Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) (16 page)

I ran. I painted. I folded and refolded every piece of clothing in my dresser in an attempt to distract myself, tamping down the encroaching jitters of a planned date. He had called it a date, but it wasn’t a
real
date, it was a gathering, as Foster would be there.

But it was a first, if you don’t count Thanksgiving. Because Thanksgiving was a shamble of what used to resemble my family. Up until now, my time with Quentin had been a series of coincidences and happenstances. But there were no coincidences, according to my aunt.
“Everything in our family happens for a reason,”
she had said.

But her blanket statement was too easy. It didn’t stretch far enough over pain and loss. My pain. My loss. My mom.

Restless, I climbed up to my sanctuary and buried myself in poetry. Books upon books, pages worn from another hand, my eyes flew over words I knew had been absorbed and read by Mom.

My fingers, poised to turn another page, froze. Over and over again, my eyes roamed left to right, reading and re-reading the heart of Rainer Maria Rilke:

Suddenly, from all the green around us;

Something — you don’t know what —

has disappeared,

You feel it creeping closer to the window,

in total silence.

The words dove in and grasped at my fading memory. Her dimming face, her near silent voice, my unrecoverable loss, and the uncertainty of what
lay ahead.

I ripped the page from the book and began a flurry of movement over a canvas.

Greens.

Golds.

Fingers. Brushes. I stretched and curled wire, the light outside my windows fading into night. Foster broke in, waking me from my manic tango.

“Jesus, Cee. You’re a mess.” Green and gold coated my hands. My fingertips throbbed where the wire ends had pricked them. “Is tha
t how you’re planning to go to Winterfest?”

“No,” I said, feeling pacified b
y the release, the purge, and overwhelmed by the emotions. “I need to shower.”

“Now would be a good time. We have to leave in thirty minutes.” He stepped closer to the art table and inspected the eye of my storm. A faint whistle escaped his lips. “Cee, this is amazing. Mom would have loved it.”

The words were enough to send my arms around him and release a sob I’d been holding onto, undoing the semblance of balance I’d tried to gain.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said, hugging me back.

“I don’t think so,” I heaved through the tears I left on his shirt.

He waited. And waited. When I was calm, he pulled back, forcing me to face him. His voice was quiet, yet authoritative. “Cee, Mom spent years holding up brilliant, fragile egos. Now is no different. Can’t you feel her? In this room? In the paint? In you?”

“But I can’t hear her. Her voice has faded. It’s gone,” I sniffed and dragged my shirt sleeve under my nose.

“Are you kidding?” He laughed his rejuvenating laugh I’d missed so much. It filled me — fortified me. “Every time you speak I hear her.”

“Funny, Foster.” I picked up my brushes, intending to walk them to the sink.

He touched my shoulder with his fingers to stop me, his face a mask of seriousness. “I’m not kidding. It wasn’t until her voice was missing from the mix that I realized yours
is a near match. Same tone. Same inflections. Same cadence.”

“It’s not the same.”

“But it’s something.” He stepped back and fingered my paint-coated hair, evoking a memory of a night, of a boy, of a black masterpiece. My body warmed at the thought of seeing him. “I think you’d better shower.”

“Yeah.”

A sharp reminder of winter’s early approach whisked through the air, threatening to drop flakes of snowy goodness on us. With my hands buried deep in the pockets of my
down jacket, Foster and I dashed from the car to Quentin’s front door. It was cracked open, a sliver of light cutting into the darkness, anticipating our arrival.

“He does know he’s heating the outdoors, right?” Foster softly teased under this breath. He pushed the door wide, unleashing a loud, “Hello?” I trailed in behind him.

“Hey.”

I heard him before I saw him. A quiver of delight bubbled in my nose, the scent of him everywhere in the room.

I stepped out from behind Foster and a second greeting bounced directly to me. “Hi, Cee.”

My nervous fingers twisted and turned, picking at a ball of lint in the pocket of my coat, but my eyes
, were caught by his. “Hey. Thanks for having us over.”

“Always.”

Something had changed since the night of my black masterpiece, something subtle, in his eyes. The way he looked at me, it was soft and unwavering. Exhilarating.

Foster broke the trance between us. “Nice place. Did you just move in?”

We moved through the stark room, depositing our coats on the couch. My fingers trailed over the arm of the couch before touching my lips in memory of a night not long ago.

I glanced up at Quentin. He was watching me — my fingers, my lips — missing nothing. I could feel the heat flame up my cheeks as the corn
ers of his mouth quirked up. “About a year ago,” he replied without looking away from me.

“Really?” I knew Foster’s linear mind was clicking down lists, trying to make Quentin’s response equate. “I’m surprised Cee hasn’t forced you to hang art on your walls.”

Looking away from Quentin, an odd protective nature reared up in me. “Not everyone wants their place dripping with possessions.”

Quentin shrugged. “I don’t have anything worth hanging.”

I was about to ask him about the art I saw downstairs when Foster asked, “Is this a rental?”

“No. Evelyn helped me find it.” My heart ticked out of time and I forgot to take a breath. Did he just say Evelyn? To Foster? I cringed, waiting for Foster’s brain to catch up with the name.

“Eveyln?” Foster asked.

She was so far removed from our daily context, it wouldn’t occur to Foster that Quentin could be talking about
the
Evelyn.

Realizing what he said, Quentin eyes flashed to me.

There was no avoiding it now. “He means Dad’s mom.”

To Quentin, “You know Evelyn?”

To me, “He knows
our
grandmother?” Foster’s astonished face raced to latch on to the words hanging in the air. His eyes flooded with confusion, searching mine for answers. “Did you know this?”

I forced a calm, steady, “yes” from my dry mouth.

With eyes wide, his face jutted forward toward me. “Have you met her?”

I nodded, my mouth dry as a bone.

“When?”

There was no escaping, so I answered truthfully. “The beginning of October. At the SAM. She came up to me and introduced herself.” My words were filled with a flood of guilt. I’d never kept anything from Foster, especially since Mom died. Now there’s much, too much he didn’t know. “I met Quentin the same night. He works there.”

“Just like that? Out of the blue, she recognized you and introduced herself?”

“Something like that.” But it was nothing like that. It was planned, executed, and delivered, because there were no coincidences in our family.

We three stood, staring, crossing unfamiliar ground. “Damn, Cee. I would think that would be information you would share with family members. Does Dad know?”

I didn’t want to say yes. I didn’t want him to be the odd man out. “Yes.”

“You’re serious?” he asked incredulously. “I leave town for two and a half months and my family turns into a bunch of secret hoarders. What other secrets do you have up your sleeve?”

My tongue tripped over my words before quietly saying, “None.” I didn’t dare look over to Quentin.

Graciously, he steered the conversation elsewhere. “I’m not much of a cook, but I’ve got a pile of take-out menus in the kitchen we can order from.”

We followed him into the kitchen. My eyes danced over the counters and cupboards, landing on the now closed door on the other side. My senses flooded with
images of my last visit, and my not so stealth descent into Quentin’s darkroom. It felt like an eternity had past, rather than just three weeks.

Foster fingered the pile of menus. “You weren’t kidding when you said you have a stack. Do you ever cook?”

“Rarely.”

I dropped down at the kitchen table. Foster followed suit after they’d decided on Thai for dinner
and sat across from me. “I can’t believe you met her,” he said quietly as Quentin ordered our food. There was no anger in his voice, for which I was grateful. “What’s she like?”

My fingers knotted around each other on top of the table. “How do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Is she evil, friendly, ugly, fat?”

“None of those, actually.”

“Then tell me what she is.”

I could see her, standing confidently in her living room and I started to spout, “Tall. Self-assured. Eccentric. Dazzling. Intimidating. Thoughtful. Arrogant.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You got all of that from a single meet and greet at the SAM?”

“You’ll have to meet her yourself,” I said. “She makes quite an impression.” Quentin sat down next to me, causing
the now familiar erratic heat wave to flame up my side.

Foster’s questions shifted to Quentin. “How do you know her?”

“My mom’s an art collector. The art world is small.”

“Grandma’s into art?”

“Very much,” I said, picturing the mass of creation hanging in her home. “Meeting her shed light on Dad’s attraction to Mom and her world of art.”

Foster blew out a low sigh and slumped back in his chair. “Art or no art, I think Mom and Dad would have still ended up together. Their connection was indefinable.”

Silence trapped us in our reverie, until a knock startled us out. The food arrived, ending our conversation and diverting us to lighter topics.

After dinner, I excused myself to use the bathroom before we left for Winterfest. I walked down the hall, my words reverberating off the wall.
“Coward,”
I had called him. It felt like a lifetime ago. And yet, I still couldn’t place my finger on what had changed — in him, in me — I was no longer sure.

I opened the bathroom door and ran my finger along the doorframe. The ripped wood was gone, as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired. The room was exactly the same, minus the rumpled hand towel and toothbrush.

I relieved myself and made my way back down the hall. My pace slowed as I neared Quentin’s bedroom door. A soft glow enticed me to peak and I gently pushed the door wider. The bed was made, the pillows in place, and the table and lamp exactly as they were. The dresser on the far wall was the same except for the addition of a small picture frame propped on top. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I slipped in for a closer look. I squinted at the black and white image as it came into focus and took form. Familiar form. The same familiar form as the picture Quentin had given me for my birthday. I was startled to see myself staring back at me.

“Why . . .” The word whispered across my lips to no one. I couldn’t make sense of it, because sense told me something that couldn’t be. My eternal tug-of-war raged on until a feather touch to my shoulder spun me around.

Quentin. His face was soft, captivating. I had to tamp down the urge to run my fingers along his scar.

“Quentin, I, um . . . I was walking. The light . . .” I pointed to the light, but couldn’t remember why. I looked back at the picture and then back to Quentin.

Gently, void of all pretense, he said, “I think it captures you well, don’t you?”

“Um, yes.” It was me, peacefully oblivious of the danger hanging directly over my head. I looked up at his face, etched softly under the hair that had fallen across his eye. I tentatively reached up, wove the strands through my fingers and pushed them back. His hand caught mine and held it to the side of his neck. A strong, steady pulse vibrated against my palm.

“Quentin,” I choked out. “I don’t know how . . .”

He released my hand to cup his own around the sides of my face. “Do we need to know the how and why of everything?”

“I don’t know.” Bursts were popping in my chest.

“Maybe it’s enough for us to decide to trust in each other.”

I didn’t have an answer, or a thought. Everything flew out of my head. His scent distracting, his closeness alluring as his lips came closer. Closer. My eyes were glued to the curve of his mouth, soft and parted. My chest was close to exploding before his lips finally sealed over mine. I was reeling. Aware of nothing. Feeling everything. My body molded to his. Hard against supple, my fingers memorizing every contour of his back.

Through the pleasurable chaos, I heard a noise in the other room. I couldn’t place it. It took a moment for my head to register that the noise was Foster. Quentin must have heard it too.

He pulled his head back and asked, “Are you ready to go?” I was certain the grin on his face mirrored my own.