Drawn to Love

By Michael Bracken

Every day last summer when Marcie and I had lunch in the park, we stopped to admire the work of a caricature artist who set up near a fence where he hung samples of his work. He usually displayed half-a-dozen caricatures that were never the same two days in a row. Some were of famous people, and some were of everyday people he had apparently drawn while awaiting paying customers.

“These are pretty good,” I told Marcie the first time we stopped, and she agreed.

We shared an office on the fifth floor of a skyscraper overlooking the west end of the park, and during the three years we’d shared office space we’d become best friends.

“Maybe we should have him draw us,” she suggested.

I laughed and shook my head because I didn’t want to see my prominent ears, usually hidden by my hair, drawn as Dumbo-like elephant ears. I said, “Another time.”

At first, we were more enamored of the caricatures than the artist, but eventually he caught my eye. He had finger-length black hair, a closely cropped beard, and a muscular build that told me his workout routine involved more than toting colored pencils and sketchpads to the park every day.

Soon we were greeting the artist each time we saw him. If not busy with a customer, he would smile and ask, “Are you going to sit for me today?”

“Not today, Sketch,” I would tell him, using the nickname Marcie and I had given him. “Maybe another day.”

Marcie and I usually sat on a park bench where we could watch the artist work. He always took a moment to ask his customers if they had any hobbies before he began, and once he started his pencil strokes were quick and confident. I’m not an artist, but if I were and if I drew a caricature of Sketch, I would emphasize his sparkling hazel eyes and the warm smile I had grown accustomed to seeing.

“He really wants to draw you,” Marcie said one afternoon after Sketch had once again asked if I were going to sit for him.

“He’s just trying to earn a few dollars,” I replied. We had settled onto our usual bench where we could watch him work. “That’s all.”

She shook her head. “I think you’re wrong,” she said. “He doesn’t look at me the way he looks at you.”

I pooh-poohed her suggestion that the artist looked at me any differently than he looked at other potential customers, but that didn’t stop her.

“I think Sketch likes you,” Marcie said the following Monday as we were returning to the office after lunch.

“I like him, too.”

“If you like him,” Marcie asked, “why don’t you say something? I’ll bet he’s single. He doesn’t wear a ring.”

“I couldn’t,” I said. “I’m not like that.”

“And that’s why you never date!” she insisted. “You aren’t willing to take a chance.”

I didn’t argue because she was right. I was too afraid of rejection to ever approach a man who appealed to me.

The next day Marcie went to lunch without me, claiming she had an important errand to run, and the day after that she grabbed my arm as we left the office building at noon. “You have to see this!”

She practically dragged me through the park to where the caricature artist sat. At first, I didn’t understand what I should be looking at and I wondered why the artist had only hung five caricatures that day.

“Are you completely clueless?” Marcie asked. “If a picture is worth a thousand words, what are these saying?”

When I looked again, I recognized myself in every one of that day’s caricatures, and not one of them showed me with ginormous ears. I saw myself sharing a candlelit dinner with a handsome bearded man. I saw us sharing a carriage ride. I saw us watching a concert. I saw us sharing a drink. I saw us walking hand-in-hand in the moonlight.

When I realized the man in the caricatures with me was Sketch, my pulse raced. I turned to face the artist and asked, “What’s this all about?”

He eyes were sparkling, and he was smiling, but behind him Marcie’s smile was even bigger. The artist flipped around his sketchpad and showed me the sixth caricature. He had drawn himself with a cartoon balloon above his head and the question, “Will you have dinner with me?”

“I—”

He stood and took my hand, sending my pulse into overdrive. “Well, will you?”

When I hesitated again, Marcie interjected, “After all I went through to set this up, you’d better say yes!”

I returned my attention to the artist, whose name I soon learned was Alex. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I will.”

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Michael Bracken (www.crimefictionwriter.com) has written romance and women’s fiction published in True Love, True Romance, True Story, and many other publications.