Pieces of You (21 page)

He twisted her arm and ground out, “Where’s that painting that was so important?”

“In the other room.”

“Show me. Move.”

She took small steps, working her way to the spare bedroom and the painting she referred to simply as “Quinn’s Quest”.

“This is it, huh?” Pete Muldaney stared at the painting and snorted. “This is what I have to thank for leading me to you?” He laughed and raised his knife, slashing the canvas, once, twice, three times, over and over, until he’d ripped the painting to unrecognizable strips of color.

“You’re next, Rita.” He flicked the knife near her jaw. “I’ll bet a little slash and gash will get you talking.”

“Please.”

“Yeah, you’ll be saying more than please when I’m finished with you.”

“No!” Quinn stormed through the doorway, charging Pete Muldaney from behind. Muldaney stumbled and the knife slipped from his hand, crashing to the floor. He fell too, with Quinn on top of him. Evie froze, horror gripping her as her son struggled with her would be killer.

Where was the knife?
She tried to move, but couldn’t. Muldaney grabbed it and stabbed Quinn in the shoulder. Blood stained her son’s white shirt . . .
so much blood .
. .
No, no
. . .
not Quinn
. . . She opened her mouth to scream . . . and then there was nothing but black.

***

Voices . . . men’s voices . . . low . . . urgent . . . Where was she? On a bed? A couch? She tried to lift her head but the throbbing forced her back down.
Quinn. 

“Mom? It’s okay.” Annie’s softness filled her ears, but not enough to drown out the men. They were talking about Quinn.

Her son was dead.

“Quinn.” So much grief pouring out of one syllable.

“He’s fine. Everything’s all right. Rest.”

“Quinn.” What kind of mother killed her own son? Annie was only trying to delay the telling, but Evie already knew.

“Michael’s on his way. And I’m right here. Please don’t cry, Mom.” Annie stroked Evie’s hair, desperate, hopeful attempts to calm her.

“Quinn.” His name saturated her brain, coated her tongue, slipped through her lips, half plea, half cry. Her son was dead and she was to blame.

“Quinn.” Annie said his name, too.

“She’s awake?”

The man’s voice sounded so much like Quinn’s. What horrible, wretched torment. Would every man’s voice remind her of her dead son’s?

“She’s been asking for you.” Annie’s voice dipped to barely a whisper. “I think you should tell her.”

“Quinn,” Evie moaned, unable to bear the man’s voice any longer.

“Mom,” Annie said, “open your eyes.”

She shook her head.
No
, then it would all be real and she’d see that her son was dead.

“Mom?” It was that man again, his voice so like Quinn’s. “Look at me.”

Tears slid down Evie’s face, falling across her cheeks, spilling into her ears, her hair. Now, it would all be real. She forced her eyes open, preparing for the horrible truth. Tears blurred her vision or perhaps it was the searing pain in her head that made it impossible to see the man leaning over her. She squinted to draw him into focus. Black, wavy hair, tanned skin, dear God, what torment, he even looked like her son.

“Mom? I’m here.” The man touched her cheek, grazing his hand along her shoulder.

“Quinn?” She grabbed his hand. “Is it really you?”

“It’s me. I’m right here.”

His left shoulder was wrapped in a bulk of towel and ace bandage, dark patches of blood smeared into the fabric of both. She stroked his cheek, his chin, his mouth, needing to feel the life in him. “Dear God, I thought . . . “

“No.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “No,” he murmured again. “I’m fine. I’m just finishing up with Lieutenant Beldoni, then I’ll be right back. Annie’s here.”

Evie clutched his hand. It was warm, hard,
alive
. “And . . .”

“He’s headed back to prison and this time he won’t be getting out.” Quinn squeezed her hand and said, “Everything’s fine, Mom.”

“Yes,” she murmured, closing her eyes, “everything’s fine.” She started to drift when the voices began again, but this time she knew one of them belonged to Quinn.

“You’re saying your mother has no idea who this man is?”

“That’s right, Lieutenant. You ran a check on Muldaney, you know his background. He’s not a boy scout. My mother just so happens to have the same name as Muldaney’s accomplice and the same birth date.”

“Why isn’t her name Burnes?”

“It
is
Burnes. It’s always been Burnes. She only chose Rita Sinclaire because it sounded like an artist’s name. No different than a writer using a pseudonym.”

Pause. “There’s been a hell of a lot of trouble coming from this house in the past two weeks. I’m starting to wonder what’s really going on here.”

“That woman over there is my mother. Her name is Evie Burnes.”

“And this Rita Sinclaire?”

“Doesn’t exist.”

Chapter 23

Some days Quinn wondered how he survived so many years without his painting. Painting by painting, the hollowness began to fill the empty center of his soul, from the first frenzied moments of oil touching canvas to now, a more controlled craziness. Evie had gifted him with brushes, canvas, and oils, and helped him transform a spare bedroom into a studio. This was where he spent most nights, mindless of all save the smell and feel of the oils. He’d pushed past the clumsy first efforts of sunset and maple tree to forests topped with virgin snow, and finally, to people. The flow of creativity from brush to canvas increased with each painting, and by the sixth, Quinn’s canvases pulsed with unleashed energy.

How much life could change in three months. The jagged scar on his shoulder had faded to pinkish silver and lately, whole days went by without the memory of driving a knife into Pete Muldaney’s gut.  

Evie moved back to Maine in a small bungalow near Kennebunkport. She’d opted not to return to the old place.
Time to start fresh
, she said.
Live forward.
The birthday card she sent him last week was the first in eighteen years. It was a picture of a little boy in silhouette, sitting on the edge of a pier, looking at a blood-red sunset topping a lake. He’d set it on the windowsill in his studio, right next to his chair, and several times a day he caught himself glancing at it. She’d signed the card,
Love, Mom
. The return label;
Evie Burnes
. Time to start fresh. Live forward.

Annie and Michael were planning to visit her next month and she was coming to Philly for Christmas. And of course, the wedding in the spring. Evie had already agreed to paint a flower garden backdrop for the wedding photos and Annie had roped Quinn into helping out, too. She knew he’d do anything for her, though last month she’d mentioned how she needed to work on the whole pecking order thing because somehow Michael had slipped to second. Again.

He’s going to be my husband
, she’d told him.
I guess I can’t keep calling you all the time but maybe you can give him a few pointers.

You can call me any time, Annie. I’ll always be here for you.

I know that. Thank you.

I love you, kid.

I love you, too.

She was wearing Evie’s necklace again because it made her feel closer to her. And there hadn’t been a panic attack in six weeks. Maybe it
was
time to start living forward, like his mother said. He glanced at the birthday card on the sill, emanating a heat much stronger than the fireplace in the corner and for the first time in more years than he could remember, he was looking forward to Christmas.

The growl at his feet reminded him of his current dilemma. Stella, the seven month old black lab mix, chewed on one of his new socks with razor sharp puppy teeth. It was the fourth sock in five days. “Stella! Give!” The dog bound out of reach in a figure eight race around the room. “You little pest, give me that!” Once, twice, three times around with the sock in her mouth. “Forget it. You can have the damn thing.”

Why Annie ever thought he needed company, and a dog no less, was beyond him. Just because he’d become addicted to Chinese takeout and sushi delivery and preferred painting at night instead of hitting the bars, did not mean he needed company. Or wanted it. He was fine with his life. Hadn’t he taken the big jump and opted out of the personal injury scene, traded a penthouse office for cheaper space on High Street where he provided legal counsel for start-up companies and small corporations, a noble gesture that netted him one tenth of his old salary? And hadn’t he hauled Sylvia and her horoscope wielding mouth with him?

He’d even agreed to serve on the board of Catholic Charities of Philadelphia, at the bequest of his sister who cried,
No one will do anything for the sake of helping one another anymore. Oh, Quinn, can you?
And still, Annie thought he needed more changes. She’d picked up Stella from a client on 64
^th
Street and brought her to him. Nothing but skin covering bones. Flea infested, too. But two and a half months with Quinn and he’d fattened her up made her coat shine.

Stella pounced toward him, rolled at his feet and collapsed in a black ball like she’d been shot. “Crazy damn dog,” Quinn muttered, easing the tattered sock from between her paws. Annie said animals were a good outlet for humans to express emotions they’d otherwise keep hidden. His fingers stilled on Stella’s silky coat. Was that the real reason she’d unloaded this furry bundle at his doorstep? He knew how to express emotion. He could express a hell of a lot of emotion. If he wanted to. He knew exactly what his sister was talking about, or more precisely, whom. Somewhere in the great expanse of the living, breathing universe,
she
existed. That was what it was all about with Annie, what it was always about; conversations that circled, hovered, started and stalled mid-sentence. It always came back to Eve.

She’d been gone three months and she wasn’t coming back. Why couldn’t the others figure it out, like he had? Oh, he’d held out a while, believing it was just a temporary departure, driven by the shock of Maldonando’s death, exacerbated by Quinn’s own thoughtless words.

He picked up a pencil and began sketching. She should have trusted him. His lines were firm, fluid, determined.
She wasn’t coming back.
The shape of a woman’s face emerged from the canvas, the slender nose, wide eyes, arched brows.
Why? Why? Why?

He didn’t stop until the woman’s face stared back at him. Tonight, he would start painting it. The eyes would be first. He’d mix just the right amount of cerulean and navy. He remembered their blueness but the details were beginning to fade. Quinn stroked the canvas with desperate urgency.
He must remember. The woman he loved. The woman who left him.
  

***

Quinn worked past dinner and into early evening, stopping only once to feed Stella and let her outside before rushing back to the canvas. Eve stared back at him, the softness of her gaze slicing into him, her lips, full and pink, her expression a blend of sorrow and hope.

When the doorbell rang, Stella jumped awake, yelping as she bolted toward the sound. “Dammit.” He considered not answering it, but it might be Annie coming to check on Stella, and him of course, though she’d never admit it. Stella barked again and he set down his brush. “Okay, I’m coming.” He grabbed a cloth and wiped smears of blue and pink paint from his fingers. Stella stood at the door, barking in rapid staccato, tail wagging, middle wriggling. “Did Annie bring you another treat?” He shook his head and opened the door. It wasn’t Annie.

“Hello, Quinn.”

Eve stared back at him. He consumed her with his stare, taking in the flushed face, beautiful in its radiance, the blue eyes, the exact shade he’d created on canvas, the black hair, longer now, the very swollen belly protruding from a white, wool coat.

“May I come in?”

He couldn’t form the words for a response so he merely stepped aside and let her pass. Stella jumped against Eve’s knees, sniffing and wagging her tail.

“New addition?”

“Annie thought I needed company.” He was rather impressed at how calm he sounded, as though seeing her again hadn’t pierced his heart.

“She’s darling.” Eve leaned over and stroked Stella’s back. “What’s her name?”

“Stella.” Neighborly conversation. Surface talk.

She nodded and looked away, her gaze skimming the room. “Could we talk?”

He shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from doing something stupid, like touching her. “Sure.”

She wet her lips twice, reminding him of how soft and kissable they were. “I’m sorry for the way I left.” She placed her hands on her stomach and forced a half laugh which fizzled when she met his gaze. “Obviously there were some things you didn’t know about.”

“Obviously.” A slow burn of anger seeped through him. He’d thought he was through with these emotions but seeing her again brought them all back.