Livvy (42 page)

“Okay. Can you call us when you’re in Manhattan?”

“Sure thing. I will. I love you both.”

“Love you, too, sweetie,” Mom says. I tuck the phone away and swallow the pills quickly, following up with large sips of water.

“Were you going to tell them about Isaiah?”

“I think so,” I say. “I feel like I should. If I don’t, I’m hiding something from them, and I don’t want them to think this is so important I’d hide it from them. Dad can handle it,” I say aloud, more to assure myself than anyone else.

“Just think about it a little more,” Jon says, patting my knee. “It just happened. Let it sink in, then decide.”

“Alright,” I agree. I turn on some music, and neither of us says much to the other the entire way home.

CHAPTER 15

I don’t go home the first weekend after the spring semester starts. Jon and I had both agreed to devote some time to getting adjusted to our new class schedules and catching up with our roommates.

He still calls me every night, and even though he doesn’t always have a lot of time to talk to me, he at least reminds me that he’s there and offers to listen to any problems I’m having.

Although we haven’t discussed my biological father anymore, it’s still a huge distraction to me. A couple nights since I’ve been back in New Haven, I’ve thought about leaving the dorms after dinner and driving back to Hartford. I want to see the tree again.
Could he have loved my mother?
Maybe “SD” stood for something else. It could just be a coincidence.

Or it could be a storybook romance with the saddest of endings. Man loves woman. They spend a passionate night together. Woman gets pregnant but hides the child from the man. Woman gets sick again, realizes she’s dying.
And then what?

Why wouldn’t she get him involved? I’m convinced now it wasn’t a one night stand. He was a kind man. Friendly, sociable. I bet he was handsome when he was younger. But to love her? She must not have loved him in return. It upsets me to realize I may never know.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Jon asks me. I guess I’ve been sitting in silence too long. Rachelle and Katrina had gone to the library to study, giving me some time alone.

“Did you see the tree?” I ask him finally.

“Are we talking about the metal one?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course I saw it.”

“Did you see the trunk?”

“Yeah, it was wood.”

“There was a carving in it. Did you see that?”

“No, I must have missed it. What was it?”

“It said IG + SD.”

“Isaiah Grate and Simone DeLuca,” he mumbles. “That can’t be, Liv... can it? Are you sure you saw it right?”

“I’m doubting myself now. Maybe I saw what I wanted to see. What kid doesn’t want to be conceived by two people in love? I’ve never much liked the thought that it was just a fling or something...”

“Of course not,” he says. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “I’m thinking I don’t want to be obsessing about this, but I am. I have two perfectly good parents already. No, I have, like,
the
perfect parents. I have parents most kids would kill for. Why am I looking for another set of parents to call my own?” He doesn’t answer, not that I expect him to. “It’s selfish.”

“It’s not either. It’s natural to be curious. Do you have theories about them?”

“Sure, but they all end with one glaring question. When my mother found out she was dying, why in the world would she think that the state would be a better option to raise a child than a biological father? Especially if he loved her, like the tree would lead me to believe.”

“Maybe she really didn’t know who the father was...”

“Maybe,” I say, not liking what that suggests.

“SD could stand for something else, you know? It might not even stand for your mom.”

“But if it did... could he have done something to make her want to keep me from him?”

“I’m not sure, baby,” he admits, sounding tired. “I’m not sure anyone can answer that question.”

“He might.”

“He might... or he might not. There’s no way to know.”

“I could ask him,” I suggest weakly.

“You know what you’re saying, don’t you?”

“What?”

“You’d be exposing yourself to him. Revealing your true identity–”

“I know–”

“If you know, then you have to really consider everything you’re risking. I know you’ve thought about the possibility of meeting the man, but that was before you knew that you could make it happen with a short drive to Hartford.”

“I’ve been thinking–”

“Olivia, have you told Jack?”

I sigh, and assume that my silence is a good enough answer to his question.

“You know you can’t do this without telling him. To introduce Isaiah to the heiress of the Holland fortune... you have to protect that.”

“I could just say I was Stella, like before.”

“You couldn’t keep up that lie. He’s obviously a sentimental guy, if he really did carve that in a tree. I would think that he’d be interested in knowing more about you. He may want to be a part of your life. The article said he wanted a family.”

“Maybe
you
could ask him...”

“Olivia, don’t pit me between Jack and him. Don’t pit me between Jack and
anyone
, for that matter. It’s taken me years to get on his good side.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I’m just grasping at straws. I could tell him it’s a one-time thing.”

“You’re opening up a big can of worms, baby. What if your parents did something... less than legal to acquire you–”

“God, Jon, they didn’t. I know my mom and dad. Plus, Granna said they did their due diligence. It was such a public ordeal anyway, surely people scrutinized what they did. And I’m sure Dad’s lawyers made sure all the bases were covered.”

“Still, let’s say there’s some loophole we don’t know about. You go to Isaiah, you say, ‘hey, I’m your long lost daughter, but I just have some questions and then I’ll be on my way.’ If he wants a relationship, he’ll find things out about you, and if he finds out you’re Jack Holland’s daughter, he may want something.”

“He doesn’t seem like a bad guy.”

“We talked to him for less than three minutes. You can’t make that sort of assessment in that amount of time.”

“But I want to know.”

“If you want to know, you have to tell Jack first. In fact, maybe he could get his lawyers involved to help answer your questions without telling Isaiah who you are. That could be a win-win. You get your answers and your anonymity.”

“What if he beat her or something?” I say, trying to understand my mom’s decision from every possible angle.

“That’s a good point. Are you ready to hear the truth if it’s disreputable? What if he was in jail? Or with another woman at the time?”

I hadn’t even thought about that. That could explain it. Maybe they were having a long-term affair, and he wasn’t available. She couldn’t tell him. She’d have to leave him.

“You have your street art class tomorrow?” Jon asks. I’m grateful he’s changing the subject.

“Yeah.”

“Looking forward to it?”

“Yeah,” I repeat quietly.

“Are you still with me?” he asks with a slight chuckle.

“I think I should go to bed,” I tell him.

“I understand. I’ll stand beside you, whatever you decide, Liv. I just need you to give this some serious thought, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t be impulsive. This isn’t the time or situation, alright?”

“Yeah. I won’t be. I promise.”

“Have a good day tomorrow, baby.”

“You, too, Jon. I love you.”

“I love you, too. I’ll call you tomorrow night.”

“Livvy,” my new art teacher catches me on my way out after class. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“Sure,” I tell him, propping my backpack up and returning to my workspace in the front of the classroom.

“I’ve been going over your paintings from last semester with your departmental advisor,” he starts, standing a fair distance in front of me and rubbing his thumbs together nervously.

“Okay,” I say, waiting for a critique of some sort. I steel myself, locking my knees in place in preparation. I can defend my work. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. Nothing at all; quite the opposite, actually.”

I smile, relaxing a little and putting my things on my desk and sitting down.

“I’m very impressed with your work,” he says. “Blown away, actually. I’ve never seen paintings with such complexity and depth from such a young artist. And your use of color is phenomenal.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“I gather you’ve known for awhile that you’re a natural.”

“Awhile, yes,” I admit humbly, feeling my cheeks blush.

“Is this something you like to do, too?”

“Of course,” I laugh. “I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“That’s nice to hear. So many times, people who’ve been doing it all their lives get burned out... or we find that kids your age have only been doing things to please their parents.”

“That’s not the case for me,” I tell him. “Sometimes I don’t feel like I can breathe if I go long stretches of time without painting. Some people need food and shelter. I need to create.”

My professor’s smile is huge. “I know what you mean. I’m happy to hear that’s how you feel. My daughter’s your age. She played the piano all her life. I never felt like we pushed her, but since she went away to college, she’s done everything to stay away from music. I don’t know why... but that’s neither here nor there. Again, I’m happy that you’re passionate about this.”

“I am.”

“There is a point to this conversation,” he continues. “I spend my summers in Manhattan, looking for new talent. I’m an art dealer outside of the classroom. Are you currently under representation by someone?”

“No, but I’m not looking for an agent,” I tell him politely. “I’m flattered, but I had a bad experience–”

“No,” he interrupts, laughing. “I’m not looking for a client... but I
am
looking for an artist.”

“Well, you found one?” I ask him, unsure.

“A
specific
one,” he clarifies. “Your work reminds me of some paintings I stumbled across about a year ago.”

“Do you think my work isn’t original?” It was always a fear of mine that I would steal someone else’s ideas, with as much art as I have exposed myself to over my short lifetime. I can’t hide the panicked expression.

“Not at all,” he assures me. “Unless...”

“Unless what?”

“Unless you are
not
the artist known as Olivia Choisie.”

I blink a few times, trying to maintain a poker face. “Who?” I say shakily.

“Come on, Livvy,” he says as he leans against his desk. “I understand your need for privacy, or your desire to be known for something other than your name. But Livvy? Olivia? Tell me it’s not a coincidence.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I lie.

“Livvy, your secret is safe with me, okay? We have experts here at Yale... people who specialize in identifying rare pieces of artwork and attributing them to their rightful creator. They study color, brush strokes, paint coverage, shapes, pressure... I had one of them compare some of your pieces with some of Olivia Choisie’s. They feel the work comes from one artist.”

I sigh.

“I have an opportunity for you, if you’ll admit to being the brilliant painter behind this piece of artwork,” he says, pulling out a medium sized canvas from a wooden crate that had been sitting behind his desk. I look away as soon as I see it, recognizing it as one of the ones I’d painted when Jon and I had first started dating. It was one of the ones my mom had called
erotic
.

“What’s the opportunity?” I ask, keeping my head angled toward my desk.

“Olivia,” he says with a sigh, “it is such an honor–”

“It’s Livvy,” I correct him, looking at him hard to show that I’m serious. “You said my secret was safe, so that means no hinting at Olivia Choisie’s real identity, okay?”

“Of course, I’m sorry,” he says. “I mean no disrespect. But I’ve never had an accomplished artist in one of my classes before. I feel ill-equipped to teach you anything.”

“I know nothing about street art,” I tell him. “It’s just something I think is fascinating, and hope to be a part of someday.”

“Well, that’s what I’d like to talk to you about.”

After class, I need another opinion, so I call my dad and tell him my news. I walk just outside the building and call him, keeping track of the time so I’m not late to my Spanish class.