Chapter One of Painting Celia

CHAPTER ONE: Excerpted from Painting Celia (Incubadora Book 1) by Maya Bairey

Selfish? Really?

“We’ll have to talk later, Mom.” Celia ended the phone call, cutting off her mother mid-objection.

Her fingers trembled, clenching the phone tightly. Nothing made those calls better. Hanging up was getting easier with practice, at least.

What more could she do? She bankrolled her mother’s comfortable life and tried to act the part of attentive daughter. It wasn’t enough. There was always a new need.

Today’s request was a first. Mother wanted her to pay for two friends to join her on a cruise. A cruise! She’d already told her friends it was no problem. Celia explained it was indeed a problem, then braced for the browbeating.

Mom did her shouting, and Celia ended the call once the name-calling started. The usual.

She needed to do something productive, clear her mind.

A spot of grease on the gas range caught her eye and Celia whisked across the kitchen. Heat from the oven had baked it on, but a hard scrubbing won out. The timer showed nearly two hours to go on the ribs slowly roasting inside. Celia watched the number tick down one minute, then two.

But you can afford it, her mother’s voice echoed. How can you be so selfish, Celia Rose?

Right. Snap out of it!

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…a scan of her vast white living space put an end to that hope. Not one item out of place.

She hated that moment each day when she ran out of jobs. Even worse was when it coincided with one of Mom’s calls.

Nothing left for her inside, Celia decided to swim. The backyard pool was convenient when all else failed, and gainful exercise could use up a whole hour.

Wrapping her wavy hair into a tawny topknot, Celia slipped out the sliding glass door and padded down the sloped lawn to her pool house. Glossy dust-free shelves stood laden with folded towels and baskets of sunscreen. No tasks to do here either.

She stripped down and draped her clothes on the neat daybed, checking the distant view of downtown Los Angeles through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The air was less smoky today. Wildfire season seemed to be coming to a close. Thank goodness for autumn.

The sun-blocking film on the pool house windows created a faintly-purpled mirror in which she could see herself applying sunscreen.

Not terrible for just past forty. The daily laps were staving off the inevitable sag.

Maybe a cruise would distract Mom from calling so often?

Stop thinking about it! Her mother would have to accept ‘no’ for once.

Celia stepped from the pool house onto the blazing flagstone pool surround, nude but dutifully protected from the baking sun. Palm trees and pricey greenery hid her yard from the houses perched on either side. Up here in the canyon, everyone could afford to face the city view and not their neighbors.

The soles of her feet burned, and tickles scampered over her skin as the sun dried the fine hairs on her body. This final summer heatwave was lingering. Celia would rather swim at night in the cool darkness, but she didn’t get to pick when she needed refuge.

She drew a deep breath.

No thinking about her mother, no thinking about money, no thinking of the hours left to fill today. No thinking at all.

With a grace from long practice, Celia dove into distraction.

•  •  •

León stood to pace again, covering the same fifteen feet of Andrew’s dim apartment. He ran out of space, again, at the window overlooking the courtyard below. The glass blazed with a painful afternoon glare. The shadowed pool, two floors down, could barely be seen.

His own orange-washed reflection looked back at him, clearer than anything outside. Arms crossed, brow furrowed—his father would call him sulky if he saw him now. ¡Tranquilo! Relax.

León leaned into the reflection, shielding his eyes and pressing his forehead to the hot glass. The sun would slip behind the rooftop any minute now.

The pool below was deserted and still. Who would swim in a courtyard that got shade all afternoon? The dusky water reflected the terra cotta walls in a wonderful mix of colors, blues and oranges blending into a surprising purple. He could match that with a mix of rose violet paint, primary cyan, a little white.

A glance at his shabby boxes of painting gear unpacked in the corner provoked a low grumble. How long until he could spread them out and get to work? Missing opportunities like this hurt.

He looked back down as motion drew his eye. A lone dark-haired toddler stooped in the shallows, rousing waves of reflected color with chubby hands. Someone was watching that kid, right? Oh, there, a bored mother in the shade.

Ah, but look!

The moment was made for a canvas. The orange angles above, cool purpled shadows below, ripples ringing a stray baby patting at the water.

Dammit!

This was why he’d come to LA, to paint colors like this, moments like this. He needed to get unpacked so he didn’t miss them. The light down there was already changing.

“Andrew,” he called out, getting a noise in response from deeper in the cramped apartment. “What if I don’t go out with you tonight? I could get out the small easel and do some painting while you’re gone.”

“You should meet people out here,” came the reply. “And I know you, once that easel’s out, it’ll stay out. There’s just no room.”

León scowled again at his useless boxes, an arm’s length away from his bedroll on the couch.

“Just come with me to Celia’s tonight,” Andrew called. “Tomorrow, I can help you look for an apartment.”

León tucked his hair behind an ear, heading back to the couch to sit heavily. He did need Andrew’s help.

Andrew came into the front room, tall and lean, running a hand over his freshly shaved head. His clothes were more stylish than usual, a white shirt gleaming against his earthy brown skin, and—dude, cologne? Wasn’t this supposed to be a casual backyard barbecue they were going to?

León’s scowl deepened. “Do I have to dress up for this?”

“Nah,” Andrew grinned. “I just like looking good.”

“Your head looks like a big brown egg.”

“And you look homeless. I’ve got another razor if you want to clean up that scruff.”

León slouched deeper into the couch, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

“Come on, this is my crew,” Andrew said. “Don’t put off meeting them. They’re artists too. Trevor can introduce you at like ten galleries.”

Well, that would make going worth it.

“You sure he won’t mind helping?” León asked. “Didn’t he break up with you last year?”

Andrew shook his head as he gathered his phone and wallet. “You’re thinking of Tom, and he was earlier. Last year I was dating Celia.”

Right. The woman whose house they were going to. Andrew’s ability to stay friends with his exes was legendary.

If this Trevor person could introduce him around, he could sell a painting. That would buy some time. León only had enough money to last a few months, and there was no way he’d slink back to New York that quickly.

León smoothed down his rumpled T-shirt. Tranquilo.

Fine, he’d meet these friends of Andrew’s. And then paint! The buildings and bridges back home had lost their magic, but this new coast had things he’d never seen. If he could just get some space! And a subject. And inspiration. Easy. He had a whole month to discover the right raw, authentic shapes.

“Are you thinking about painting again?” Andrew asked. “Dude. You were more laid back the last time you visited.”

León shook his head, finally cracking a smile. “I didn’t have deadlines then.” He jumped up from the couch again. “Let’s get this social shit over with. I’m not changing clothes. Let’s just go.”

Andrew gave him an easy grin and reached for his car keys.

•  •  •

Kelsey was first to arrive at Celia’s after work, shedding her slim jacket and canary yellow heels, slinging them as usual toward the nearest sofa. “Ten hours in those shoes,” she said, nursing one foot, balancing on the other.

Celia closed her eyes, savoring the fuss and disorder. Kelsey always brought a little life into the stale house.

“I am starving, Celia,” she sang. She danced in a circle, arms wide, then closed her eyes and followed her nose into the kitchen. “Is that beef I smell?”

“It’s just ribs,” Celia said, opening the fridge. Kelsey’s preferred ginger ales were keeping cold behind the white wine.

“You made all those sides, too,” Kelsey said, crowding close behind to peek. “Potato salad? Real coleslaw! So, we’re having actual barbecue tonight? I was getting used to curry and French stuff.”

“I wanted to keep things simple.” Celia closed the door with her elbow, handing the drink off to Kelsey. “Andrew’s bringing that guy, remember.”

Simple. Ha. It had taken days to assemble this meal. She’d invented ways to fill those empty hours, toasting and hand-grinding spices, mixing vinegars for the right tang. Stupid behind-the-scenes flourishes no genuine cook would bother with. Maybe it would make the food special, though?

No one likes a show-off, Celia Rose.

Kelsey sipped the ginger ale but eyed Celia’s tightly wrung fingers. “Honey, relax,” she said. “We’ll all be here to talk to Andrew’s new guy. You can just sit back if you don’t want to join in.”

Right. Celia shook out her hands. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’m okay.”

Who would be scared of a friend of Andrew’s?

Kelsey picked up the platter of ribs to take out back. “The guys will all just talk art anyway.”

Celia shook her head. “You saw Trevor’s not coming, right? It’s just us and Andrew.”

Kelsey shrugged. “So, we’ll talk about your art list.”

The doorbell rang.

“Not my weird list, please,” Celia said as she went to answer.

She opened her front door to Andrew’s silhouette on her shady front steps, the sun on the trees behind him. Was that…cologne? He’d dressed up, and his gleaming grin widened as he saw her noticing.

“Hey, girl,” he said.

She shook her head at him with a faint smile. Charming Andrew forgot he was an ex sometimes.

A few feet behind him, overshadowed in nearly every measure, hovered this New York friend Andrew had brought.

He stood stiffly, hands shoved into the faded pockets of his loose jeans, his lived-in hoodie zipped up despite the heat. Seeing her head turn to him, he lifted his chin, his black eyes brooding and skeptical. Then, sighing, he shook his head faintly as he looked her up and down. Pulling his hands from his pockets, he ran one through unruly shoulder-length black hair and pursed his lips. The other hand he raised in a trifling wave.

Celia froze. React! Be polite!

She took too long. It grew awkward, so she just looked away.

•  •  •

León eyed the muted woman judging him from the ornate doorway. This was who Andrew had dressed up for? This gray-clad girl?

Something about the way she wavered in the entry, hanging against the door, felt young. On closer look, though, she was a little older than him. A little shorter. Ordinary. He would never have noticed her on the street, honestly.

Her poker face was blankly skilled, though her coppery skin and tilted eyes told their own story. He watched her solemn gaze take in his half-hearted wave, then glide back to Andrew, expressionless. León almost cracked a smile—it was so silently regal. This little queen.

“Celia, this is León,” Andrew said to her, breaking the silence. He turned to León, pointing back. “That’s Celia.”

“You don’t say,” León said.

“Come in,” she said, fading back into the hall. “We’re taking the food out back.” Andrew draped an arm around her shoulder and walked with her through the plain entry, León trailing behind.

The hallway opened into a huge combined kitchen and living room, the low sun flooding through a wall of west-facing windows, painting great temporary orange triangles on the bare white interior.

What did this woman have against color? Her house was as unadorned as she was. It felt like a hotel, spacious and manicured but lacking personality.

Andrew picked up a tub of iced bottles from the kitchen island as soon as he reached it, Celia opening the sliding glass door to the backyard for him. There was no standing on ceremony, apparently.

León didn’t see anything else to carry out, so just smiled as he passed through the door after Andrew. She glanced outside as he passed, casually skipping the eye contact. Not regal, rude!

He emerged onto a narrow backyard but stopped dead as he saw the bejeweled view.

Jesus!

He held his breath, absorbing the unexpected colors and shapes. A glowing swimming pool hugged a wrought iron fenced retaining wall overlooking a spectacular view of downtown LA. The setting sun, directly before them, bathed the yard in an orange blaze. A low, rectangular pool house made of windows sat to the right, mirroring every color back at him.

This, he could paint. The dusky slopes, that star-strewn city, and the luminous still water under a fiery sunset.

The woman, Celia, passed him to walk down the sloped lawn. She and Andrew were headed for a heavy table to the left, already laden with covered platters. Behind it sat a gathering of low chairs encircling a rosy brick firepit. A shapely sun-kissed blond awaited them there.

León followed, feeling sulky again. Another painting missed.

Andrew set the drinks tub on the table with a hearty crash of partially melted ice. Then, nodding at the wood stacked ready in the firepit, he glanced at Celia.

“Not enough to do today? Usually, I build that.” She shrugged, looking away. With a shake of his head, Andrew pointed at León and the blond woman in turn. “Kelsey, León,” he said.

The blond smiled and handed him a cold bottle of beer on her way back up to the house. León sidled out of the way while the others bustled around, bringing out salad bowls and lighting the fire. Everyone knew what to do but him.

He tuned out their fuss and watched the sunset, thumb tapping impatiently against his thigh. On the drive up the canyon, around twisty hairpin roads hemmed on all sides by enigmatic private houses and elaborate gates, the low sun hadn’t hit his face once. It was blocked intentionally, he realized.

Hoarding the expensive view. It was immoral.

A lull behind him drew his attention, and he turned to find an empty plate being handed to him by the blond. Kelsey.

“All right!” Andrew said. “Let’s see what exotic dish—hey, this is barbecue!”

“Not barbecue,” Celia corrected, standing by and watching plates being filled. “It’s just ribs cooked in the oven.”

“Just, ha!” Andrew said, carrying a plate to a chair by the fire. “Nothing you cook is ‘just’ anything, girl.”

Kelsey followed with her own plate. “You can always count on Celia to out-cook anyone,” she lilted.

León saw Celia go still at the end of the table, her eyes darting quietly across the ground. The tension in her shoulders belied that persistent poker face. She didn’t like being singled out.

He placed a rib on his plate, then leaned in to her. “What’s wrong with showing off anyway?”

She inhaled sharply, snapping to attention, finally meeting his eyes.

He gave her a casual smile and turned to the firepit with his food.

•  •  •

Plates empty, fire illuminating the little seating area, Celia sat back and tried to be invisible. New people were so hard for her.

“You can meet Trevor next time, León,” Andrew promised, peeling the label from his beer bottle. “I wish he’d been here.”

Kelsey looked up from where she draped nearly sideways in her chair. “That cologne was probably for him.”

Andrew made a face at her as she poked him with an outstretched foot.

“Too bad Trev’s off working,” he said. “He keeps you too busy to cause trouble.”

“Me! You’re the one who—” She squealed as Andrew touched her foot with his cold beer.

Celia watched their antics, grateful. Let Andrew and Kelsey provide the entertainment.

León was leaning forward, elbows on knees, head low. The firelight shone off that curtain of dark hair, hiding his face.

How had he known she was worried about showing off earlier? No one else had. If they had, they wouldn’t have teased, right?

When León rubbed the back of his neck and looked up, Celia sank back, deeper into the shadows. He tapped Andrew’s arm, his face damp and shiny in the firelight.

“Dude,” Andrew said, sitting up and leaning toward him. “You feel okay?”

León shook his head. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Andrew stood, holding out a hand to his friend and pulling him out of the low chair.

“I’ll show you. Anyone need anything from the house?” Andrew didn’t wait for an answer but began the walk up the lawn, shepherding León ahead of him.

“Bring my jacket!” Kelsey called.

Celia’s gaze followed as the two dimmed into silhouettes against the lit house, one tall and one…stooped over? León didn’t just want the restroom, did he? She rose to go after them.

She caught up as Andrew opened the patio door. In the light from the house, León looked pale and sweaty.

“Are you okay?” she asked. He shook his head, arms held low across his stomach. Celia and Andrew exchanged an alarmed look. León’s face had turned gray awfully fast.

“I get this sometimes from shellfish,” he said, “but…”

Celia’s stomach lurched. Shellfish.

“But we ate ribs,” Andrew said, watching her. Celia shook off the shock, putting a hand under León’s elbow and walking him to the bathroom herself.

“León, there was shrimp in the food tonight. Are you allergic?”

“Not allergic,” he muttered. “Later. I’ll tell you later.” He went in, kneeling on the floor, then kicking feebly at the door until it closed.

Andrew stared at Celia. “There was no shrimp at dinner!”

“There was,” she said. “Shrimp stock in the cabbage dressing.” Sounds from inside the bathroom got real. “León, do you need 911? An EpiPen or—”

“No,” came the muffled answer during a pause. “Not allergic. Go away, okay?”

Kelsey appeared at the back door, eyebrows arched high. Andrew propelled Celia toward her, a hand on her shoulder.

“What is going on?” Kelsey asked.

Andrew ushered both women outside onto the patio. “León’s sick. I guess he can’t have shellfish.”

Celia laced her fingers and tucked them under her chin, eyes wide. “There was shrimp stock in the dressing,” she repeated. “I should have told everyone.”

This is what came of showing off! People could die from allergies, and she was hiding ingredients in—

Andrew tapped her shoulder. “Don’t hog that responsibility, girl. I should have asked him.”

Kelsey pulled out her phone to ask the internet. “Is he allergic?”

“He said no,” Andrew told her, looking over her shoulder. A tense minute passed as Kelsey typed and scrolled, her face lit from below by her screen.

“If it’s just an intolerance, he should be all right,” she said. “The danger is if he gets hives or can’t breathe.”

“He was just sick to his stomach, I think,” Andrew said.

A shaky breath escaped Celia.

“Why don’t you two go sit,” Andrew said. “He won’t want us all hanging around. I’ll stay.”

Celia pressed her hands against her cheeks. “I shouldn’t have gotten fancy with the ingredients.”

“Honey, no,” Kelsey said. “It was just unfortunate. Come sit down.”

“I’ll call if we need anything, Celia,” Andrew told her.

Celia let herself be led back to the fire but knew she’d be back as soon as Andrew signaled. She could at least get León water, medicine, whatever helped.

She felt like vomiting herself. She’d never poisoned a guest before.

 ******

Maya Bairey writes romance that feels real.

She lives on the Columbia River in Portland, Oregon, with her husband and elderly cat, where she fills her days with writing, painting, and feeding the local crows. Her debut novel, Painting Celia, explores the messy beauty of love, resilience, and rediscovery. When she's not working on her next story, Maya leads writing cohorts and publishes underrepresented voices through her imprint, Lingua Ink Media.

Her fiction and essays examine the quiet empowerment of women’s lives, queer identity, and the ways longing and resilience shape human experience. Her work has been published in Abstract Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, and Women Writers, Women(’s) Books, and she has spoken on KBOO 90.7 FM about writing, marketing, and the pursuit of creative independence.

Maya’s work is driven by a fascination with people at turning points — characters and creators alike — seeking clarity, connection, and the courage to move forward.

Contact & Links:

bairey.com is where Maya shares her writing life.
paintingcelia.com takes you straight to her debut novel.
linguaink.com is the publishing house she runs.

Say hi on Bluesky (@mayabairey.bsky.social) or Facebook (Maya Bairey, Author) or Instagram (mayabairey) or even TikTok (@mayabairey)