Contessa

  “I’m not mad, Dad,” I tell him. “It just frustrates me that you can’t see that, you know? Everything has to be beautiful to you. Anything less isn’t art to you, and I don’t know. I don’t relate to that.”

  “But Livvy, everything you’ve done is beautiful. Your art is beautiful.”

  “You always say that,” I tell him. “What if I painted this?”

  He stands back again and analyzes Nate’s painting. “You know, Tessa, I bet I would find it to be beautiful, because I know it came from somewhere deep inside of you. That’s what I love about what you do.”

  “That’s biased, then. That’s not objective.”

  “I don’t care if you think I’m biased, honey. I admire the talent you have, and it makes me so proud to know that you can speak to people through art. You’re right; I don’t understand art like you do or like your mother does, or like Nate obviously did. But I understand the confidence and courage it takes to put your heart out there, and I’m in awe of what you do, Livvy. But that’s as objective as I can be where you’re involved. If you just painted a big puddle of black ink, I’m sure I’d look at it differently than if Nate here had painted it.” He gestures flippantly at the spectacular piece of art in between us. His motion offends me, but I continue to listen. “I’d be worried about you, and I’d wonder what I could do to help you, but I would be so proud that my daughter was brave enough to bare her soul to the world in such a way. And to me, that’s beautiful. That’s what beauty is to me. It’s seeing you become this significant person not just in my world, but in the world.”

  I consider what he’s just said to me, and actually am moved by it, but I’m not really sure how to respond. I give a faint smile and move on to the next painting, turning my back to him. I hear him walk out of the cavernous room, leaving me to my thoughts.

  Looking around the room slowly, none of the other pieces speaks to me like Nate’s does. I go back to it and study it closer, committing to memory some of the techniques he used.

  Dad comes back in the room as another family enters. He stands behind me, delivering to me a small gift shop bag, then puts one hand on my back. I open the bag to find postcards of all the paintings that I’d told him I liked–except for Nate’s. I’m impressed that he took note of the ones I found most compelling, but am irritated at his obvious omission.

  “Thanks, Dad, but you forgot one.” I turn around to show my disapproval, but am stunned by what I see. He’s holding a 3’ x 3’ canvas replica of Thursday Morning, Nate’s amazing work of art. “Oh, thank you, Daddy!” I exclaim, taking the painting from his grasp. It’s heavier than I expected, and so well done. I compare the colors to the original, and they’re spot on.

  “Can you go a little easier on me, Livvy? I really am trying.”

  I look up into his eyes and see a tinge of sadness there I’d never seen before.

  “Okay,” I tell him, a little remorseful.

  “You ready for dinner?”

  “Yeah.” He hands me the keys and picks up the canvas, carefully carrying it out to the car.

  Mom greets us at the door when we get home. The house is still and quiet, which normally means my brother is in bed and my mom is working. She looks beyond us at the car, as if inspecting it for damage.

  “Your daughter takes after me, Em,” he tells her. “Perfect driving. She only forgot to signal once.”

  “Well, then that would make her a better driver than you.” She teases my dad before she welcomes him into her arms. I peek in Trey’s room to find him asleep, still wearing a party hat.

  “Was he too tired to take it off?” I ask when they separate.

  “He made it,” my mom tells me. “He couldn’t wait to show Daddy.”

  “Oh, let’s go see my boy,” Dad says. “Livvy, why don’t you show your mom what we got today?”

  “Okay,” I smile, knowing my mom will love the painting–well, hoping she will, anyway. I’d never asked why there were no paintings of Nate’s in our house. Again, he wasn’t someone we talked about often. “Come help me?” I ask her as I lead her out into the driveway.

  “How were my parents?” she asks me.

  “They’re fine,” I tell her. “Grandma was great. Don seemed tired,” I report. “After dinner, he just went to his recliner and fell asleep. It wasn’t even seven-thirty. She said he’s been doing that for a few weeks now.”

  “Really?” Her voice is concerned. “She mentioned something about that, but I didn’t really take it too seriousl– Livvy? What is that?” she asks as she looks in the backseat of the car.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a painting of Nate’s.”

  “It’s a replica. There was a painting of his at the gallery.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, in the New York exhibit.”

  “Well, that’s pretty unbelievable.”

  “Have you seen it before?”

  “I have,” she confirms. “Her name was Laney,” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing.” She squints at the painting, but seems to look beyond it. “Your dad bought this?”

  “Yeah. It was the most incredible piece there.”

  She looks shocked. “And he knew it was Nate’s?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “No reason, Liv,” she says with a shrug. “Where will we be hanging this?” she asks.

  “In my bedroom,” I tell her as if her question had an obvious answer.

  A smile grows on her face. “Mind if I visit it every once in awhile?”

  “As long as you knock.”

  “Deal,” she says, taking the painting from the backseat and carrying it in. Dad and Trey greet us in the foyer, my brother’s eyes still weary with sleep.

  “Well?” he asks Mom.

  “It’s beautiful,” she answers.

  My dad looks at me and corrects her. “Actually, it’s not. What did you say it was? Angry? Primal?”

  “I meant it’s a beautiful gesture, baby,” she says before kissing him.

  “Ewwww,” Trey says as he walks into the living room and picks up the remote control. My parents separate with a laugh.

  “No TV, Jackson,” my dad says, going to tend to my brother.

  “Do you think it’s to late to call my mom?” Mom asks him.

  He checks his watch and shakes his head. Mom goes into the office to make the phone call as Dad slings Trey over his shoulder to return him back to bed. I decide to go to my room in the basement to try to find the perfect wall for this perfect piece of art.

  CHAPTER 5

  My mind isn’t on the lesson the following Thursday, but I power through, spending most of my time watching the kids paint. As the last of the kids is shuttled away by his parents, I start to gather my things, wondering if Jon will show up again this week.

  “Granna, can I have the key to the gallery? Mom needs me to grab a book for her.”

  She hands me the key ring and I exit the building, making my way up the staircase outside. I’m startled by footsteps behind me.

  “It’s just me, Livvy.” I turn around to see Jon halfway up the stairs.

  “Hi.”

  “I’ve never been up here.”

  “Sure you have,” I argue. “We had a show here once, remember?”

  “I wasn’t there,” he says. “That was the week my, uh...” He clears his throat. “My father passed away.”

  “Oh,” I whisper apologetically. “I forgot about that. I mean, I remember that he did, but–”

  “It’s okay,” he says as he climbs the rest of the steps to the top platform, meeting me as I open the door. I hit the lights quickly and go inside, with Jon fast on my heels. The door shuts behind us.

  “My dad would kill me if he knew you were here.”

  “Why?” He sounds amused. “My intentions are good. I’m here to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I don’t think he’d care why you were in here, with me, alone.”

>   “Well, I’m not going to try anything. Not even if you ask me to,” he taunts me.

  I just turn around and blush at his suggestion, going toward my mother’s office. I grab the book off of her desk and turn off the lamp she’d left on. Jon’s looking at the permanent display of some of Nate’s paintings when I come out. “Aren’t they incredible?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “It’s a shame he died so young.”

  “I know,” I agree, feeling a tinge of sadness. “Look at this one,” I tell him, pulling him by his sleeve to the far wall where a very large mural hangs. “This one was apparently painted for my mom. They shipped it here from Los Angeles a few years ago. Cool, huh?”

  “It’s stunning.”

  “He thought my mom was stunning,” I tell him. “He loved her.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. They were in love.”

  “I didn’t realize that. I guess that makes sense, though, why you call Donna ‘Granna.’ I’ve always wondered that. What happened with them?”

  “He died,” I say simply. “And that was it.”

  He’s silent for a few minutes, walking the span of the wall and looking at the details of the mural up close. “That’s sad,” he says.

  “I know.” I debate telling him any more, and just settle on voicing my own curiosity. “I often wonder what he would be like as a dad, like if Mom had ended up with him.”

  “Well,” he says gently. “Do you think you would have even met him? Or even your mom?”

  “Definitely,” I tell him. “Granna’s the one who introduced me to Mom and Dad. You know how you just feel like you’re destined to be a part of someone’s life?”

  He smiles softly and nods. “Maybe a little.”

  “Well, I feel like I was destined to find my mom. I feel certain I would have found her, even if she hadn’t been with Dad–you know, if Nate had lived, and had they been able to stay together. I think they would have raised me.”

  “Interesting perspective,” he says. “Maybe you’re right, but I guess we’ll never know.”

  “Nope,” I say, sullen, my eyes dropping to the floor.

  “But hey.” He lifts my chin back up, and once my eyes are trained on his, he drops his hand. I’d wanted him to leave it there, to pull me closer to him... to give me my first real kiss. “You’ve got the best dad any kid could hope for.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I say as the heavy metal door opens up.

  “Livvy?”

  “I’m here, Granna,” I yell from behind the paintings, stepping out into the open room so she can see me, my cheeks bright red with guilt. I glance at Jon, and he steps out behind me, quickly walking past me toward her. He’s blushing, too, even though we’ve done nothing wrong.

  “Donna,” he says with his hand outstretched.

  “Jon! My...” She shakes his hand and takes a long, hard look at him. “You’ve grown up since I last saw you!”

  “Yeah, I guess my growth spurt finally hit. Took long enough.” He laughs easily with her.

  “Jacks told me you might stop by to walk Livvy home. Sweetheart, did you get your mother’s book?” I hold it up to show her, again feeling the need to prove my innocence. “Let’s get you home. It’s a school night.”

  “Yeah, we’re ready. I was just showing him the mural.” I hand her the keys on our way out.

  “He painted that for Livvy’s mother,” she says.

  “She told me. It’s pretty incredible.”

  “It was one of the last pieces he did. Definitely our favorite. Right, Liv?”

  “Definitely.” It was our favorite, but Mom had protested when the painting showed up in the gallery. She didn’t want to look at it every day. In the end, though, Mom agreed that there was no better place for it than in his own gallery. As a compromise, Dad had some people come in to create partitions so it wasn’t something she’d have to see every time she walked across the room. Other paintings now hang in front of it, obstructing the view.

  I know Dad didn’t want her looking at the painting every day, either. I’d often wondered if he could sense the longing, the sadness that was depicted so brilliantly in that mural. After our discussion the other day, I decide he probably can’t detect it, but instead just wanted to do what needed to be done to make my mother comfortable in her space. He always went out of his way to make sure she was happy and taken care of. I do like that about him. I do hope I find someone like that someday.

  It’s nice that Jon’s here to make sure I make it home okay, although there’s never been any danger of me not making it home safely. I know it’s just an excuse for us to see one another, even if it is for a very brief period of time.

  After locking up the Art Room and telling Granna goodbye, Jon and I walk at an intentionally slow pace, milking the time for all its worth. He takes the book out of my hand, and then replaces it with his own hand.

  “So Dad knows you’re here?”

  “Yeah. He said he liked that I was looking out for you. He said you get annoyed when he does it.”

  “I do. He used to walk up here and walk with me. I’m fifteen, you know? I can walk two blocks by myself.”

  “But Livvy. You’re fifteen.” He repeats my rationalization in a serious tone. “And the daughter of a very well-known, very wealthy man in the city.”

  “So?”

  “So, you’d be an easy target if someone was desperate, or had a bone to pick with your Dad.”

  “No one has a bone to pick with him. Everyone loves him.”

  “True.”

  “Plus, my brother’s a much easier target. That would hurt my dad more, anyway.”

  “Why do you say that?” he asks curiously.

  “Only son. Only blood descendent. Heir to the throne. That kind of thing.”

  “I don’t think your dad cares about that. That doesn’t make you any less his child.”

  I shrug my shoulders. He squeezes my hand gently and continues. “I think sometimes you’re naïve, Livvy. And very often your mind is not on your surroundings. I remember I used to have conversations with you, sitting at the same work bench, and you had no idea I was talking to you.” He raises his eyebrows, seeing my surprise. “That’s exactly my point.”

  “Nuh-uh,” I argue with him.

  “I swear, Livvy! I was offended at first; I thought your were bored by my garrulous chatter–”

  “Garrulous?”

  “It’s an SAT word. You like that?” he says with a smile and a little bit of arrogance. “I assumed you thought my conversation was trivial, but I realized that’s just when you’re at your most inspired. So I eventually stopped talking and I just let you create.

  “It’s fascinating, how you work. How your mind works. But because of that, I don’t think you’re always aware of what’s going on around you.”

  “Sure I am,” I tell him as I wrestle my hand away from his. “For instance, I know my dad will be able to see us in five more paces.” I smile pertly at him, and he nods in understanding.

  “Touché, Livvy.” He hands me back the book as we cross the street. I pull it into my chest, both of us keenly aware of my dad’s eyes watching us together as he sits alone on the front step of the patio.

  “Hey, Dad,” I call to him, “where’s Trey?”

  He stands up as he answers. “He’s running a fever, so we put him to bed early.” My brother had never been the healthiest child, a result of him being delivered six weeks early because of the difficulties my mom had faced in her pregnancy with him.

  “So you’re just out here waiting for me?”

  “I guess I am,” he answers, then directs his attention to Jon. “Thanks for walking her home.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  “Did you need a ride home?”

  “No, my friends are waiting for me at the library. I’m good.” He smiles at me and starts to back away. “I’ll see you next Thursday, Livvy?”

  “Okay. Have fun studying.”

  “Definite
ly,” he says sarcastically. “Good night, Jack.”

  “Have a good week. Thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.” He nods his head and turns around, beginning a slow jog up the street he and I just came from.

  “How was class?” Dad asks me, following me into the house.

  “Fine. A couple of the kids were sick, too. Maybe there’s something going around. Can you give this to mom?” I hand him her design book and put my stuff down next to the basement stairs, going back toward the kitchen to my brother’s room.

  “Hey, brat,” I say softly, entering his room when I see him tossing in his bed and throwing the blankets off. “You’re not feeling well?” I help him with the sheets, then press my hand to his forehead. “Yeah, you’re hot.”

  “My head hurts,” he complains.

  “I can tell. I’m sorry. Want me to read to you or something?”

  He raises his eyebrows, shocked by my question. “Yeah,” he says, not letting the opportunity pass him by. I pick up the book on his nightstand and turn to the dog-eared page. He moves over in his twin-sized bed to make room for me. I sit against the headboard, and he rolls over on his side so he can watch me. He always says I make funny faces when I read, and even though I think he’s just easily entertained, I take a few minutes to try to make him laugh. It works, but he’s asleep within ten minutes.

  “Is he okay?” Mom asks when I go into the kitchen.

  “Yeah. This kind of puts a damper on Dad’s birthday dinner tomorrow, huh?”

  “Yeah, we might have to postpone if Trey’s not feeling better.”

  “Don’t do that,” I tell her, seeing my exit strategy for a family dinner I wasn’t really looking forward to. “Why don’t you and Dad go out, and I’ll stay here with Trey? We’ll be fine. You’ll have your phone on you.”

  “No, there’s no way we could enjoy ourselves knowing he was here feeling awful.” She looks at me as if I’ve grown a third ear. “Wait, you want to babysit?”

  “Well,” I tell her, trying to play it cool. “I mean, I don’t want Dad to have to spend his birthday here with a sick kid.”