Miss You Mad: a psychological romance novel (9 page)

"It helped that you had the assets in Toronto to back up the loan."

Again, I watched her. She was giving off weird vibes. I began to wonder what the hell was going on. I began to think it had something to do with her needing the loan. I'd grown incredibly suspicious since the days I come into my fortune. Too many women had given me far too much sex in the hopes of receiving nice long vacations or jewelry or whatever the hell else women wanted and then promptly left me once they realized I was okay with the sex, but not so much with the whoring for it. I'd almost been sick when I thought she might be playing me, and was even sicker when I realized I was relieved that she had the assets to cover the loan.

Even so, history had made me very wary.

"Why would you need a loan if you already have loads of money?"

She rewarded my subtlety with a stabbing look. "Can we at least order first? I've had a rough day."

The gentleman in me rose to the occasion. "
You've
had a hard day? Mine was pure hell."

She chose to say nothing in favour of hiding behind her menu. The waitress came and went; water was poured into our dishwasher-stained glasses before she came up for air.

"I'll tell you everything, Daniel. Believe it or not, for some weird reason, I trust you. Then again, maybe I'm just desperate. But let me tell you in my own time. I have to breathe."

I yanked off a bit of crust from the roll on my plate. "It's not as if I'm trying to smother you."

"I know. I know."

"So tell me."

"It all has to do with my painting. I see things, I have to recreate them---although, its not really recreating. It's more exploration. But anyway, it's quite a demanding passion. I could be standing in a grocery line, and all of a sudden, the light washing over a grocery clerk brings to life shadows in her cheek. I'm transfixed."

I knew the feeling. While I might not have the poetic soul she did, I totally understood that sense of being frozen by beauty. I wanted to reach beneath the table and stick my hand between her legs. Instead, I forced my fingers curl around the water glass.

"I get stuck sometimes," she said. "There I am in the grocery line and the person behind starts pushing me forward and I've lost track of how long I'd been standing there." Hannah paused long enough to butter her roll before she continued.

"Most artists are interested in light. Light is their life force. Their grammar, their Madonna. Do you have any idea how harsh full light can be? It sharpens angles, washes out colour. It's not flattering."

"Like Moses," I said.

"What's that?"

"Moses. When he was on Mount Sinai and God had allowed himself to be seen as he passed by."

She furrowed her pretty brows. "I'm not familiar."

I leaned back in my seat, pleased to know something she didn't.

"The light was so strong that Moses glowed when he came down. Nobody could stand looking at him and he had to wear a veil."

"Interesting," she said but her tone suggested otherwise. I realized she was preoccupied.

"I'd rather study shadows," she said. "It's the shadows that make light its most stunning."

I couldn't help smiling. "That explains your interest in me."

She grinned, too. It was good to see. "Yes, that explains you." She stretched her hand across the table and cupped mine. "Actually, it explains a lot."

Then I did reach beneath the table, but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to slip my fingers between her legs. Instead it landed on her knee and squeezed. She gave me a trembling smile that gave me enough courage to lean across and kiss her on the corner of the mouth.

Someone in the room ordered coffee. The aroma settled around our table and cocooned us. It smelled fabulous. I decided to order a cup, not to drink, really, just to wrap my hands around.

"None of that explains why you look so spooked."

She cocked her head sideways as though she thought I hadn't been listening at all.

"My love of shadows has everything to do with it Shadows are kind of like the other side of the psyche, don't you think? You can hide in a shadow, and things can be hidden from you."

"That's pretty cliche'," I heard myself saying and expected a frown to appear on her face.

"Good point," she said. "I guess that's what I'm exploring in my art. My paintings all have shadows as the subject." Hannah slurped at the edge of her spoon, oblivious to what I might think of her manners. Strangely, I kind of liked it.

"So you like shadows." I ran my thumb along the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. "Doesn't sound so frightening."

She carefully extracted her hand from mine and tasty Palm on the table, splaying fingers.

"I have a series of paintings I called the shadow series." She lifted each finger off the surface of the table as though she were counting. "The first one is a forest scene. Each tree trunk is made up of faces or pieces of faces staring out from the shadows created by dappled light. I rather liked it, but in some ways, it turned out to be a disaster."

"I know exactly what disaster means," I actually could sympathise with her there. I felt a bond attach itself to us across the chowder bowls. It made me smile.

"Oh yes?" She leaned back, inviting me to share, all I could think was that the billion ants that had crawled into my crotch came from the way her breasts swelled as she did so. At least I told myself that was the reason.

"There is darkness there," she said. "Let the light shine through, Daniel."

I chewed my lip, wondering whether showing vulnerability would get me into her pants again. Before I could make the assessment, my mouth just sort of blurted out the admission.

"My father passed away just before Christmas. Because of me."

Rather than looking shocked, she looked intrigued. "Poison?"

I laughed, catching the tease. "Nope. Tea."

Thankfully, she didn't laugh at me.

In the short pause something, a strange image, came into focus within my brain. She had mentioned a forest of trees. Of course, the painting in the video wasn't complete yet, but as the scene on the projector in my mind narrowed and focused into a sharp image, I realised it was the one she talked about.

"I've seen that painting." I scraped the last bit of lobster from my bowl and popped it into my mouth.

She didn't look surprised. "I figured you'd visit the site," she said.

I grinned because I simply couldn't find the words to admit it.

She might as well have reached straight into my fantasy world and put her fist through the glassy image. "You're imagining me right now aren't you?"

"How did you know?"

She gave me a dry look. "You don't think I've seen that look before?"

"Sorry," I said.

"Oh, it's okay. It doesn't really bother me. It's just flesh. Skin. Did you like it?"

Now we were getting somewhere. I wiggled my brows at her. "Loved it."

She rolled her eyes and I thought of Jesse. Quickly, I squished that little image into a doughy ball and kicked it to the back of my brain. One does not want to imagine his sister while he's planning to ravage a woman.

"I meant the painting."

"I guess so. But it doesn't make any sense. Why are the trees people?"

"They're not. It's about seeing things in places you don't expect. The faces in the shadows of the tree bark are only there for as long as the light is in just the right position. One moment the light hits the bark just the right way and those people are visible, the next they're gone."

"That's nice."

"Nice? It's life. If you don't pay attention to things, they disappear. We disappear. We view everything from our perspective---but what if we're really just shadows waiting for the right light to be seen by someone else?"

For some reason, I thought of Dad and the way he'd painted our house after my school chum died. I squirmed in my chair.

"That's too deep for me. I'm a shallow kind of guy. I prefer the white things. The bright things."

"Most people are. I am. Tell me more about your father."

"No. You tell me more about why you are here."

We faced off across the table. She stared me down, and I stared her up. Neither of us would give in. Obviously, her secret was as heavy as mine.

Neither of us spoke until after the main entrees had been brought. Mine, steaming grilled haddock took up too much room on my side and I had to shuffle my coffee to the outer edge. Hannah didn't seem concerned that no conversation peppered the air.

Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. "My father had diabetes."

She looked up, interested.

I continued, aware that I was talking way too fast. My feet and my mouth seemed to be in some sort of race. "Ever since I can remember, his diabetes was the main focus of the house. He was an old fisherman. Big. Really big man. He fished in the worst winter weather. I remember one storm; no one went out. But Dad called his hired men and told them to be at the wharf at 4 a.m."

It was tough eating while talking so fast. I started to choke on a bit of potato. I thought of old Scrooge; I sure hoped no ghosts would visit later should that potato lodge undigested somewhere in the upper lining of my stomach. Hannah pushed my water glass toward me. I took a swallow, and promptly choked on that. I sat coughing and spluttering water all over my dinner.

Hannah remained nonplussed. Patiently, she lifted her glass to her lips and drank. Then she cut out a nice square from her chicken breast. I spluttered; she chewed.

When I finally caught my breath, she looked back at me. "Ready?"

I shook my head. It was an omen. Had to be. God had looked down at me, knowing everything he knows, and realised that it was too early to have me purge. He simply peeked down and said to himself, "Nope. That boy there should feel guilty for just a little longer. Let's make him choke on that thought."

"Oh come on, Daniel," she prodded. "You can't stop now. Show me yours and I'll show you mine."

Tempting. Truly tempting. I took a quick glance heavenward. I opened my mouth; I formed my tongue to speak. Nothing happened. No lightning. Perhaps God looked the other way.

"Well, nobody wanted to fish," I said, hesitating at first.

"Dad reminded them that if they wanted their jobs, they had to. So. They went out. I remember getting up because Mom and Dad were arguing in the kitchen. I was probably 15. Mom said it was too bad out. It wasn't fair to risk lives for a little bit of money."

"Sounds like your mother is a smart lady."

I nodded. "She is. But Dad said it wasn't a little bit of money. It was a lot. And he was right. Lobster brings a pretty penny in the winter. So he went out. Him and his crew. He said if he could go out, what with his diabetes and all, then so could every one of his healthy crew."

"What happened? What does that have to do with killing him with tea?"

"Nothing. That is, it has nothing to do with tea. But it has everything to do with him and I."

"So?"

"So, one of the men fell over. They never retrieved his body."

Silence, that adversary of my boots, descended upon the date. I didn't know what to say; Hannah obviously couldn't say anything. So we didn't. We ate for a little while; I actually began to think I was off the hook.

Hannah spoiled my sense of safety. "Your father sounds like a control freak."

I nodded, feeling like I had gone just one step too far and that now that I had thrown myself onto the dangerous path, I might as well keep going.

"Dad insisted the reception be at our house. Then he made sure every light in the house was on. The house was so bright, you could hardly stand to keep your eyes open.

"Everyone thought it was some kind of special remembrance. But I always wondered about it. Maybe his behaviour had been some sort of cry for help that no one recognized.

"Once," I said. "When I was in grade 12, and trying to decide what I wanted to do with my life, Dad asked me what I wanted to be most in the world. I couldn't tell him I wanted to garden. What kind of man would want to garden? I knew he'd fly off his handle, so I told him I wanted to be a ballerina. I figured if he'd fly, he might as well go at Jet speed."

"Did he? Fly?" Hannah's face looked pinched.

"Hell, yeah," I said. "And then afterwards he told me I'd fish like a man. Except I was terrified of drowning. I begged to go to business school. I don't think he ever thought the same of me afterwards. Anyway, Mom minced about the house, Jesse turned into a smart ass---Dad even commented over and over that if he'd known his only son would be feminine, he'd have drowned the first born. Me. Obviously, he thought I was too girly. I even had the nerve to drink tea with my mother every morning. It was like a little ritual. Jesse would lay in bed until the last minute, so Mom and I had the kitchen to ourselves. God. I bet that's what the womb is like. That feeling. Mom and I, just us. Drinking, talking."

Hannah shifted in the hard-backed chair. I realised we had both finished our meals. But now that I was talking, I hated to stop. I grabbed my ice-cold coffee and pretended it still tasted good.