The very first scene of Painting Celia used to be a lot different. We still met Celia as she was talking to her Mom on the phone, preparing food for the gang to come over later, but… well, you’ll see!
I liked the scene and thought you might like it too. I guess it’s not so much deleted as an alternate!
Thin slices keeled off the cold cabbage on Celia’s cutting board, satisfying in their precision. The knife’s controlled tick-tock against the wood kept pace with her mother’s wheedling litany.
“Mom,” Celia said into her cell phone, “you can’t just promise people I’ll pay their way on a cruise with you.”
She ignored the nagging ache from clenching the phone between shoulder and ear and concentrated on her recipe. Her father’s favorite Filipino saying bubbled up—when your mother throws stones at you, throw back bread. Well, she had no bread. Maybe cole slaw would do.
Mom’s bargaining rang in her ear. Celia’s blade hovered in the air, arrested.
“It’s not in your budget,” Celia countered. The cabbage was begging to be plunged into ice water, its sulfurous scent rising in a raw cloud. “Your credit card bill is already higher than we agreed.”
Scolding became brow-beating. The tip of the knife began to tremble. Celia set it on the marble counter with a faint clink, swept her cabbage slaw into the ready bowl, then picked a stray rubbery piece from her gray blouse.
Maybe she should agree to the cruise. Mom might get lost at sea.
Pain in her neck soared as she reached for crushed ice in the freezer. Celia whacked it in the sink, then dried her hands. The name-calling had started which meant Mom was close to ending the call.
“Let’s talk later,” Celia managed to interject, then ended the call with a chilled, numb fingertip. Hanging up on Mom was getting easier with practice.
Jaw clamped, Celia rolled her shoulders while she mixed the fine slaw into the ice. Her ringless hands were surprisingly brown against the pale shreds. She’d been lazy about sunscreen.
She slid the cabbage into the fridge and set a timer for one hour. Counters wiped. Sink dried. A spot of grease on the gas range caught her eye. Celia whisked to the kitchen island with a damp scrubber. The abrasive side hissed softly against the hot surface as she scoured, elbow cocked high to avoid touching the hot stove.
A glance at the oven timer showed nearly two hours to go on the ribs slowly roasting inside. Celia watched the number tick down one minute, then two.
You can afford it, her mother’s voice echoed. Why are you so selfish, Celia Rose?
Was there anything else to clean before Andrew and the rest showed up tonight? A couch pillow at the wrong angle, a teacup to put away, or…
And then we continue on with the chapter as you know it.
Do you want more deleted scenes? Let me know!
