Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel)

by Courtney Cook Hopp

  The guy from behind the counter ventured out and splashed down a glass of ice water and a menu. “Do you want something else to drink?” he asked, his rolled up sleeves exposing layers upon layers of colorful tattoos.

  I looked down at my Jane Eyre book still in hand and back out the front window. I had no purse. No wallet. No cell phone to call Grace to come get me.

  “Are you expecting someone?” he asked.

  My head snapped back to him. “Um, no. No one else. I’ll just have water.”

  Without a word, he turned and walked away.

  I tapped nervously on the cover of my book, unsure of how I was going to execute a “dine and ditch.” Or if I was ready to.

  I slunk low in my seat and flipped the book open to the dog-eared page, pretending to read about Jane’s miserable life at Lowood School. It could be worse, I reminded myself as my eyes skimmed the page, I could be Jane.

  My not-so-friendly tattooed waiter reappeared, interrupting the massive typhus epidemic sweeping through Jane’s school. He re-filled my water glass, managing to spray water everywhere with the forceful stream coming from the pitcher.

  “Do you know what you want?”

  I picked up the menu and pretended to look it over. “I haven’t decided yet.” The “dank” of the dead bell rang again, admitting someone else into this haven of congeniality.

  Tattoo guy called out over his shoulder “sit wherever,” blocking my view of the door. He looked back at me and asked, “Any decisions?”

  “No,” I said, setting the menu on the table.

  He rolled his eyes and stepped away from the table. Directly behind him were the tantalizing green eyes from my dream. The very ones I pretended didn’t exist.

  “Quentin,” my strangled voice rang in disbelief.

  His surprise mirrored my own, but quickly dissolved into expressionless lines that rippled an uneasy quiver through my stomach. He didn’t budge. Only the subtle flinching of his jaw, shifting the line of his scar in and out of place, hinted that he wasn’t a statue. It took my mind nano-seconds to recreate an image of me passed out on his lap, instantly shooting flames of heat up my cheeks.

  “Um, hello?” I finally said, attempting to break his odd trance.

  Nothing, until he muttered something I couldn’t understand. The pause that lingered was brutal, heightening the clanking coming from the kitchen to an overwhelming stream of static.

  “Excuse me?”

  And still he didn’t reply. He closed his eyes, as if in pain, murmuring almost inaudibly, “…worst luck…seriously, can’t be here…”

  Of course he didn’t want to be here, with me, the strange girl who stares at half-naked Picasso paintings before passing out.

  “Unfortunately, you are here,” I said, stating the obvious, the flames on my cheeks moving deeper into my hairline. “You’ve landed on the island of peace, love, and happiness.”

  His eyebrows furrowed deep over his sunken emerald eyes, the tired black circles from the night of the Picasso show, all but gone. He remained silent, the odd moment turning stranger by the second. I broke the intense stare and pretended to look for my place in my book.

  “What are you doing here?”

  My head popped up at the sound of his full voice. “Um, I stepped in for . . .” Honestly, I had no idea what I was doing in here. My eyes darted to the window, unsure if the nonsense I had felt fifteen minutes ago still lingered outside. His head cocked slightly. “Um . . . I was thirsty?”

  He eyed the glass of water on the table before returning his intense gaze back at me. “I meant the island. What are you doing on the island?”

  His scrutiny was making me nervous. Not the freak-me-out nerves of whatever was outside, but the I-should-have-combed-my-hair type of unfamiliar nerves. I began to ramble. “The story in its entirety is long and tedious, but if you skipped to the last page, you would discover I live here. Well, actually, ‘live’ might be too strong of a word. The house I reside in is on the island, but the hours I’m not sleeping are spent plotting my island escape.” I reached for my water to stop the spew of words from my mouth. It was too much information. I knew it the minute he pushed his hand through the clean, tight waves of his dark hair.

  I was about to refine the story when tattoo waiter came back and placed a second menu on the table. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, assuming Quentin was with me.

  Quentin’s eyes did a barely distinguishable scan of the room before he slid the strap of a camera bag he’d been holding off his shoulder. “A Coke.”

  I closed my book and sat up straight, my stomach a sudden mess of nerves. He was staying? Why was he staying?

  “Jane Eyre — for school?” He nodded to the book as he sat down across from me. “Isn’t she the one who falls for a guy hiding his deranged wife in the attic?”

  I looked down at Jane’s coquettish smile before my eyes found his again. “Doesn’t everyone have a deranged someone whispering around their house?”

  “Not currently.”

  “I believe that makes you the exception.”

  His eyes darkened. “Maybe. But if an island evacuation is what you’re planning, doesn’t that guarantee a fateful demise for the deranged person locked up at your house.”

  “Death cannot be stopped,” I said harsher than I’d intended.

  “But it can be buffered.”

  “No, actually, it can’t,” I challenged. “Death does not take hostages, only members.” My words hung between us, the surreal conversation floating a cloud of confusion through me.

  Tattoo guy walked up, and set down Quentin’s Coke. “Are you guys eating?”

  “No,” we both spouted at the same time. He shook his head and walked away again.

  I watched Quentin take a long sip of his Coke, his unhurried movement somehow settling, soothing over my ragged lines of tension. When he set his drink down, he asked, “How do you know Evelyn?”

  Caught of guard by the question, I blurted, “I don’t.” I was in no way prepared to have a long-lost grandma discussion with a complete stranger.

  “But she knew your name.”

  “Knowing someone’s name doesn’t mean you know them. I know your name is Quentin Stone, but I don’t know the first thing about you.”

  “You know I’m not currently housing a deranged person. That’s more than most people know.”

  I shifted and tucked a loose piece of hair back under my hat. “Lucky me.”

  “And I know you have a propensity for fainting while viewing Picasso.”

  “Hardly the fault of the paintings.”

  “Then what caused you to faint?”

  I had yet to answer that question myself, so I asked, “How do you know Evelyn?”

  “Everyone knows Evelyn.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Everyone?”

  “She’s a collector. I met her through my mom a long time ago, but she’s also one of the top donors at the SAM, part of the President’s Circle.”

  “Is that a big deal?”

  “It is if you want a presence in the art world.”

  “Ah,” I said, more confused than ever about Evelyn and why Dad wanted nothing to do with her. “And what exactly is your job at the SAM, aside from heaping opinions on unsuspecting viewers?”

  “That is my job,” he said arrogantly, “when I’m not shooting my own photos.”

  “Are you a student?” My face crinkled as I tried to picture him strutting around the University of Washington campus with a camera in hand.

  “A student?” he said, mulling over my words. “Um, of photography. Today, I’m in search of long, creepy shadows.”

  “If it’s long, creepy shadows you’re wanting, you should go down to Point Robinson Lighthouse. The place is loaded with them,” I said off-hand, offering my best tourist guide information in hopes he might take the bait and leave. “And, if you’re lucky, you might catch a glimpse of the deranged woman they keep locked up at the top of the tower.”


  “Okay.” He stood abruptly and pulled cash from his pocket, tossing it on the table. “You’ll come, show me the shadows, and protect me in case the deranged lady plans a sneak attack.”

  His quick movements and what I think is an invitation, throw me off. “And why should I risk my life for yours?”

  “Because you owe me.” His tone was unwavering, persuasive, sending all common sense fleeing from my mind. Noting my hesitancy, he added, “I did, after all, keep you from cracking your head open at the SAM.”

  My plan was to follow behind him, hide in his shadow, assess the passer-byers on the sidewalk before stepping out of the restaurant. But he waited, holding the door open for me, chivalry beating out my paranoid nerves.

  My eyes adjusted to the bright light and found nothing. No one waiting or watching. The only abrupt movement was my overly active imagination.

  The door swished closed behind us, and Quentin said, “Why don’t we take my car.”

  “Um, sure,” not mentioning I didn’t have a car for us to take. I followed him down the street to an army green Range Rover, circa not much newer than my Karmann Ghia. He opened the passenger door and waited as I climbed inside the pristine interior.

  My stomach made a series of somersaults at my rash decision to get in a car with a complete stranger. What the hell was I doing? Ignoring my intuition, I pointed him south on Vashon Island’s two-lane highway after he asked which way to go.

  I stole glances of him out of the corner of my eye as he quietly manipulated the car per my directions, but he offered no conversation in return. The silence should have been painful, choking, like at home, but it was different, soft in a way I couldn’t quite place my finger on.

  We rolled our way down Point Robinson Road to a parking lot that sat above the lighthouse. Glimpses of the tower peaked through the swaying treetops, the soft cawing of seagulls a reminder that water was near.

  “The lighthouse is this way.” I stepped out of the car and pointed to a narrow path that vanished into the woods.

  He nodded and grabbed his camera case from the backseat.

  We ventured down through the dense mini-forest, slow and deliberate. Quentin stopped often to take pictures, never rushing a shot or becoming distracted by my presence as the soft click of the shutter opened and closed to a private view intended only for his eyes. His concentration emanated a deep intensity from his face, etching hard lines across his cheeks. The harshness portrayed a red flag that should’ve had my nerves jumping and my feet moving in the opposite direction, but instead, it left me curious.

  “How long have you been interested in photography?” I asked, as we broke free from the trees. The warmth of the sun embraced us and pushed away the damp chill of the woods.

  “Awhile.”

  “Any other photographers in your family?”

  He shook his head no while spying something else through his lens.

  “How about brothers or sisters?”

  He turned his head from the back of his camera to look at me. I could read the hesitation in his eyes. “One of each.”

  He stepped away — avoiding my eyes, my questions.

  Moving across the clearing, he aimed for the backside of the lighthouse and called over his shoulder, “I’m going to head around to the far side of the tower.”

  I picked up my pace. “Is that my cue to follow and protect you from the crazy lady?” I asked jokingly. “I don’t want to be accused of shirking my duties.”

  “Loyalty. A rare commodity.” There was no humor in his tone. We walked past a wall of luscious green trees, lined like soldiers down to the waters edge. They stood strong, daring the water to try and take over any more land.

  “Are they older or younger?”

  “Who?”

  “Your brother and sister.”

  “Older.”

  We came to the back of the non-working lighthouse, now owned by the parks department, and walked the length of the building protruding from the tower. “Where do they live?”

  “Do you always ask this many questions?”

  We rounded the corner of the building, the Seattle skyline visible to the north. “Do you always avoid questions?” I countered.

  He stopped abruptly and spun around, his tall frame loomed over me. “San Francisco.” The air pulsed with his dubious stare. “They both live in San Francisco.”

  My nerves reared up and my mouth began an uncensored spout of words. “I’m sure you were dying to ask, but I’ll save you the breath. I have one brother.” I lifted my hand to block the glare of the sun as I looked up at his unreadable face. “Foster. Older. He just left for his first year at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo.”

  He shook his head in bewilderment. “Who are you?”

  “You used up that question the last time we met. You need to work on your repertoire.”

  Not waiting for a reply, I moved beyond him and focused in on the shoreline.

  I froze.

  It began.

  Tingles. Painful tingles. Up the back of my neck. Rocking me to the core as they marched with purpose over the top of my head, puncturing every pore like the rhythm of a sewing machine’s needle. The pain stealing the breath from my throat.

  The colors returned with a burst, displacing the pain as they began their intoxicating dance, spinning and morphing into patterns of brilliance. My body swayed and my limbs softened in response.

  “CeeCee?” Quentin’s voice fluttered through the colors, and replaced them with a hail of dark images. One after the other, they fell heavily inside me.

  Bam.

  Bam. Bam!

  A small rowboat thrashed in the water. Cracks of lightening flashed across the sky. Storm water rose everywhere, threatening to topple the little wooden boat.

  “CeeCee, do you want to sit down?” His words were barely a whisper above the roaring silence in my head. Words I couldn’t respond to, react to, my tongue latched down, every muscle in my body forced to focus on the horror unfolding before me.

  I sucked in a deep breath not yet stolen from me, trying desperately to regain control of my slipping mind. But the images pressed on. Painfully. Demanding my full attention. Demanding I focus solely on the shadowy figure that had emerged in the chaos. A figure trapped in the boat, clinging desperately to the sides.

  No longer able to stand under the pressure, the pain, my body dropped. A ring of warmth circled my waist, softening the fall.

  “CeeCee?” His voice grounded me, a touchstone to reality, pacing my heart as the images raced by.

  I drew my legs up and curled into myself, the dark storm sucking me in deeper and deeper, crossing over the threshold of reality. Water. Everywhere. Rising violently. I gasped for air, wanting to reach out, to rise above the chaos and grab hold of the shadowy silhouette clinging for life in the fragile boat.

  And then it was gone, sucked through a vortex, leaving only a wash of gray.

  My body sunk into warmth. Exhausted. The last of the piercing needles making a hasty retreat.

  “CeeCee? Are you okay? Should I call someone?”

  I held completely still as my insides quaked, unsure of what was happening to me. I sucked in a short breath and another, praying when I opened my eyes that the world would still be round, rotating on its even-keeled axis and that the boy with green eyes would vanish before he could confirmed what I wasn’t willing to admit to myself. I was losing it.

  “CeeCee. Say something. Two minutes ago you had no trouble forming words.” His rough fingertips brushed my cheek as he pushed back erratic strands of hair that had escaped from under my hat. “You’re face is so pale.”

  Unable to avoid the inevitable, I opened my eyes and turned to his face that was inches from my own, my back cradled against his propped up knee. My eyes latched on to his furrowed brows, and I allowed myself to swim in the soft pools of green that lay below them, safely avoiding the hazardous wasteland of my mind.

  He blinked, bringing my trance to an end. I looked out across
the dock. The endless planks hovered over the gray water, dropping off into nothing. An overwhelming urge to see what lay beyond welled up inside me.

  “Is something wrong with you?” His tone was patronizing, effectively breaking the intimate moment. “Do you have these types of spells often?”

  “No!” I blurted at the thought, getting my feet underneath me. I didn’t want his condescending sympathy. “Never. Not once.”

  Quentin was quick to grab my arm. “Don’t rush on my account.”

  I couldn’t stop. I had to stand. I had to walk away from him. The end of the dock was calling out to me. My steps were small. Babyish. The boards creaking under my weight. I didn’t know what I was looking for, I only knew I had to look. I had to see if anything was down there.

  I inched closer, the images in my mind painting a picture before I saw it, before I leaned over the edge and found a small wooden rowboat listing gently on the calm waters. The same boat trapped in my head. My legs wobbled and goose-bumps broke out everywhere.

  Quentin grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back. “What are you doing?”

  Gently the boat rocked back and forth. Empty. “This can’t be,” I murmured. “How can this be the same boat?”

  “The same boat as what?” He pulled me back a few more inches.

  “The same boat . . .” I looked back at the spot where I’d been overcome by the images. I looked at Quentin’s face, his eyes returning me to the SAM, to the flurry of images I’d seen that night, almost certain that one had been of this very dock and boat. “How is that possible?”

  “How is what possible?”

  Unable to stop myself, I said, “I’ve seen this boat before.”

  “You’ve been on this boat?”

  I was trapped in a bubble of confusion. My words tried to piece together what my mind couldn’t process. “No, I’ve never been on the boat, but I’ve seen it.”

  “CeeCee, you’re not making any sense.” His voice hardened in frustration. “When did you see it?”

  “Um, right . . . right before I fainted at the SAM.” There. It was out. Like a live wire loose in the air, poised to send people running from me. The truth that something besides fainting had happened. The truth of how normal I wasn’t.