“One of them.”
“I didn’t,” he replied as he rolled to a stop in front of the garage.
“Didn’t what?”
“I didn’t know where you were.”
I turned in my seat to face him. “Are you sure? No special homing device? A connection that I wasn’t made aware of?”
He chuckled under his breath as he put the car in park, the engine idling softly. “No homing device, just ears.”
“Excuse me?”
“After I stopped by here, I decided to go down to the park. To the lighthouse.”
“In the dark?”
He rolled his head toward me, his eyes filled with amusement. “Are you afraid of the dark, Cee?”
After my conversation with Evelyn, it felt like a loaded question. “I don’t know anymore.”
“You should find out.” He shut the engine off before his eyes captured mine. “Although, a small dose of fear is a helpful tool for pushing forward.”
He made the words sound like an invitation. “Why didn’t you come over?” I whispered. “When you saw us at the bonfire?”
“You, um,” he turned away, “looked preoccupied.”
A picture of Dylan sitting close against me, his arm draped over my shoulder rose in my mind, and I blurted out again, “They’re just friends. All of them. Just friends.” Suddenly, it was important to me that he knew that. “And, thank you.”
“For what?”
“For the picture you left at my front door.” I turned my face back to his, a new peace flowing through me. “And for finding me.”
“Happy Birthday.”
“How did you know?” My body was tingling, and it wasn’t because I was going to see any random visions.
“Evelyn.”
No hocus-pocus, no secret guardian connection, just luck, coincidences, and my grandma.
We sat motionless, the tingles in my body charging the air. Unsure of what to say or do, I unhooked my seatbelt and pulled on the door handle.
As I turned to get out, Quentin’s hand clasped around my forearm and pulled me back in. I looked up, the interior light enhancing every beautiful line of his face, stirring a cauldron of warmth inside me. He bent down and brushed the softest of kisses across my lips.
“Good night,” he said quietly as he pulled back. “I’ll call you.”
My mind was reeling. “Um, okay,” I choked out as casually as I could before stepping out of the car. I knew not to hold my breath waiting for the call as I floated to the front door.
He was here, standing in my art room above the garage, staring at the chaotic painting I’d created the day I found out about my visions.
For minutes, hours, and days, the painting had sat heavy on my art table. Concealing the weight of my fears and the burden of never knowing what tomorrow would hold. Until, finally, I’d mustered up the courage to hang it on the wall and make peace with it.
“Why did you keep it?” Quentin asked.
Self-consciously, I stepped up next to him, soaking in the nuances for the millionth time. Through the rolling crests of black texture, tiny streaks of color could be seen escaping from the permeating darkness. It was nothing to look at, but I could see myself in it. I could see everything — every hurt, every piece of anger, every drop of pain poured brutally onto the canvas. My reply was quiet. Honest. “It’s the closet thing to truth I’ve ever painted.”
His eyes found mine and held them. My heart became untamed before he moved closer to the painting, digesting more of my craziness. I blew out the breath I’d been holding and drew back to the art table, jumping to sit on top, freely drinking in the outline of his back. I labored to keep my façade of calm while my frazzled insides tried to understand why he’d agree to come here today.
He had called me the day after the bonfire fiasco, just as he said he would, suspending me in momentary disbelief.
And again.
And again.
By the fourth phone call, I worked up the courage to invite him to Thanksgiving dinner. Not that my family was such a treat, but it was family, and I knew he had none in town. It was to be quiet, small — Dad, Foster, and me. Foster was home, and that in and of itself felt like it grounded the unreal events of my life in reality.
He turned from the painting, his quiet words flowing over me. “It feels truthful.”
Changing the subject, I said, “It’s not too late, you know.”
“Not to late for what?” His eyes smiled, sending a dart of heat to my chest.
“To back out of dinner tonight.” I tried not to squirm under his gaze. “I had no idea my dad had made arrangements to go to Aunt Lucy’s when I invited you.”
I had envisioned a quiet evening over Chinese food, not painful family small talk at my aunt’s. The last I knew, they weren’t even speaking to each other. Now it was us, them, and handfuls of other island misfits.
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“No,” I breathed out as he took a step closer. “I just can’t make any guarantees about family fireworks.”
His emerald eyes shimmered with amusement. He inched forward. “Fourth of July is my favorite holiday.”
“I’ll have to remember that.” I inhaled a quiet breath through my nose.
The gap between us was diminishing. “How different could it be from what I’ve already witnessed?”
“No idea. I used to know. Or thought I did. Now, I’m finding I really don’t know anything.” I gripped the edge of the table, the blood slowly leaving the tips of my fingers.
His eyes gleamed. “You know you can see events in the future.” He pressed his thighs against the front of my dangling legs.
Focus. Focus. His close presence making it difficult. “Well, um, I’ve got that going for me.”
“And we know I can pull you back from the brink.” His grin was wickedly lopsided as he slid his hands on either side of mine, our faces inches apart.
“I guess that’s something,” I whispered, my eyes vacillating from his eyes to his tempting mouth.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
I was spellbound. That was until Foster burst through the door, causing us both to jump. “Are you two hiding?”
“No!” I said too quickly, sliding off the table and stepping away from Quentin.
Foster’s smile was mischievous, his sandy blond hair swishing low across his eyes. “Good, because I refuse take those twins on by myself.”
“You know you love the attention.” I used my best ogling voice before explaining to Quentin, “The twins have a strange affinity for Foster, well, Summer in particular. We’re not completely sure if she understands cousins shouldn’t get involved. I keep telling Foster he needs to explain . . .”
“Stop!” Foster interrupted, holding up a hand as the rest of his body shuddered. “I do not want any more of this conversation in my head.”
“You started it.”
“I only came up to tell you it was time to go.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I just did.”
As it turned out, it wasn’t Foster we needed to worry about.
We stood on Aunt Lucy’s doorstep, painfully waiting while she and Dad greeted each other with a perfunctory hug. The voices of others floated out the door, blending us into a strange concoction of them and us. Even Foster noticed the weirdness and lifted an eyebrow to me.
I’d asked Dad the day before why he’d agreed to come, but the only answer I got was, “She’s family.” Which made absolutely no sense, because at the moment, the tension radiating off the two of them was drowning the rest of us. Not the most ideal of circumstances to bring Quentin too.
Nor was I prepared to deal with Summer’s instant crush. She couldn’t take her eyes off of Quentin as Uncle Russell made the introductions. I was certain she was going to pass out when Quentin reached out to shake her hand.
Summer leaned over and grabbed my arm, holding me back while the rest of the group moved forward to th
e main room. She quietly asked with starry eyes, “How do you know Quentin?”
I looked between her and Autumn who was standing idly behind us. Summer’s crush was growing before me. “He’s the guy I gave directions to at the park awhile back.” Not wanting to destroy her moment, I added, “But Evelyn knows him.”
Her eyes flew wide in surprise. “He knows Grandma? How is that possible? He seems way too cool to be hanging with Gram.”
Summer had no idea of his existence or the fact that he was with me when I saw Autumn in the boat. But neither of them knew it was me who saw Autumn. That was information Aunt Lucy was holding tight to. Protecting them from my freakishness.
Unable to avoid the inevitable, I turned to Autumn and asked, “How’s your arm?” It was a safe question.
“Okay,” she answered. “The doctor said I get to take the cast off next week.”
I wanted to know more. Why was she on the boat? What possessed her? Which friends talked her into it? But a deep discussion with her left Quentin alone with Foster and Dad for far too long. “Was it a bad break?”
“The doctor doesn’t think so,” she shrugged, offering no insight about the actions leading up to the injury.
Summer’s newfound interest in Quentin could not be squelched. “So, does he live on the island?” She was hopeful, trying hard not to look at him as we walked into the room.
But I looked. “No, he lives in Seattle.” Quentin’s eyes found mine. As if knowing what we were talking about, he turned his eyes to Summer and deposited one of his smiles on her. A slice of envy shot through me, until I remembered he came with me.
I shook free of the twins and slid in between Foster and Quentin. Quietly I listened, my insides fluttering nervously. The atmosphere in the room was lopsided. I didn’t recognize half the people. Dad was stoic, Foster interjected where he could, and Quentin remained quietly observant, his eyes constantly taking in the room of people.
My aunt circled the room taking drink orders, all smiles and pleasantries, no trace of the callousness she’d displayed at our house. Maybe I’d imagined it. Maybe Autumn’s incident had sent her over the edge. She came to me last and asked with a smile, “CeeCee, would you mind helping me with the drinks?”
“Um, sure.” My eyes flicked to Quentin before stepping from the group. I could feel him watching us as we walked into the kitchen.
My aunt pulled glasses from the cupboard and plunked them down hard onto the counter, causing me to flinch. Keeping her hands busy, she glanced at me with a hardness she’d kept under control until now. “So, CeeCee, have you had any more visions?”
Contempt dripped from her voice and chilled the room, putting me on guard. “Um, no.”
She appeared buoyed by my answer. Mix. Pour. Stir. Her fingers never stopping. “Really? Not one? That’s surprising.” She spun and pulled a jar of cherries from the fridge. “It’s been almost three weeks since, well, since we found Autumn.”
“We?” I wanted to choke out, but instead played her game. “Yeah, about that.” My fingers found a pile of cocktail napkins to fiddle with. We both knew exactly how long it had been since the Autumn incident, which left me wondering where this conversation was going.
“You do know that is quite unusual.”
“What’s unusual?”
“For that much time to pass without seeing at least a hint of one,” she said snidely before citing her information source. “Mother never had long dry spells. Maybe the gift isn’t as strong in you.”
I refused to be flustered by her condescending B.S. I calmly called her on it, reminding her who had the gift and who didn’t. “Evelyn said the length of time between visions varies in each visionary.”
Her eyes snapped up in surprise. “When did you speak to Mother?”
Was she surprised that I spoke with her, or surprised that Evelyn didn’t mention that I’d stopped by? “A couple of weeks ago.”
“Did your father go too?” The faintest trace of alarm quivered through her voice.
“No. Just me.”
Her shoulders relaxed, but the intensity of her stare worked hard to undo me. “I hope you are not taking this lightly. You have a responsibility. This is our family’s most precious inheritance.” Her eyes turned cold again. “No matter what the consequences are.”
“Excuse me,” Quentin’s voice rang behind me. “Do you need any help?”
I spun in relief and could tell by the way he was looking at me, the question was intended for me rather than my aunt.
My aunt chimed in, her voice, like a switch, flipped back to cheery mode. “That is very nice of you to check-up on us girls and offer your services, Quentin. I see none of the other men had thought to do so.”
I rolled my eyes at her loaded reply. Maybe her beef was with men.
She held out two drinks to Quentin. “These are for the twins,” leaving him no choice but to deliver them. After he’d stepped from the room, she picked up two more drinks and trailed behind him. I was left empty handed.
Before she cleared the doorway, she shot a warning to me over her shoulder. “Just remember CeeCee, it is no longer about what is best for you. Selfishness, though it may run in your family, is not an option.”
I was done. More than ready to go and end this shamble of a Thanksgiving, but we still had dinner to muddle through. What was Dad thinking?
Uncle Russell worked to liven the dinner table atmosphere with bad jokes. Each and every one fell flat on the tough audience. Across the bodies of strangers, Dad sat at the far end, his face unreadable as he quietly nodded at whatever my aunt was saying to him.
My leg pumped nervously. Up, down. Up, down.
Light, like a feather, Quentin’s fingers landed gently on my thigh. My outward pumping halted, but a new one starting up inside me. I glanced up at him and he gave my leg a gentle squeeze.
Barely able to think beyond the fingers lying on my leg, I heard Foster say, “Interesting, when does it start?”
“This weekend,” Autumn replied, not really looking at anyone.
He looked across the table to me and said, “We should check it out.”
“Check what out?” I asked in what I hope sounded like a normal voice.
“Winterfest. At the Seattle Center,” he answered, his cell phone already in hand scanning for information. “Autumn said they have events running all weekend, including a tree lighting.” He looked up and nodded to Quentin, “You should join us.”
I didn’t dare look at Quentin. I held my breath. Waiting. Hoping. Not wanting to influence his response.
“Sure,” he said. I quietly exhaled and caught the soft edge of a smile form on Quentin’s lips. I noticed the hopeful eyes of Summer wishing for an invitation. None came. Foster was oblivious of the crush.
“Great,” Foster said, continuing his search. “Looks like the tree lighting is at eight o’clock Saturday night. Ice skating, carousel rides, caroling — sounds like a chick paradise.”
“Then why are you going?” I asked, thankful for his smartass banter.
“To get you off the island, of course.”
“Of course. You are so kind to think of me.”
“I know.”
With Foster’s attention back on his cell phone, the voices around the table dropped to quiet mutters. Aunt Lucy had given up trying to play hostess with a cheery disposition. I did my best to ignore the intense glances she shot me. Summer was the only one left trying to chop up the silence, and even her attempts crashed and burned.
Blissfully, the night did not draw out long after dinner. Dad was ready to go home. We went to retrieve our coats and Foster stepped up beside Quentin and me and asked under his breath, “Is it me, or is something off? That was the oddest Thanksgiving dinner in history.”
My stomach contracted around the food I’d loaded into it. I had no idea how I was going to explain things to him or where to even start. “Um, well, I’m not sure,” I began nervously. Quentin’s hand touched the small of my back in a re
assuring gesture.
Foster cocked an eyebrow at my feeble answer. “You’re kidding, right? You couldn’t feel the tension between Dad and Aunt Lucy. I could have stabbed my fork in it.”
My shoulders dropped in relief. His focus was on them. Not me. “Things have been off for awhile.” I didn’t elaborate. “I was surprised Dad had agreed to come.”
“Off, is right.” He shoved his arms in his coat and tossed our two to Quentin before walking to Dad with his.
Quentin held my coat out for me. “Thanks.”
“Sure.”
We stepped out into the cold air. I wrapped my arms tight around my chest, a circle of steam enhancing my apology. “Sorry. That was awful.”
“I’ve been to worse.”
“I haven’t. It was never like that when Mom was around.” Flustered by the thought, I quietly added, “I was never like this when Mom was around.”
We drove back to our house in relative silence. Foster hashed out the details of Winterfest with Quentin, who offered to have us over to his place for dinner before hand. In a surprising move, he extended an invitation to Dad.
“Thank you, Quentin, but I think you will all get along fine without me.” My gut twisted on his reply. Was he saying he didn’t want to be with us or that we didn’t need him around?
Foster walked Dad into the house, leaving Quentin and I standing alone next to his car in the cold. I worked hard to control the flight of flutters winging around my chest.
Quentin looked down, studying me, and after a moment, asked, “What’s your aunt’s stake in your visions?”
“Stake? What stake?” I asked, confused by the question.
“There’s something. No one’s that maligning without a reason.”
“There’s no stake. She’s just annoyed that the visions jumped over her and landed in me.”
“I think it’s more than that.”
“Why?”
“Experience.”
“You do realize you keep citing your past experiences as references.” I tried to contain my shivering. “One day you’re going to have to start sharing what qualifies them as authority.”
Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) Page 14