Livvy (53 page)

“Thank you,” I tell my professor once we’re away from the crowd.

“Jon, I presume?” he asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“Jon, this is Ariana’s brother and my street art professor, Dr. Emory.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jon says as they shake hands. “Liv, I didn’t really get to see your other work,” he comments to me.

“Maybe we can come back tomorrow,” I suggest. “You can come to my studio and see some other things I’m working on.”

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say with a smile, happy that he’s interested.

“Let me take you down the hall. There’s a shortcut,” my professor says. We’re able to escape the gallery with no one noticing.

Hand in hand, we walk slowly to the building that houses my workspace. “You know that wall by the studio?”

“Huh?” I ask him.

“In the loft... the wall that faces the studio?” he repeats.

“Oh, yeah. What about it?”

“I think that painting would look perfect there.”

I look up at him, pleased. “It makes sense, since you’ll be spending the summer there.”

“It will be safe, in your home, where it belongs,” he says, nodding. “But maybe I could loan it to the Olivia Choisie gallery for a bit. More people should see that, Liv. Are your parents still going to open it on schedule?”

“I think I’ve convinced them to have a soft opening without me in mid-June, when we’d planned to before this Brazil thing came up. It’ll give me a few more months of anonymity.”

“It sounds like the public’s on to you already. I think when the Hollands open up that gallery, most art aficionado’s suspicions will be confirmed.”

“I know you’re right. That’s why I don’t mind having a real opening at the end of the summer. We’ll have a reason to dress up and go out and celebrate before I get to escape the chaos and come back to New Haven.”

“And you’ll leave me to deal with the ensuing attention.”

“You can take care of yourself,” I assure him playfully. He holds the door open for me, placing his hand on the small of my back as I pass him and leaving it there, his fingers scratching lightly, as we wander the quiet halls. It’s always bustling with noise and chaos–so much so that I have to wear my headphones most of the time–but I guess with Yale’s art night in full swing, all of the normal inhabitants are occupied elsewhere. “It’s right in here,” I say, leading him around a corner into my assigned space, where I flick on a small desk lamp with a soft white bulb.

He looks up at the glass ceiling, approving of the natural light source, even though the only light from the sky at the moment is coming from the moon and a few tiny stars.

“Here are pictures of all the pieces I was showing tonight,” I say, handing him 8x10 matte prints that I’d taken for my portfolio.

“The photo’s great.” He takes his glasses off to examine it closer. “That’s an old-school sharpener, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I got it at the same bookstore where I found your Dostoevsky. Manny was actually holding a Tiffany lamp up to get the colors. But I staged the whole thing.”

“Oh, Manny,” Jon sighs, setting down the photo. “It’s still a nice shot.” He nudges me gently in the side.

“I know,” I agree smugly.

“This is the street art class, I presume?” He holds up another photo of a building he knows well. “What was the assignment?”

“Take a picture of a place in New York that has special meaning for you, and adorn it to convey why it’s special.”

“Your mom would murder you if you did this to Nate’s Art Room.”

“Actually, when she saw it in the gallery tonight, she teared up and said it was beautiful. She was happy it represented love to me, because that’s all she feels when she’s in there.”

“That had to make your dad feel weird.”

“Not one bit. It was a selfless act of love from him that allowed the place to exist in the first place.”

“I didn’t know that. I always assumed Donna had it built.”

I shake my head, studying the flowing strokes I had superimposed on the windows of the Art Room. “It was my dad’s idea. Donna helped, but it was his wedding gift to my mother. They got married in the gallery on the second floor.”

“What a beautiful gift. And to think that something your dad envisioned and brought to life is the sole reason we met.” He laughs. “He must curse himself daily.” I laugh with him.

“He’s happy now, I’m sure. Maybe he wasn’t two years ago, but now...”

“What’s this?” Jon points to a large black and white photo of an eight-floor building that is tacked to a pin board. I had taken it in Floripa.

“That’s my first assignment from Ariana. It used to be a hospital, but now it’s tenement housing for low-income families.”

“What a great building. Those angles... you can do so much with that.”

“I know.” I pick up a piece of tracing paper from beneath the photos and align it with the large print on the wall. Jon helps me place pins in the corners. “This is what I’m thinking,” I tell him, letting him study the graphite sketch I’d been working on. Instead of looking at the work, I watch a wondrous smile grow across his face. He puts his glasses back on and takes a few steps back.

“I never would have thought of such a thing,” he says, touching the stubble on his chin. “It’s going to be extraordinary.”

“But wait,” I say, harkening back to memories of late night infomercials I’d heard outside my bedroom door for many years in Manhattan, “there’s more!”

Jon chuckles, waiting for me to pull out a second piece of tracing paper. He quickly helps me pin this one up, too, but moves back once more in awe. We can barely see the photo of the building through it now, but the colors I’ve added with pencils show the unique structure, maintaining the integrity of the old rocks and crumbling bricks with masterful shading, blending and cross-hatching.

His jaw drops, but his smile doesn’t lessen. His eyes dance around, looking at all the different elements. “Olivia,” he whispers, then swallows. “What have you done?”

“Do you think she’ll like it?”

“No. I think it will blow her mind. Do you have the side?” he asks excitedly. I place a picture of the exposed right side of the building on my drafting table, and lay another colored drawing on top of it. “Brilliant, baby,” he says, outlining a tall figure with his finger. “That’s so
clever
... and remarkable. You’ve taken its history and incorporated it so adeptly.”

“Yeah?” I ask, happy with his response to it. It’s exactly what I’d been hoping for.

“Oh, yes. Are you going to do your black outlines?” he asks.

“I thought about it, but what do you think about this?” I hold up a thick, white sheet of drawing paper, which I’ve expertly cut to produce a special effect in a few key places.

“Shit,” he says, looking at me this time, his eyes still full of wonderment. From that response, I know I’ve surprised him with the new element. “Brilliant. White. Of course. It’s crisp and clean and brings a certain purity to the whole thing. Gorgeous, baby.” He holds his arms open, and I walk over to him modestly to accept his hug. “You are meant to do this,” he says with confidence as he holds me. “This is your destiny, baby.”

I start to cry, and try to hide the tears from him. I don’t want to leave him here. He understands my art. He appreciates my choices. He asks me important questions about it. He gives me assurance when I’ve made the right decisions, even when I question them.

“What’s wrong, Liv?”

“I don’t want to go without you,” I admit, my voice squeaking just before I release the sobs.

“Oh, baby,” he whispers softly, running his hands up and down my back. “You’ve got this! You did all of this without me.”

“No, I didn’t. I felt you with me through all of it.”

“Well, I wasn’t physically here, so that just proves my point. You’re going to do an extraordinary job there. You don’t need me there with you.”

“I know I don’t need you, but I want you. I want to talk about things with you. I want to get your opinion. I want it to be like it used to be in the art room, when we could create together. My favorite pieces back then were the ones we collaborated on.”

“Livvy? We spent so many years doing that. You already know everything I would recommend or suggest. You’ve put all of that into use already. I taught you how to do that,” he says, releasing me, turning me around and pointing to an area I’d smudged with my finger. “Done. Added to your repertoire. And your sensibilities to the surrounding area? That probably comes from hours of me boring you with such conversations. But you did this. All of it. And I’ll tell you right now, there’s not a damn thing I’d suggest you change. Nothing. It’s already far beyond anything I could have dreamed up. Anything I’d suggest would certainly take away from this... this...
magnum opus
.”

“Jon,” I say shyly.

“And I’m not here to do that. I’m here to marvel in what you do. Our little collaborations have become a part of what you do alone, baby. And I’m proud I was a part of that, but it’s no longer the role I play.”

“But you knew something was missing,” I argue with him. “You asked about the black outlines.”

“But you caught that long before I did... you had a creative response that was far more thoughtful and synergistic than what I was thinking.”

“It would be nice to talk to you about it, though.”

“You can, anytime. You can call me.”

“It’s not the same, Jon.”

He stands behind me and puts his arms around me, then kisses the top of my head. “Even if I was there, I wouldn’t be on that scaffolding with you. So if you were eight stories up, you’d have to call me from there, too,” he teases me. “Just imagine me there at street level. You have a good imagination.”

I jab him playfully in his abs.

He breathes out, overreacting to my response, and turns me to face him again. He reaches up and turns off the lamp, our only real source of light. After blinking a few times, my eyes begin to adjust to the moonlight, and I can see his face looking down at me just before he kisses me. His hands cradle my face, holding it loosely, close to his. I mimic his stance, following his lead and kissing him just as tenderly.

“I’m always closer than you think, okay?” he whispers. “When you can physically see me, and when you can’t. Just close your eyes, and I’ll be there.”

“That’s a really sweet thought,” I tell him.

“I’m a really sweet guy,” he returns. And he
is
. I put my arms back around him and hug him again. “Did you want to start heading over to the hotel? I think Finn was going to take Katrina to a restaurant across from it. We could join them. I haven’t eaten.”

“Yeah. I’ll see if Rachelle and Dmitri want to come, too. Something tells me they’re already shacking up in our dorm since we’re gone for the night.”

“Can’t blame them,” Jon says, kissing me once more before leading me out of the dark studio. “You should have heard Finn the whole way here,” he laughs while I send a text to my other roommate. “It’s like this is his first time ever, not just with her. He’s so nervous.”

“Really?” I ask him.

“He really likes Katrina,” Jon says. “The boy’s smitten.”

“I’m glad you two are getting along.”

“He’s not such a bad guy,” Jon contends. “I heard he hit on some highly desirable girl once, but I don’t know the details,” he lies. “And I don’t want to. I’m just glad my girl’s only got eyes for me.”

He holds the door once more for me, but I stop in the entryway and smile up at him. “Speaking of smitten,” I say, feeling completely immersed by his love tonight. “Thank you for being such a wonderful man, Jon.”

“Oh, Liv,” he says, leaning into me and kissing me again. “Thank you for being the only woman in the world to me. My existence would be desolate and abject without you. It’s a life I wouldn’t enjoy.”

“Well, then how will you survive the summer without me?” I ask him, purposefully misinterpreting his proclamation and compliment.

“I’ll find a way,” he says dramatically, putting his arm around me and walking toward the hotel we’ll be staying in for the night.

CHAPTER 19

I set my phone down on my desk a little more forcefully than I intend to.

“What’s wrong, Livvy?” Katrina asks.

“I can’t get ahold of anyone at home. My parents don’t answer any of their phones. Jon isn’t answering. My uncle can’t find anyone, either. I’m starting to worry.”

“I’m sure they’re fine, Liv. Maybe Jon’s in the studio.”

“He doesn’t work there very often anymore. He’s usually at the loft.”

“Usually,” Rachelle says, “but not always. Maybe he’s got a group project or something.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“And didn’t you say your mom’s birthday is today?”

“It’s tomorrow,” I correct her.

“Well, maybe they went out to celebrate early.”

“Then Matty would be there,” I explain logically.

“Maybe the War of the Worlds finally came true,” Katrina says, grinning at me smugly.