A Thousand Starry Nights

by Addison Moore

  Lincoln gives a bored blink with that here-we-go-again look on his face. “Excuse us while Aspen and I head out for some fresh air.” He pulls me up by the elbow and gently, yet forcibly, hustles me into the hall. “What are you on? What the hell is going on, little sis? Spill it, or both Carter and Henry will have their dicks rearranged post-fucking-haste.”

  “God, Lincoln.” I touch my hand to my forehead and close my eyes. In one fell swoop, I tell him about Sonic Glass, about Henry’s constant need to have a physical and yet luxurious extension of his little dick that I personally couldn’t care less if he rearranged. “I have the money.” A part of me can’t bring myself to tell him how I acquired it. “I just need to find these people and get them off my back.”

  “And what’s to stop Henry from taking another loan?” His features darken. Lincoln is handsome and frighteningly able to cure all the ills of the world. At least that’s what I need to believe right now. “And why in the fuck are they coming after you?”

  “I don’t know. Because we’re married? Who the hell understands these idiots? All I know is that they tried to kill me—twice.” I hold up two fingers to enforce my theory.

  “Shit!” Lincoln slams his palm against the wall causing a picture frame to jump to the floor. “I’ll find them. I’ll give them their money.”

  “No!” I scoop him in by the shirt. “Henry is my mistake, and I’m going to take care of this. I don’t want or need your money.” My lips quiver, and I bite down over them in an effort to rein it in. “My pride is on the line. I’m the one who married Henry, not you.” There’s a seedling of truth to this, but at the end of the day, I’ve stolen from my brother as well. Pride is a cunning little bitch that gives you just enough rope to hang yourself with.

  Lincoln looks at me unblinking, morose and serious as if he has a bomb strapped to his back.

  “I gotta go.” He heads toward the door. “We’ll talk soon.”

  A heavy sigh of relief expels from me as I lean against the cool wall. Lincoln is already handling the situation. Soon those morons will be paid off for good. But he’s right, what’s to stop Henry from paying them another visit? If one yacht is good, two must be better. I think this is a trickier, stickier web to untangle myself from than I first believed.

  This is all Henry’s fault. Henry who has a mistress. Henry who had a secret yacht until I happened to stumble upon an email. What if I never picked up the breadcrumbs? Would he have eventually clued me in? What else is Henry keeping from me?

  “What have you done, Henry?” I whisper under my breath.

  Something doesn’t sit well with me.

  Something, for sure, is not right.

  Henry is an idiot, so things often don’t add up. All I know is that I’d better get as far away from Henry O’Tool as possible.

  Where is an executioner when you really need one?

  * * *

  The week tumbles by in a blur with me slaving away all hours at the gallery. My mind swirled in color and light, in the memories each canvas holds like a bookmark to some porthole in the past. Carter shows up and helps me organize my life’s work in groups, my vertebrate years, the dark invertebrate years that followed. He brings Abby, and she paints next to us, content for hours as we hem and haw over what pieces to include in the exhibit. It’s a strange dream being so close to Carter again, serving up my most intimate, personal moments as an offering for all those missing hours swallowed by time. I might as well have stained these canvases with my blood, with my tears. My history with Carter is delicately layered on each one. Carter is like water, a reflection of something transitional, always present in my life, reshaping himself to the surface that destiny chooses to give us, and now here he is full-bodied, light, and pure. But he brought the darkness into my life, as well. Even though we spent four years apart, Carter was inescapable, just as much a part of me as my heartbeat. Together we were light, and then we grew mercilessly dark.

  The night of the exhibit flows like an out-of-body experience. My name is strung up on the banner that leads into the main hall, Aspen O’Tool, and I twist my lips looking at the letters that form who I am in symbols. Their angular shapes, the three round o’s that stand out like a warning—it looks hostile, bitter. I resent Henry for so many reasons, but the fact that I’m stuck with his name, that I’ve carved it into the tree of my existence makes me most resentful. Does Nikki worry that there’s a woman out there who took Henry’s name? Does she want it, too? For a moment I envision a new name, Aspen Cannon. In a perfect world, that is what it would be.

  Carter said he came to my wedding. I wish he were there as the groom. It would have saved a world of grief.

  Stevie and Ford are the first to arrive. Ford looks dapper in a suit, and Stevie is stunning with her volleyball stomach curving out of her tight, black dress. His hand is pressed to her back. They are so loving it gives my heart great relief to know that my baby sister has found true love.

  “Do we know what we’re having?” I pull her into an embrace. Stevie holds the scent of lilacs. Stevie has always amazed me. She’s the calm just as easily as she is the storm. A perfect balance of light and dark. I wish I could harness her power, her inner strength. I would have had a much different life if I had her superpowers.

  “I refuse to know what we’re having.” She pats her tummy as if her denial to know the sex were somehow keeping the baby safe.

  “I’m glad. There are so few surprises in life. Have you thought of names?”

  Stevie laughs a deep-throated, belly laugh. “Tonight isn’t about me.” She fans an arm toward the displays. “This place looks fabulous.” She spins in a circle, taking in as much as she can.

  “You look fabulous,” a smooth voice rumbles into my ear from behind, low and demanding as thunder.

  Carter. I spin into him. His wide-framed shoulders, his startling good looks. He stunts any other form of beauty in the room and refracts the attention onto himself like a prism. In a word, flawless.

  “I like that suit on you.” It’s all I can really think to say that wouldn’t call for a hose. “It brings out your eyes.” It’s true, that shade of navy always made his eyes pop like lanterns on a moonless night. “Where’s Abby?” I sweep around him with my gaze. She mentioned she’d like to come. I gave her a handcrafted invitation, one of several that Terri had printed.

  His cheeks depress without a smile. “She’s not able to make it. She’s very sorry about that.”

  I hook my gaze onto his. Cher could never stand the thought of me having an ounce of success in this world, so it doesn’t surprise me that her daughter isn’t allowed to bask in my glory. If things progress between Carter and me, Cher will use Abby as a weapon, and that breaks my heart—makes me want to reconsider a future with Carter. I wonder if it makes him reconsider a future with me.

  “You look beautiful.” His eyes seal to mine like a balm over this chaotic, nerve-drenched day.

  Crowds of people arrive as Terri mingles like a politician. She might be mad as midnight, but this is her circus, and she is the infallible ringmaster.

  Kinsley and Lincoln stride in looking more like a dapper couple than brother and sister. Kinsley needs someone in her life other than a married man, and Lincoln needs a woman with a whip who’s willing to keep him in line.

  Stevie leans in. “Mommy brigade at two o’clock.”

  Terri and my mother come over, both in sequin gowns as if this were a wedding, and they were giving me away. It’s strange to see them conjoined at the elbows. They’re not friends—not enemies, but, for sure, they’re not at the arm-linking phase of their relationship.

  “The twins are here with Dan.” My mother beams with just as much pride as she did in any of my grade school art shows. It’s funny how that joy transcends the magnitude of this venue. She leans in with a kiss and whispers, “Your father is here, too.”

  My adrenaline kicks up a notch. My father has seldom made an appearance in my life. I spot him in an enclave of people just
beyond the entrance. He’s forever the social magnet. Money will do that to you. By his side stands his wife Daphne. It’s odd seeing her out and about on the prowl with her hair coiffed in a stiff helmet-styled bob, her lips a bright ruby red. Daphne Lionheart has been an enigma all my life. I can count on one hand how often I’ve seen her. And for the first time tonight, I’m seeing her in a different light—the slighted woman. The stoic wife who graciously took back her cheating husband, time and time again. I could never be Daphne. I’m not sure if what Carter did could be classified as cheating on me, but the betrayal stung with the power of a thousand slaps. Ironic since what Henry has done, is doing, doesn’t particularly faze me all that much.

  “Congratulations, Aspen.” Terri grits her teeth, her version of a smile. “You’ve sold twelve pieces so far.”

  “I bought, two.” Stevie volunteers, and I avert my eyes.

  “I wish you wouldn’t.” It’s the equivalent of buying Girl Scout cookies from a relative. You feel a familial obligation to do so. But secretly I love it. And my paintings happen to be calorie free. “What did you get?” I try to carry on with my outrage in an effort to keep her from buying up the room. I set the price tag to my piece de resistance at three million dollars because I never want to sell it, and being there are a myriad of billionaires in the room, I suddenly fear for my stars.

  “One from each collection. I’m putting the starfish thingy up in the baby’s room.”

  “Starfish thingy?” Stevie is adorable, but she’d rather vomit than hear those words.

  Ford hands her a drink, and she waves me off as they make their way through the room.

  “Would you mind showing me around?” Carter extends his hand, and I eye it a moment as if it were a firebrand. It’s one thing to clasp our fingers in the dark as we watch the night sky, or in the studio after a lingering high-five, but, tonight, with all of these people swarming to attention I wonder if he wants to make a statement. I wonder if he thinks it’s harmless? So much of what happened to us was under the pretense of it being harmless until the rope cinched and snapped both our necks.

  “Sure.” I take his hand in mine without looking to my mother or Terri for that matter. Terri seems unduly suspicious of Carter so much so that she’s dubbed him the Panty Stealer. She taunts me with her ironic drawl, has the Panty Stealer stolen your panties yet? Has he lived up to his name? Why is he so obsessed with getting into your drawers, Aspen? Can’t he get laid somewhere else? She thinks his desperation to have me is linked to some deep-seated conquest gene that men are predisposed to. I’m Scotland, and Carter is England. What he desires most is to keep me under his rule. According to Terri, all men want a kingdom, a vagina to reign over. Carter had pointed his penis in my direction, and I need to be overthrown, invaded, penetrated under his siege. Terri flogged me for a half hour straight over that fact alone. I’m not one to talk about my sex life in general, so I usually give her a coy wave in hopes she’ll knock it off. She does seem curious, though. My mother, on the other hand, has long been Team Carter so I’m sure she’s hopping with joy.

  “Moments in light,” I whisper into his ear as we head into the largest room of the three with my softer fare, illumination against pale shadows as it reflects off a sunset, radiating skyscrapers, luminous cottages, and lighthouses. “This is my personal favorite.” I nod toward a five-by-five perfect square canvas. I stretch all the canvases myself, so it’s always a custom fit for the piece. “The Pacific at Sunset.” I sat for hours on the bluffs near where the whale watchers set up camp, surrounded by an army of ogling children, a herd of artists with their three footed stands. I grafted my soul to that painting, mixing my colors until the ocean itself cried out to me. There was a particular day where the clouds hung heavy, full bellied just before a rain, and I recreated them over the horizon.

  Carter moans as if he were tasting a magnificent meal. “I need that for the living room. It’s almost monochromatic except for the sunlight.” He tilts toward it. “I need to see that tangerine eye pouring its color into my world each and every day.”

  “Don’t. It’s ridiculously expensive.” Terri had me inflate all the prices of the pieces I didn’t want to part with. But for Carter I could easily paint him a new one.

  “Too late. It’s mine.” He walks over and places his name on the paper next to it. Terri doesn’t have another artist reception for another two months, so my exhibit will last that long. Anyone who purchases a piece will have to wait for the exhibit to end prior to delivery. I’m hoping both Stevie and Carter will change their minds by then. In no way do I want them to feel obligated to pick something up.

  “Carter, please.” I try to stop him and stumble into his wall of a chest. Carter’s muscles ripple from under his dress shirt like a shock wave, and a breath hitches in my throat. His heady cologne, his slick black tie. It all makes me want to adhere myself to him. “I don’t want a pity purchase. I’m plenty happy to recreate it for you. Or, better yet, let you borrow it infinitely.” I like that option best.

  His lips crimp as he drinks me in, our bodies still cinched at the chest. “I was thinking—” His Adam’s apple rides up and down. His heart thumps wild over mine.

  Before he can finish his thought, a familiar wheezing laugh irks me from behind and I turn in time to see—Jennifer?

  “Oh em gee!” She squeals. “Wow, you’ve hit the big time!” She dips a moment in her black see-through tank dress, her bright pink flip-flops flickering like flames. “I heard about this in the paper, and I thought is that my Aspen? I can’t believe you made all this stuff!” Her chalky pale lips tremble when she speaks. Her eyes are drawn in with heavy rings of kohl, but her freckles paint a constellation over her face poorly covered by layers of foundation. Without makeup they look brown and healthy, and hiding them gives her a gray cast that makes her look dead.

  I can’t believe she’s here. Jennifer is a relic of my old life. Some obsessive personality I’d avoid in the street for fear of being waylaid by an unwanted conversation that had the power to drone on for hours. Jennifer inspects me wide eyed as though I were a movie star, a lottery winner still holding the outlandishly large check. My heart thumps a few times with nervous anticipation as if her presence alone were some harbinger of bad things to come.

  “Hi, I’m Jennifer.” She extends her hand to Carter, and he carefully shakes it. “You must be the replacement.” She wrinkles her nose. “I’ve known Aspen for years. She and Henry were the Barbie and Ken of the Hollywood Highlands Condos.” Her eyes sweep back to me. “You look so beautiful. I’ve been here for a while, but I just had to watch you in action. You’re amazing. I always wondered what it would be like to be you—driving that big, shiny car. Going on vacation with Henry—married to Henry.” She gives a nervous choo-choo train giggle toward Carter. “She’s so beautiful isn’t she?”

  Carter isn’t quite sure what to make of stalker Jenny. “Aspen is stunning. I can’t argue with that.”

  Her features soften. “Yeah, well.” Her affect deflates. “I’m really glad you had an opportunity to leave your mark on this world. Not many people get that chance.” She looks up with those flat, soulless eyes. “I’m really sorry things had to end this way.”

  An apocalyptic current rides up my back. “What’s ending?”

  “Your life—with Henry.” Jennifer blinks to. Her stringy hair parting in oily chunks. “Just know that I’ve always liked you, Aspen. I’m your biggest fan.” She walks off slowly, her eyes still tied to mine in a vegetative state.

  “What the hell was that about?” Carter’s arm finds a home around my waist as he pulls me toward him protectively.

  “She’s just a neighbor.” I step out of his grasp, my chest pumping as I try to catch my breath. This extravagant night, the grafting of my old world and my new one, and now Carter’s reflexive hold. All I want to do is wrap myself around this man, in private, of course. I’ve spent the last decade of my life fantasizing about just that. “Her husband died overseas. H
e was a serviceman. It hit her pretty hard. I think it rewired her brain.”

  The voices in the room roar to life once again and pull me from the bizarre stupor that Looney Bin Jen managed to drag me into. There’s always that person in your life that you wish wasn’t interested in you, and, for me, it’s her. I hate how cruel that sounds but there’s something just under the surface that I can’t quite pinpoint—a tremor, a warning of something terrible coming in the distance. That’s what she’s always felt like to me. A bad omen in the flesh.

  Our eyes connect from across the room, her blank doll gaze and my twitchy smile. Go the fuck away, Jen. I give a small wave as I spin Carter in the opposite direction.

  “Come.” I grab Carter by the hand and lead him to the Moments of Darkness gallery. “My death metal phase. I grafted pieces of my broken soul right over these canvases.” My life had fractured into a spectrum of shadows. It was a time of mourning for what could have been—the most poignant piece being my self-portrait—the dark flight of my heart spearing from my throat in the form of a crimson bird.

  A heavy sigh expels from him as I take him on an expedited journey through the room. Really it was those black Carter-less years that spurned a thousand horrific canvases painted in caustic reds, the dark night of the soul moments that were drenched in burnt umber and agony. There is so much heated pain pressed into each piece, I can hardly stand to breathe next to them. “And one more.” I lead him into the atrium. It’s dim and hushed with only a single light beaming from overhead.

  “There she is.” Carter steps back, admiring the home of where I buried my heart.

  The oversized canvas stares back at us with its velvet navy base, its lovers covered with impressionistic lines that look as if they’re derived from a complex code. This is Carter and me under the night sky, a vast spray of stars witness to those lonely years we spent apart. It felt like balancing on razor wire as I blotted the canvas with the hijacked memories of those stolen years.