Secondary Colors (23 page)

“Violet Hathaway?” she asks with perfect, ultra-white veneers between burgundy lips, taking off her glasses and sticking a hand out to me.

“Yes, but call me Evie.”

When I take it, she gives a firm shake. She’s stronger than she looks, too.

“Would you like to come inside?”

She steps through the threshold and shoots the place a quick onceover.

“You have a lovely home,” she comments, slipping her glasses into the bag hanging on her bended arm.

“May I take your purse or anything?”

“Please.”

She hands it to me, and I set it on the table in the hall, gesturing for her to enter the living room. “Make yourself comfortable.” I excuse myself before running into the kitchen to grab the refreshments of ice tea and cucumber finger sandwiches. When I walk into the room, she’s studying one of my paintings on the wall. I join her on the couch and serve out the snack.

“I know this is highly unusual. I normally reserve personal calls for artists I showcase. However, I was very impressed by our video interviews and I wanted the chance to get to know you a little better.”

“I’m honored.”

“What made you fall in love with art?”

“My mother was always a fan of the arts. She exposed me to many different avenues. I suppose I admired an artist’s ability to take nothing and make it something, express themselves through paint, words, dance. They have a way of seeing the world that others don’t or can’t.”

“Would you say you’re a creative person?”

“I love to paint actually.”

“Oh?” She perks up hearing this. “Would you happen to have your works here for me to see?”

“Yes,” I answer timidly. I hadn’t counted on her wanting to see them when I blurted out my response. I point to the green one on the wall behind her. “That’s one of them.”

“That’s yours?”

“Yes.”

She stands up and approaches it. I’m intimidated by her expert eyes on my amateur painting. This woman has worked with top artists, studied the greats, and here she is, examining
my
piece.

“Do you have more?”

“Upstairs.”

“May I see those?”

I lead her up the stairs to my temporary art studio. She examines each one carefully, silently, her focus unwavering.

When she’s finished, she turns to me and says, “First, let me thank you for allowing me to observe your art. It’s not easy serving your passion up on a platter for judgement.”
Shit.
“You weren’t classically trained.”

“No.”

“These were done at a different time than these.” She points between the ones I painted before I stopped, during my blue years, and the ones I’ve composed recently.

“Yes.”

“There’s a feeling of loss to the earlier pieces, a heart break. But the newer pieces, they come from a place of peace. This one though, such heart wrenching beauty.”

She admires the one I’ve been working on for some time. I finished it early this morning since I couldn’t sleep, anxious about today and Holt’s absence.

“Yes, it’s my newest.”

“What do you call it?”

“Um,” I swallow. “The boy with the scar.”

She admires the man lying on his stomach in bed, his face facing away from the observer, sheets barely covering his admirable rear. On his upper back, a disfiguring scar. Holt’s scar.

“It’s raw,” she says, a hand over her heart. “It makes me want to know his pain.” She turns to me after studying it intently. “You have a natural talent, Evie.”

“Thank you.”

I light up inside.

“Before I leave,” she says, “do you have any questions for me?”

“Yeah, one actually.”

“Shoot.”

“This may hurt my chances but, for being such a well-known gallery, why not choose from candidates who have experience in the art industry?”

“That’s a great question, and you’re the first to ask it. I’m known for discovering the new and making it more. I like the idea of teaching my interns rather than re-teaching them. I want someone fresh and willing to learn. Not someone who thinks they know everything already. I want to mold my protégé. I think you could be that person, Evie. I really liked what I saw here today. We won’t make a formal announcement until September, but I look forward to working with you.”

“Oh, thank you
so
much. I—I don’t know what to say.”

And I honestly don’t. I’ve been working toward this for years, to learn from one of the best in the biz. I should be flying right now. Instead, I feel like I’m being pulled in two different directions.

I escort her down to the front door and open it while she gathers her bag, sliding the handle onto the crook of her slender arm.

“Keep an eye on your email and have a fabulous end to your summer.”

I change out of my interview clothes and take Nightmare for a ride. We trot through the untamed wilderness of our land. I’ve always loved riding her through the forest. It’s like I’m lost in another place and time, before the state was taken over by small settlements. I hadn’t intended on taking Nightmare anywhere in particular, but after a while, we find ourselves at Hettie and Roy’s place. I walk her to the fence and tie her up on one of the thicker posts.

I call out for them through the screen door, “Hettie? Roy? It’s Evie.”

Roy, a short man with a potbelly and more hair in his ears than on his head, emerges from his sitting room and smiles when he sees me.

“Come in, child. Come in.”

I open the door and step inside.

“Who is it, Roy?” Hettie shouts from the kitchen, where she always seems to be. She loves to cook and bake, even when the weather’s stifling.

“It’s our girl,” he answers.

She juts her head out from the doorway. “Honey, I’m glad you’re here.” She walks toward us, cleaning her flour-dusted hands off on her apron. “I’ve been baking up a storm. I have treats to take back home to your mother…and that handsome young man.

“Stop always trying to play matchmaker, Hettie,” grumbles Roy.

“Oh, hush up,” she shoos him off with a dish towel, “you old goat.”

I giggle, placing my hand over my mouth to stop it. I love watching them interact. After fifty years, they get on each other’s nerves with the drop of a hat, but you also see how much they still love one another, too. Mostly from the way Roy looks at Hettie, as if she were still the young, beautiful, vibrant girl he met all those decades ago.

“I’d better make myself scarce before she uses that towel across my head,” he whispers to me with a wink.

“I think that’s a good idea.” I wink back.

He waddles off to take sanctuary in his study. Yes, he has a study, but it’s really a small room with a TV, a well-worn chair with an indent in the seat cushion, fishing trophies, and baseball memorabilia he’s been collecting since he was a kid.

I follow Hettie to the back of the house and into the kitchen, taking a seat at the circular table big enough for four. Hettie, rushing about the kitchen like a chicken with her head cut off, sets a freshly-baked muffin on a small plate and pours a glass of milk, bringing it over to me. I dig a chunk out with two clawed fingers and pop it in my mouth.

“How did your interview go?” she asks, not even waiting for me to finish the first bite. I’d called her after I’d hung up with Sonya yesterday.

“It went better than I’d hoped. She basically told me I’ve got what it takes and I should expect a response soon.”

“That’s wonderful!” She ‘jumps’ up and pinches my cheeks as hard as her arthritic hands will allow, kissing me mercilessly. I take the loving assault with a smile. “I bet you’re excited to leave here and start fresh in New York.”

“I am,” I answer. It’s less enthusiastic than expected from someone getting exactly what they’ve wanted forever.

“Are you sure about that?”

“I’ve just been worrying about things lately, things I’ll have to leave behind.”

“Are we talking about Holt?”

“No.” I don’t think so. “Bailey and Meredith.”

“Well, I understand you fretting about moving further from your little girl, but it’s natural to move away from the nest.”

“Mom’s been going through stuff. Maybe my leaving isn’t the smartest plan at this time.”

“Is it the money troubles or the affair?”

“You know about her and Mr. Channing?” Shocked by Hettie’s knowledge of my mother’s lover (
EW!
), it takes a moment to process the money comment. “What was that about money?”

“Oh,” she mutters, tapping her fingers over her lips. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know, what?”

“Meredith’s gonna be upset with me for telling you.”

“She can’t if she doesn’t know. Please tell me.”

With a rise and fall of her shoulders, she says, “She’s been struggling with finances this past year. The family estate, or what little there was after your grandparents’ deaths, has almost run dry. Charles has been offering to purchase the land from her, but she’s refused.”

“That’s strange.”

“If you ask me, she should get rid of the wolf. I’ve never liked him much or that wife of his. She’s a snake in the grass. But it’s not up to me to tell your mother how to live.”

“That’s what Holt said. It’s hard, though.”

“It’s difficult to watch someone follow the wrong path, but the only way they’ll learn is to figure it out for themselves.”

“How did everyone know about this affair except me?”

“You’ve been away. And I think people were trying to shield you from it.”

“The whole damn town apparently.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” she suggests, but this information has me too upset to pretend I’m in a social mood.

“Actually, I should get back to Nightmare outside, feed and get her water. But I’ll be back for dinner tomorrow night and we’ll have a nice long visit. Alright?”

“I understand,” she says.

“Love you, Hettie.” I quickly lean in and kiss the tissue paper skin of her plump cheek before taking my leave.

“Bye, Roy,” I call on my way past his man cave. He calls back to me, but he’s lost in the baseball game on TV, so it’s more of a mumbled grunt. Once I’m back outside, I untie Nightmare’s knotted reigns from around the fence post, mount her, and take off into the woods.

The next day, I spend time in the garden weeding, keeping my hands busy to distract my thoughts. My brain was on a loop all last night. Between Meredith’s problems, the interview, and Holt’s absence, I was an emotional mess. It was like being on a boat in the middle of the ocean during a squall.

When tires on gravel catch my attention, I all but jump up, hoping Holt has finally come back, slightly saddened when Taylor’s white Jetta pulls up. She honks the horn with two short beeps. I force a smile as she gets out and approaches me. Holt’s absence has upset the balance of things.

I hate it.

“You look like you’ve been rolling around in mud all day.”

“I have,” I laugh. “Do we have plans?”