everyone's got the flu."
Sally saw their plans for the evening settle into crimson strands forming in his mind's palette.
"Bring that box of oil pastels here, wouldja?" He glanced toward a rumpled carton pushed into the corner. Might as well mix the media to make it an interesting stretch toward the darkness curling already through the stained glass over their mottled marble mantle.
"I wish you wouldn't set up in here." Gala eyed gleamingly polished antique floorboards.
"You've said that before." Sally growled from multi-colored dahlias dancing along lilac fronds.
"That dropcloth needs replacing. It's getting worn." Gala frowned.
"Leave me the flip alone." Seeds, he'd add real seeds. And bits of cloth torn from the dropcloth. To give Aurora real dimension and movement.
"Don't you want to eat?"
"I do," Shelly dared into the gritty terseness jangling between her friends.
"Biscuits in the oven." Gala repeated, this time to Shelly.
"No, they're on the counter," Sal corrected.
"Cold biscuits." Gala summarized the evening so far.
281 words 1757 characters