Secondary Colors (27 page)

“Thank you,” he says, his voice on the verge of a joyous weep. He turns to walk away, but then stops. He faces me again, his expression heavier. “I apologize for Christina. She…well, good luck.”

Before I can ask him what he meant, he disappears from the paint aisle. I must have the same dumbfounded look on my face when I meet up with Holt.

“What happened to you?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head and force a smile. “Just thinking.”

Later that day, I’m out on the porch, painting the rain that started pouring down after we arrived home. It’s warm and humid out. Not the best condition to paint in, but it’s inspiring. Holt is upstairs, placing bowls strategically around the attic to catch the water leaking through the roof.

“Looks like I found my next project,” he said when a hole opened up over the bed.

Normally, I use music when I paint, but the patter of the fat raindrops beating on the awning above me is soothing. It’s so heavy, I miss the sound of tires driving up the gravel pathway until they stop at the garden gate.

When I glance over the canvas, I spot Aidan striding up the walkway, his eyes trained on me, his jaw locked tight. He doesn’t even wait to ascend the stairs before he snaps out,
“Is it true?”

I shake my head, confused by his sudden appearance after weeks of avoiding me and obvious outrage toward me.

“About Holt?”

“The baby, Evie.” He runs his hands aggressively through his wet hair. “When in the hell were you planning to tell me?”

Shit.

“I was going to tell you.” My voice is pathetic and weak. “I’ve wanted to tell you.”

“So—it’s true.”

My face plunges into the palms of my hands, hiding my shame. “Yes,” I mumble from the sanctuary they provide, my eyes clamped shut.

“I can’t believe you hid this from me.”

I remove my hands from my face.

“How did you find out?”

“My mother.”

This knocks the shame right out of me, replacing it with confusion. I think I have something in my ears. I almost reach up and clean them out to be sure.

“Your mother?”

“Yes. She told me everything.”

“What is
everything
exactly?”

“You were pregnant with a baby girl. She begged you to tell me. She knew it would devastate me if you kept this from me.”

“Aidan, that’s not—”

“Where is she?”

“No.”

“No?”

I cross my arms over my chest.

“I won’t tell you.”

He takes an aggressive step toward me, “She’s my child, too,” pointing down at the ground.

“It’s not that. You’re enraged. I won’t subject her to this, to the first impression of her biological father crazy with emotions. You need to hear my side of this before you make any judgements.”

“Were you pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“Did you divulge this information to me?” His tone is condescending.

“No, but—”

“Are you going to tell me where she is now?” he interrupts my answer with another question.

“No,” I refuse, my voice growing loud and firm.

“Then save it.”

He walks back into the rain before I have a chance to explain, jumping into his SUV and driving away until the red taillights fade in the thickness of the rain.

Holt flies out the front door.

“What was that yelling?”

“Aidan.”

“Where is he?”

“Gone.”

bringing elements together

to form a work of art

No one has seen Aidan in over a week. I went to find him the next day. I wanted to give him time to cool down before I confronted him. Everything happened so quickly and out of nowhere. It wasn’t the scenario I’d wanted when he found out, from Christina, through lies and deceit. But I never thought she would. I should’ve known it was a possibility, for her to turn the situation around on me, make me look like the only guilty party.

I went to his parents’ house, but only to check if his car was there. It wasn’t. Of course. Then I drove around the lake and town, any spots he might retreat. He wasn’t anywhere. It wasn’t until Makayla’s dad happened to mention Aidan’s leaving town to Holt. Now, he’s gone, along with my opportunity to explain.

It was hard. But I managed to spend my last week focused on packing and spending time with everyone. Meredith has been home every day since she told off Charles, cleaning and preparing for the party. She still hasn’t said what happened, but I could guess. Holt and I wrap ourselves in each other every spare second, the idea of leaving him behind becoming harder and harder with each passing day. Never feel his touch again. Never taste him on my tongue when he kisses me deeply. Never listen to his voice or steady breathing as he sleeps beside me. Never see those intense ochre eyes staring into mine. This week is one of lasts.

The day of the party, before the guests arrive, Holt comes to my room and knocks on my door.

“Come with me,” he says when I open.

“But the party…”

“It’ll only take a few minutes.”

Taking my hand, he leads me outside, through the woods bordering our property, and into the field that once harbored a rotting Victorian cottage and overgrown weeds. It’s been replaced by a shining white pearl with black shutters and a yard with freshly cut emerald grass, hydrangea bushes frosted along the edges, creating a natural barrier from the woods, except to the right of the property, giving an unobstructed view of the lake.

It’s something out of a storybook.

We walk inside, it’s light and airy yet cozy and warm. Of course there is no furniture yet, but he explains where he pictures things going. He shows me the renovated rooms. Each door already ajar when we approach, except the last, in the back corner, where we had that baring conversation.

A flood of sunrays wash the dim hallway in white light when he opens it. It’s so bright my eyes need time to adjust to see shapes and colors again. When I can, my heart drops.

Blank canvases lean neatly against the walls. Easels stand by the windows. Paintbrushes, jars, and paint sit neatly on the shelves. A few of my pieces hang on the bright white walls.

I face Holt with clarity.

“Mine?”

“Yours.”

“Holt?”

“Evie,” he takes a step toward me, “I need to confess something to you.” My heart pounds in my ears. “When I came here, I wasn’t searching for a home. Not purposely anyway. I loved my life on the road, just me and Max. I thought I could outrun my past. But that changed when I came to Aurora, when I saw you. I loved you, that first day in the garden. I think I fell in love with you when I saw your pictures on the wall along the stairs. Your face made me feel I was where I was meant to be, a sense I’d never experienced before you. That’s why I refused to talk to you in the beginning. I hated you for making me love you, for inviting the pain I tried to outrun inside, for making me want a home.” He takes another step toward me. “I hadn’t fixed this place up for myself in the beginning. It was just another project on the list. But when I decided to stay in Aurora, I suppose I designed it with you in mind, too. Selfishly, I’m hoping it convinces you to do the same.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell me you’ll live here with me, make this our home. It doesn’t have to be forever, but when you leave, I want to be by your side. For now, you paint and I’ll work toward my contractor’s license.”

“This is so much, so fast.”

He reaches out for me and brings me into a hug, his shaky breath on my shoulder, his erratic heart beating in sync with mine.

“Don’t answer me now. Consider it. Preferably before you leave for New York.”

He didn’t need to suggest my staying. It’s been on my mind the past couple weeks, the idea of leaving sending me into panic attacks. I’m afraid to abandon Bailey when she’s growing up too quickly, my mother when she needs me most, or Holt when it’s painfully evident there’s an affinity between us, something I’ve found harder and harder to deny lately.

It was easier when I’d head back to school, assured Aurora and my mother would always be there when I returned. I could throw myself into my schoolwork, fulfilling my promise to myself when I gave up Bails.

But this was real life, adulthood, where you don’t have summers and winters home. Lucky if you get a real holiday vacation. The world is dog eat dog. New York the biggest, baddest dog on the block, ready to chew you up like a mailman’s ass.

Aurora is home, passing you by at the pace of the lazy river drifting through it.

“I’ll consider it,” I promise him.

He kisses me, running the back of his rough hand down the side of my face softly. When he pulls away, he pecks the tip of my nose and then my brow.

“You were my wish,” he says.

“Huh?”

“When I blew the candles out on my birthday cake. I wished for you, Evie. You’re the only thing I ever wanted for myself.”

Every part of my body cries to confess my feelings for him. My brain is calling the shots.

“Holt, I—”

“We should get you to the party,” he interrupts me, perhaps scared of my response, “before every one wonders where you are.”

I shut my eyes on a drawn out exhale, my body tilting into his.

“Let them wait.”

Our front yard playing the role of a temporary parking lot, guests arrive in flocks with gifts and food in hand, lots and lots of food. The dining room and kitchen are overflowing with platters of deli meat, cheeses, homemade casseroles, fried chicken, and a variety of desserts. The house thunders with laughter and conversation, bursting at the seams with familiar faces. Plus, one I’ve grown accustomed to seeing every day.

I’m being chatted up by one of many people who’ve come to send me off into the world, bestowing the gems of knowledge they’ve acquired from years of experience on me, when my eyes catch Holt’s. Overwhelmed by the attention, I use him as visual Prozac. Excited flutters swarm my stomach and tingle across my skin. He smirks at me from across the hall, standing in the living room, talking with Queenie’s husband, probably about work he’s done on the property. People haven’t been able to stop talking about how wonderful the place looks. Once they found Holt was responsible, they circled him like vultures, with requests for him to work on their homes.

While my gaze loiters on him, someone enters the house, standing directly between us. My eyes refocus on the blurred figure. My jaw plummets. It’s—my father. He actually showed. I excuse myself and walk over to greet him. He notices me after a sweep of the party, a grimace tugging at his mouth and an overwrought brow.

“Hi,” I whisper, uneasy by his presence.

“Hello, Violet.” I flinch at the clumsiness of my name from his lips. It sounds alien in my ears. He’s stiff and formal. No warmth.

I suppose we’d hug under normal circumstances, a welcoming, loving gesture between father and daughter. Neither of us make a move, not even a handshake, as he might with a son.

“I’m glad you came,” I lie.

This is where I’d shove my hands in my back pockets nervously, but I’m in a dress per my mom’s request. Instead, I link my hands together behind my back.

“Your mother invited me.” He glances around shiftily, probably to ensure she isn’t within earshot. When he’s satisfied she isn’t, his eyes settle back on mine and he says, “I’m here to take you to New York with me.”

New York.

Yeah.

“Well, since we aren’t leaving yet, you’re welcome to grab yourself a drink or something to eat.”

“Actually, the sooner we leave the better. I’m needed back quickly.”

“I see,” I mutter, disappointed.

“Have to run back to your new wife so soon, Dick?” Meredith comes down the stairs, her scowling gaze trained on him. “You can’t even pretend to care about our daughter, can you?”

“Let’s not start this now, Mere. Not in a room full of strangers.”

“Firstly, these aren’t strangers.” She gestures a theatrical hand to our guests, lousily ignoring the conversation. “These people have been here for Evie when you weren’t. Secondly, you’re right. This is about
my
daughter. Not you.” She turns to me, sweeping her hand down my hair. “Why don’t you give us a chance to talk. I’m sure your friends want to spend time with you before you leave.”

No need to tell me twice.

I leave them and seek out a friendly face, a life raft in an ocean of people. Taylor appears from the kitchen, a small paper plate of meatballs balanced on upright palm, chewing on a mouthful.

“I thought you were an herbivore,” I taunt.

“Sue me,” she says with a half-chewed piece in her meat hole.

I heist the hand not occupied by Swedish balls and drag her into my room, an isle of quiet.

“What’s going on?” she asks amid the ground beef churning in her trap. She swallows and wipes her mouth.

“My dad’s here to take me to New York with him.”

“Is that bad?”

“I have to show you something.” I fire up my laptop resting open on my desk and sit her in front of it.

“Whoa,” she mutters, staring at the screen with the same shock I had on my face when I read it a week ago. I haven’t told anyone yet. For obvious reasons.

“Yeah.”

It reads.

Dear Miss Hathaway,

Let me start off by saying your interview was phenomenal. It’s been a long time since I’ve come across a candidate with the passion and potential it takes to fill the position, which is why I’m saddened to inform you we have given the internship to another. This has nothing to do with an inability to fulfill your obligations. The reason you didn’t receive the job was for one simple reason. You shouldn’t be selling paintings or talking about other artists’ works. You should be displayed among them, making the world a more beautiful place with your art. I’m sincere in what I said about your talent, Evie. You have a raw gift, which you shouldn’t let waste away.

As I told you before, I enjoy discovering the new and unexpected and giving them the opportunity to be seen. Bringing me to my point. I wish to bring you to New York, to take you under my wing, help you perfect your craft, introduce you to the right people, and show your pieces in my gallery. I want to back you.

Please let me know what you think at your earliest convenience. I await your response.

Sonya James

“Evie, this is a huge deal! One of the most prestigious art galleries in New York wants to represent you.”

“Yeah, I know,” I reply, staring mindlessly into the backyard from the double French doors. My voice must lack enthusiasm because she asks, “What aren’t you telling me?”