Contessa

  “Thanks.” I set down my purse in the dining area, watching my dad take in his surroundings. “It looks different.”

  “Mom says it looks just the same.”

  “We always did see it differently.” He leans against the kitchen island and pulls out his phone. As he starts to type something, I realize he’s probably letting my mom know where we are. Of course, she already knows. We’d planned this for weeks.

  Mom had brought me here the last few weekends, working on her own projects while I painted mine. Even thirteen years later, the place still inspires her.

  I stand in the main room, looking at my dad, nervous. It’d been four weeks since we fought, and even though he said I was forgiven–and I believed I was–things were still a little strained between us. It makes my heart ache, still. There was less small talk, fewer words wasted on a daughter that hurt him more than he was still able to admit. Even I thought I got off too easy. He let his love for me cloud his judgment, and even though his pride was hurt more than a little, he didn’t go back and try to punish me. I think he just wanted me to have more time to think about what I’d said and done. I knew it was awful. I knew that it would take a long time to get back to where we were a few years ago, when I thought he could do anything and be anyone for me.

  I do still think that, but I haven’t been able to convince him yet.

  “What are you doing, Liv?” I realize I’ve been staring at a spot across the room. I shake my head in awareness, coming out of my daydream.

  “Um, Dad? I wanted to show you something.”

  “Okay.” He sets his phone down on the coffee table and looks up at me curiously. “I’m ready.”

  “You need to come in the guest room.”

  He nods and follows me into the spare bedroom. “The dance room,” he says with a laugh.

  “Mom said you proposed in here.”

  “I did. Right about here,” he says, standing nearly in the center of the room. “Of course, there wasn’t furniture in here at the time. What am I looking at?”

  I walk to the closet and take a deep breath before opening the door. Inside is a canvas, five-feet tall by two-foot wide. It’s wrapped in kraft paper and tied with a navy blue bow. My aunt Anna had found the ribbon for me at a local fabric store after I failed to find anything wide enough and long enough. A little card hangs from the bow. I start to pick up the gift, but my dad quickly crosses the room to move it for me. It was a little too heavy for me to lift on my own. Mom had always helped me move it around.

  Dad sets it against the wall horizontally in the guest room and glances at the card. “For me?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him nervously. “You said you wanted to see what I’ve been working on.”

  “You didn’t have to paint me anything,” he says as he crouches down and takes the card off, reading it aloud. “Thanks, Mister.” He looks puzzled at this strange address. “I thought you were back to calling me dad,” he says, confused.

  “Just unwrap the gift,” I encourage him. He leans the canvas toward him and starts to untie the bow. “Turn it vertically, though. The left end goes up.”

  “Yes, miss,” he says, joking with me and repositioning the present. “May I continue?”

  “Yes, Dad.” I put extra emphasis on the word dad, just in case there was any doubt in his mind about where he fits into my life. I hoped he’d understand when he saw the gift. He sets the bow aside and begins to remove the tape from the paper.

  As he peels back the wrapping, he studies the painting intently. He moves the paper to the side so he can see the whole thing, unobstructed. He finally stands up and takes a few steps back, as if he was trying to find the meaning in it. His hand rubs the stubble on his chin, and his eyes begin to water. He presses his lips together, trying to stay composed.

  “You did call me Mister,” he says, and I can hear his breath catch in his throat. He moves his hand to clutch his tie, mimicking the motion depicted in the painting. Only it wasn’t his hand holding the neckwear, it was mine. “That was the first word you’d said to me. My Livvy’s first word.”

  Seeing his emotion makes me start crying. Not just tearing up, but crying.

  “Daddy, it’s not supposed to make you upset.”

  “It’s just so moving, Contessa,” he assures me, finally looking at me. “Come here.”

  I walk quickly into his awaiting arms and hug him tightly. “It’s beautiful.” This time, I know that’s the exact word he means. When we let go of one another, we both look at the piece of art together.

  “I remember that tie,” he says. “I would never have remembered that, but I was wearing that one that night. Kelly had given it to me as a Christmas gift. Did I tell you about that tie at some point?”

  “No.”

  “Did your mother?”

  “No, I remember the tie. I remember tracing the snowflakes with my finger. I was mesmerized by the way the threads in the flakes sparkled in the light.”

  “You remember that day?” he says, really choked up now. He moves closer to the painting, touching the little beads around the tiny wrist.

  “Yes. And I’m not sure, but I think I was wearing plastic bracelets or something. I know I had been playing dress-up with some nurses.”

  “You were wearing plastic jewelry,” he confirms. “Another thing I’d forgotten about the day. The second I saw your little smile, that was it for me.”

  “The second I saw yours, that was it for me.” He turns around and grins once more.

  “I always wanted a picture of that moment... that moment when my life changed and my heart grew to make room to love a child of my own. My chest got tight, and it got worse as we left you at the hospital that night. This is what I’ve always wanted. This brings it all back. My little Contessa.”

  “I’m glad, Daddy. I am so sorry.” I barely manage to squeak the words out before I erupt in sobs, remembering that day in perfect clarity, and remembering how I felt the day that I went home with him and Mom for good. I knew I was loved, more than anything.

  “I am, too. We’re going to be just fine, Livvy.”

  Dad carries his painting down to my car while I calm down and re-apply my ruined makeup. I think about not putting it back on at all, since I’m fairly certain seeing Jon will make me emotional, too. But I want to look my best for everyone–and especially for him.

  I let my father drive my car to the Art Room. He pulls up to the curb, where my mom’s waiting for us.

  One look into my eyes and she knows my dad has told me about Jon. And one glance in hers lets me know that he’s already here.

  “But why is he so early?” I say quickly, not really expecting an answer.

  “Donna wanted to talk to him beforehand. You’ll be fine,” Mom says. “He’s already asked about you.”

  I simply raise my eyebrows, and my mother nods in affirmation. “I’m scared,” I admit to them both.

  “Contessa, go be that girl in this painting. That confident, beautiful girl.”

  I take a few deep breaths as she unlocks the Art Room door, watching Dad carry my painting inside. I follow him closely, trying to keep my eyes from desperately scanning the room for him. I can’t help myself, though. Dad walks toward the wall on which Granna has hung my other three paintings. Jon is standing in front of the first one, staring at it intently. He’s wearing a well-fitting suit that I’ve never seen on him before. His hair is newly cut, a little shorter than the last time. His hands are clasped behind his back; his thumbs fidget nervously.

  I decide to go talk to Granna. On my way across the room, though, I realize she’s talking to Jon’s mother. I stop abruptly, trying to figure out where to go.

  “Why don’t you get some water?” my mother suggests.

  “Sure.” I head toward the kitchen and grab a bottle from the stocked refrigerator. I linger in the doorway, watching Dad hang the painting as Jon moves on to the second in the series. He engages my dad in conversation, but I can’t hear either of them.

&
nbsp; Dad removes the covering from my final piece, and Jon immediately shifts his attention to it. My dad backs away to make sure it’s hanging straight while Jon takes a few steps toward it.

  I hear his voice for the first time. “My god.” I can tell from those two words that he likes it. I feel happy and relieved, knowing that I shouldn’t want his approval, but unable to help the way I feel. “Where is she?” I hear him ask Dad. Jon is still focused on the painting, and my father glances my way, as if to get permission. I take another sip of water before nodding to him.

  “She’s coming this way.” Jon spins around quickly, obviously unaware that I’m here already. He stays next to the painting, shoving his hands into his pockets. Finally ready to see what awaits me, I look at his face. A smile draws slowly across his lips, but his eyes look sad and tired. His shoulders relax as I feel mine tighten.

  “Congratulations,” I tell him, stopping about three feet in front of him.

  “Thanks,” he says. “I can’t help but think that you had something to do with it.”

  “I didn’t,” I respond quickly, shaking my head. “I didn’t even know you got it until a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh.” His expression changes, and he looks disappointed. “How have you been?”

  “Busy,” I tell him. He nods in understanding, then turns his back to me to look at the series of paintings.

  “So I see,” he comments softly. “Olivia,” he starts, and my stomach flutters, “I’m astonished that you could channel so much emotion into these. I’ve never seen anything like them, but I immediately could identify with each one.”

  “Thanks,” I whisper, taking a few steps toward him.

  “And looking at them now just... wow, Liv, it hurts,” he says. “It feels like it did four weeks ago.”

  “Really?” I ask him, turning to watch him study my work. He’s biting his lip in restraint. He blinks quickly, and I wonder if the back of his hand just wiped away a tear. I let out an audible sigh. He continues to avoid my gaze, but when he finally does look, I can tell it’s taking a lot of effort. We stare at one another. I’m trying to read him. I’m sure he’s doing the same.

  “I hurt you,” he says. “I didn’t think you could communicate that any better than you did here,” he says, motioning toward the art, “until I looked at you just now. God, Olivia, I am so sorry.”

  “No, I am,” I start to cry. His arms are around me instantly, his hand smoothing the curls of my long hair. “I was so stupid and thoughtless and I can’t apologize enough.”

  “Please don’t cry, Olivia.” I wish I could stop, but I can’t. I pull away from him just enough to make sure I don’t get makeup on his suit. I glance up, expecting to see my parents or Granna or his mother, but they’ve left us alone. “Shhh. Liv, come on. You look so beautiful tonight. You don’t want everyone to know you’ve been crying. All of your students will be here in a few minutes. Come on, it’s okay.”

  I sniffle a few times. He backs away a little and puts his finger under my chin, angling my face to his. I want him to kiss me, but he doesn’t. He simply smiles and wipes the last of my tears away from my cheeks.

  “Why don’t you go get some tissues,” he suggests. “Your mascara’s a little...” He laughs a bit, and I roll my eyes in response, tracing each of my lashes in hopes of removing the makeup.

  “I want to talk to you, though,” I say, my tone pleading.

  “After. Unless you have somewhere to be. It is Saturday night, after all.”

  “I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

  “Do you think your dad will let you?”

  “I’m sure he will.”

  “Okay. Well go freshen up. I’m going to take in these paintings a little more.”

  “You really like them?”

  “I really do,” he answers.

  “Thanks.” I start towards the restroom, my stomach still in knots. I stop to tell him one last thing. “Jon?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That suit looks amazing on you, and I love your hair, and I’ve missed you.”

  He smiles and thanks me. I nod and make my way to the mirror to fix my makeup for the second time.

  When I come back out, the doors have been unlocked and the students and their parents filter in the doors, gravitating toward the paintings they’ve worked on throughout the year. For some of the moms and dads, it’s the first time they’ve seen the work of their children. The mood is jubilant; the families proud. It seems to be shaping up to be a good evening. I make the rounds, introducing myself to people I haven’t met, and getting reacquainted with those that I have. Jon talks to a few of the kids who he knows from his days at Nate’s Art Room. Every once in awhile, our eyes meet across the room, and we both smile.

  “Mind if I interrupt?” my father says while I’m talking to Amanda and her mother.

  “If you’ll excuse me.” I nod to the family and follow my dad over to my paintings.

  “Livvy,” he says, taking his place next to a dark-haired man in pants and a blazer. “This is Abram Edwards.” The young man holds his hand out to me. When I extend mine, he kisses the back of it instead of shaking it.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet such a talented young lady, Miss Holland,” he says, his British accent surprising me. “I’ve been admiring these since I walked in.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him, curious. “Are you related to one of the students?”

  “I invited him here,” Dad says. “He’s an agent. He’s interested in representing you.”

  “What?” I can’t believe my ears.

  “Yes, I met your father awhile back. He’s been showing me your work over the past few months, and I think it’s time you had someone managing your career.”

  “My career?”

  “Yes, Livvy. You have something most artists would kill for. I would be honored if you would be my client.”

  “He’s one of the best in the city, Tessa,” my dad explains. “He represents many up-and-coming young artists. He’ll help get your work into galleries, museums, art shows around the world–and when you’re ready to start selling them...” he suggests.

  “Wow! I don’t even know what to say!”

  “Well, your mom and I support you, but we aren’t equipped to help you get the exposure you deserve. Now, you don’t have to say yes tonight–”

  “Yes!” I smile brightly at my dad and Abram.

  “Just a second,” my dad says to the agent–my agent! He puts his arm across my shoulders and walks me a few paces away. “You don’t want to meet with him one-on-one? Maybe get to know him a little?”

  “He likes my work, right?”

  “Loves it,” he says.

  “And you trust him?”

  “I do. He comes highly recommended, and I’ve seen what he’s done for other talented kids.”

  “Dad, if you trust him, I trust you.” He studies me a little more.

  “You’re ready for this?”

  “I’m ready.”

  Dad nods, and I follow him back to Abram. “It looks like you’ve got yourself a new client.” They shake hands before I hug my dad excitedly. Caught up in the moment, I hug my new agent, too. He laughs nervously, but hugs me back.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” he says. “Listen, Mr. Holland, I’ve got to run. Why don’t we set up a meeting for sometime next week?”

  “I’ll call you Monday morning,” my dad says. “Thank you.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I tell him, shaking his hand before he leaves. The music Granna had chosen starts to die down, and all of the guests begin to take their assigned seats at tables that my parents had brought in. Caterers begin to bring out salads as the ceremony commences. I sit between Dad and Granna at the head table.

  Every year at this banquet, Granna presents the students with various awards, certificates, and words of recognition. Everyone leaves with something, but there are two awards that are more coveted than the rest: the Artist of the Year award, which is presented to the a
rtist who has shown the most growth over the year, and the Nate Wilson Memorial Scholar award, which is presented to an Art Room student who’s graduating. This, of course, is the award Jon will be receiving.

  Mom typically hands out these two awards, but after presenting the first one to Jordan, she takes her seat and my dad stands up at the podium. My dad, the excellent speech-writer, is going to give Jon his award. It seems fitting somehow.

  Jon’s table is at the front, and I look over at him as my dad begins. He is watching Dad intently.

  “Good evening,” my dad addresses the room. “I’m Jack Holland, and normally my beautiful wife, Emi, presents this next award, but I have a vested interest in this, so I asked her if I could step in. Graciously, she said yes.

  “As most of you know, the Nate Wilson Memorial Scholar is typically a senior here at Nate’s Art Room. But this year, we didn’t have a senior, so we were faced with a bit of a conundrum. We thought about giving it to a junior instead, but there was one young man who studied here for many years–ten, was it?” He watches for Jon to respond with a nod. “Almost ten years, before he withdrew himself from the program. It wasn’t because he didn’t like the program, though. We discovered later that he wanted to give up his spot to someone who had more of a financial need than he did.

  “Nate’s Art Room prides itself on transparency. I mentioned that I have a vested interest in this, and I do. My daughter, Livvy, and this year’s recipient, Jon Scott, were good friends and shared a workspace here while he was enrolled. They’re still close, but I want everyone to know that this is not why we went to the board of directors and asked them to make an exception this year.

  “Jon is a young man with a ton of ambition and a curious mind. When Livvy was much younger, Emi would come home after picking up our daughter and go on and on about young Jon’s artwork. She would talk about how his understanding of perspective was so precise and exact, a knowledge that was well beyond his youth. His drawings were calculated, well-planned, geometric marvels, she would say. He would talk about math concepts, and apply them to his work. She was always in awe of how his left brain and right brain worked so harmoniously. ‘Like the perfect symphony,’ she said to me one night.