Contessa (4 page)

“
It
’
s beautiful,
”
he said of my finger painting. He said that of every painting, drawing, photo I
’
d ever created, all my life. It meant something when I was four.

It seems hollow today, twelve years later.

“
It would be beautifuller with a brush,
”
I
’
d said to him, matter of fact.

“
More beautiful,
”
he had corrected me, but with a gentle smile.
“
But I
’
m not sure that
’
s possible.
”

Dad and I ate dinner quickly that night, and I had dressed myself in my warm winter coat and boots and was ready to go by the time Dad had finished doing the dishes. We drove to an art supply store in Brooklyn. It was the same place Mom would often go to get paper supplies for her work.

“
Good evening, Mr. Holland,
”
a woman greeted us. When I was that age, I used to wonder why everyone knew my father
’
s name. I didn
’
t know at the time that he was one of the most
well known
men in New York. When I was old enough to know what a self-made millionaire was, I was in awe of my dad and felt pretty honored that he and my mother had chosen to adopt me.
“
How can I help you two tonight?
”

“
Well, my daughter here says that the big kids get to paint with brushes instead of fingers. So as much as I don
’
t want my little girl being a big kid so soon, I figure we need to equip her with the tools she needs to create her masterpieces.
”

“
Of course,
”
the woman agreed, leading us to an aisle with different baskets of brushes.
“
Top of the line, right here,
”
she
’
d said, picking up a wooden-handled tool with thick bristles.

“
I appreciate that,
”
Dad said,
“
but she
’
s four. We can probably start with quantity instead of quality. She
’
ll have to figure out how to use them.
”

I
’
d found a packet of ten brushes in the bottom bucket, all with different-colored handles and different-sized bristles.
“
Can we get these, Daddy?
”

“
Are these good for a blossoming new artist?
”
he asked the saleswoman.

“
Absolutely,
”
she smiled.
“
But you
’
ll need some paints to go with those.
”

“
Lead the way,
”
Dad offered, letting me walk in front of him to bookshelves full of bright pigments in tubes and jars. I
’
m sure my eyes were as wide as saucers.

“
Oh, Daddy! I want one of everything!
”
I
’
d exclaimed with pleading eyes and folded hands.
“
Please?
”

“
Contessa, you could paint our house with all of this paint. It
’
s way too much.
”
He was always very reasonable, rational.
“
What would you recommend?
”
he again deflected to the woman.

“
Primary colors,
”
she said as she picked up tubes of red, yellow and blue.
“
Did you know you can make almost any color out of just these three?
”
she asked me.

“
Really?
”

“
Really.
”

“
How?
”

She demonstrated how red and yellow could make orange, blue and yellow could make green. I was fascinated, but didn
’
t believe her, remembering the one standard brown color I always seemed to end up with. That said, I still couldn
’
t wait to try it out at home.

We ended up getting more than what Dad had intended to buy, I
’
m sure, but he wanted to make sure I had everything I might need.
“
I don
’
t want your mom to come home and tell me what I did wrong,
”
he
’
d explained.
“
I want this to be a surprise, and I don
’
t want her to have to worry about a thing.
”

When we got home, Dad set up an easel in the corner of the casual dining room, covering the tile floor around it with a cloth we had picked up on the way out. I broke open the packaging for the paintbrushes and the palette and ran my fingers through the fine hairs of the bristles.

“
Where do brushes come from?
”
I asked him.

“
I don
’
t know,
”
he answered honestly.
“
Horses, I think? Or maybe pigs?
”

“
They kill horsies for these?
”
I
’
d dropped all the brushes on the floor, startled. He turned around and smiled at me, leaning down to pick up the tools now strewn across the tile.

“
Livvy, hon, they don
’
t
kill
the horses. They just use their hair. It grows back, just like yours.
”
He tugged on my pigtail and chuckled, handing me the brushes.

“
Promise?
”

“
I wouldn
’
t lie, Tessa.
”

“
Okay,
”
I
’
d said with a sigh of relief.
“
Daddy, can I have a horsie?
”

“
No,
”
he said quickly, shaking his head and grinning at me. He stood back to survey the new workspace as I started to uncap a tube of paint.
“
Livvy, your mom will be so angry if you get paint on your clothes. I think she
’
s got a smock in the closet upstairs. Don
’
t start painting yet, okay? Can you wait for me to come back down?
”

“
Okay, Daddy.
”
He wasn
’
t gone long before he carried the black smock into the kitchen. It was wrinkled, but had ruffles on it and a belt that tied in a ribbon around the waist. He put it on me, and even though he bunched up the smock and tied the belt around it to shorten the length, the garment dragged the floor.

“
Good, it even covers your boots. You
’
ll grow into it, right?
”
he
’
d asked with a self-satisfied grin. I nodded, feeling spots on the smock that were already dirty with dried paint.

“
Is this Mommy
’
s?
”

“
Yes, it is,
”
he said.
“
Okay, it
’
s getting close to bedtime, so why don
’
t you pick a little square on the canvas and just focus on that. Mom should be home in a half hour for bath time.
”

I nodded happily and got to work. Just as Dad had predicted, my mom had returned home from work thirty minutes later, as I was putting the finishing touches on a small painting of our dog, Ruby. Our fox terrier wouldn
’
t sit still to model for me, so I had to do most of the work from memory.

“
Where
’
s my family?
”
Mom had yelled from the front door.

“
In here, Poppet,
”
Dad answered, calling her by the nickname he
’
d given her the first time
they
met in college. Apparently, she looked like a doll to him, with her fair skin and denim overalls and red hair in two pigtails. To this day, Mom doesn
’
t know what he saw in her that night.
“
Come see what our daughter is doing.
”
His voice was proud, and I could hear the smile in his words. I turned around to see her enter the kitchen. She stopped dead in her tracks, and her expression was sad, confused. She took a deep breath, and then forced her lips into a smile.

“
What
’
s this, Jacks?
”

Dad stuttered with his answer, looking genuinely concerned with Mom
’
s reaction.
“
We, uh, got her some real paint supplies. Livvy said the big kids use brushes, so I thought that was a good idea.
”
When she didn
’
t answer him, he continued.
“
It
’
s not a good idea?
”
he said quietly, shooting a quick glance in my direction.

“
No, it
’
s great,
”
Mom said, tension leaving her shoulders.
“
Just... what is she wearing?
”
She walked quickly in my direction and started to untie the ribbon around my waist, even before giving me a hug. I thought it was because she didn
’
t want to get paint on her clothes.

“
Your smock.
”

“
It
’
s not a smock, it
’
s a dress,
”
she mumbled quickly, not looking at him, removing the garment from my body. She draped it over one arm and embraced me with the other, giving me a kiss on the cheek.
“
Is that Ruby?
”
she asked me before clearing her throat. Her voice sounded funny.

“
Uh-huh. Can you tell?
”

“
Of course I can tell, Liv. It looks just like her. You did an amazing job. You should paint her dog house behind her.
”
She outlined an area around the dog.
“
Wouldn
’
t that be cute?

“
How do I make pink?
”
I asked her.

She looked at my palette, which was smeared with too much paint.

“
Red and white make pink,
”
she taught me.
“
Do you want to try that?
”

“
Yeah, but Daddy said you
’
ll get mad if I get paint on me,
”
I explained, cleaning the brush in the dirty water I
’
d been using.
“
I don
’
t want you to get mad.
”

“
It
’
s just paint, sweetie. A little paint never hurt anyone.
”
She swallowed hard, then stood up and patted me on the top of my head before walking across the kitchen.

“
Come here,
”
my dad said to her. I turned around to watch their usual, loving exchange. My parents had always been affectionate with one another. There was never any question about how much they loved each other. On this particular occasion, though, my mom didn
’
t kiss Dad back.

“
I
’
m sorry,
”
I heard him whisper.

“
Does that really look like a smock to you?
”
she said in frustration. I had to strain to hear her, but I could feel that something was wrong. I
’
d always been pretty perceptive.

“
Once I put it on her, no. But Em, it has paint on it,
”
he said with a slight laugh as he struggled with the veiled emotions my mother was trying to hide from him. I watched the silent exchange as my adoptive parents spoke only with their eyes. It wouldn
’
t have made such an impact on me had a tear not dropped down each of my mother
’
s cheeks when she blinked.