Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel)

by Courtney Cook Hopp

  Bernard turned to Quentin and said, “I do not believe we have met. I am Bernard Kaplan.”

  Tony came around to Bernard’s side and said, “Bernard, this is my little brother Quentin and his girlfriend, CeeCee. Which is why we’re in town. Quentin lives here. We all came up for an early Christmas dinner.”

  Bernard held out his hand, but Quentin made no move to shake it.

  Unfazed, Bernard turned to me with his stretched out hand. I didn’t know what do to. Shake it. Not shake it. Politeness won out. I lifted my hand to his like Theresa had done. He, in turn, lifted it to his lips and brushed a soft kiss across the top of my knuckles. “CeeCee. The pleasure is all mine.”

  I pulled my hand away as faint tingles began to prickle at the base of my neck. I knew what it meant and I knew what I needed to do. And quickly.

  Catching everyone off guard, I quietly said, “If you will please excuse me.” I briskly stepped from the room before anyone could react, not daring to look back.

  I darted down the hall, searching for someplace to hide. A corner. A closet. A stall. But I had no idea where the bathrooms were. I tested two doorknobs in the upper hallway, but they were both locked. I was frantic. The tingling surged stronger up my neck. In desperation, I staggered down the stairs as quick as my heeled feet would allow. I knew the enviable was biding its time to barge in and take over.

  I quickly passed through the restaurant, drawing the unwanted attention of those dining in the opulent surroundings, but my level of embarrassment was tampered by fear of being taken down in front of them by my visions. I had to press on, move beyond them, away from their probing eyes.

  The front door was in my sights. I focused all of my energy on the handle.

  As I crossed through the foyer, the maitre’d called out, “Miss, would you like your coat?”

  I held up my hand and shook my head no. There was no time. I shoved the door open and catapulted myself into the frigid winter air. The cold wind bit painfully at my bare arms and legs. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

  The tingles moved harshly up and over the back of my head as I teetered on my heels, tripping across the parking lot, my messenger bag banging against my thigh. I had to find a place out of sight. A place to be consumed by what waited to be seen. I rounded the last of the cars in the parking lot, my body racked with severe quakes as the onslaught of red coated everything in my head.

  The red morphed and bounced until it circled down into fire, trapping me in its perimeter. The menacing shadow danced just beyond the flames. I sunk to the ground, my knees pulled tight to my chest. Round and round it went. Burning. Fear rising in the smoke.

  The blaze roared. Each image charred by the inferno soaring high into the sky. Trapped within the fire, I stretched out my hand and reached for the shadow. I tried desperately to touch it, but the deep walls of flames made it impossible.

  Ask for it, I told myself, ask to see the face. I hesitated, fear crippling me. The words were embedded deep in my throat, snared in a trap of doubt.

  Ask for it!

  Just as the fire began to smolder, the sky opened up and rained down on the scene. Drops of water sizzled around the dancing flames, painfully striking my skin. Stab after stab. Stinging with each penetration.

  Ask for it!

  It faded, darker and darker, the shimmering rain diminishing the charcoal to nothing. And in a blink, it was gone. Burning with it my courage.

  Unable to stop the flood of tears, my body rocked back and forth, shivering uncontrollably. I’d just been pounced on, by the playground bully, and had no one to blame but myself. I bit my lip to silence my escaping grief, to slow the wave of punishing pain. I had no business being here. I had no right to a gift that I wasn’t able to embrace.

  My hiccups slowed and I tried to wipe the watery mess off my face. I sucked in a deep breath and held it.

  “You’re on your own. This was not part . . .” I froze. The airwaves carried a muffled voice to my ears. An angry voice. I didn’t think it was coming from my head, but I couldn’t be sure. Then I heard it again. “ . . . never. I will make . . .”

  My ears perked up. My body on alert. My heart drumming in my chest.

  An engine turned over as I reached up and grasped the lip of the car windshield in front of me to balance my unsteady legs. I glanced through the glass. Two glowing taillights floated through the night air and disappeared from sight.

  I sunk back down and took a deep breath. And another.

  Summoning what was left of my dignity, I forced my wobbly legs to stand and move one foot in front of the other. I counted each baby step in order to keep the panic at bay. I couldn’t think about it. The thought of burning . . .

  “CeeCee?”

  I lifted my head, startled by the voice. It was Tony. Standing by the front door.

  “What are you doing out here?” His voice was unnaturally even, cooling my already chilled nerves. His eyes wandered up and down my disheveled state.

  “Um, I wasn’t, um . . .” My eyes darted frantically, looking for anything to propel a story out of my mouth. “I wasn’t feeling well. I though fresh air would help.”

  “In the cold?” His eyes moved beyond me, where they found something to focus on in the parking lot. “Are you alright, now?” he asked, leveling his suspicious gaze back at me. I did my best not to shiver, but my cold body and Tony’s critical stare was making it difficult.

  I was just about to answer him, when the door to the restaurant burst open and Quentin stepped out wearing a dark, wool overcoat. My own coat dangled from his hand. He paused momentarily, looking from me to Tony, his face livid.

  Without a word he strutted over and wrapped my coat over my shoulders and tossed his parking ticket to the valet attendant. “If you can have my car here in under a minute, I will triple your tip.”

  “Leaving so soon, Quentin? The fun was just beginning,” Tony goaded.

  Quentin didn’t answer. Didn’t snap on whatever bait his brother was luring him with.

  He tried another tactic, one sure to provoke a response. “CeeCee, just because Quentin can’t hold himself together, doesn’t mean you have to miss out on a fine meal. He has no idea how to protect what’s important. I would be happy to have you come back inside as my guest.”

  Quentin spun around, his fists balled tightly at his side. “Do you really think it is appropriate to be hitting on an under-age teen while your wife and son wait for you at home?”

  Tony roared with laughter. “Quentin, you are still so naive. Surprising, really, after all of your bad boy antics. I’m not hitting on your little friend, although, if I was ten years younger . . .”

  Quentin’s fingers rippled, opening and closing the ball of his fist. “You. Are. Not.”

  Tony turned dead serious. His intimidating step forward signaled my body to slide backward. “Does she know? How at the drop of a hat you’re willing to betray those closest to you?” Quentin’s shoulders rounded back, his feet moved into a power stance. “I’m just giving her the opportunity to experience what true loyalty really means.”

  I didn’t know what to do. They were equal in stature, both poised to strike. With words. With hands. With past grievances. I was certain Quentin’s fist would land in his brother’s face. I panicked, edged around the front of Quentin, and quickly spit out, “He told me. Everything.”

  The unscripted line halted the action, pulling four eyes down on me. One set drained of its venom by my lie. The other pair I didn’t dare look up at. I could feel the sting of their sharp focus piercing through me, ready to read me the riot act.

  The standstill was broken further when Quentin’s car pulled to the curb. An attendant ran to open the passenger door and turned to me expectantly.

  “Quentin,” I whispered, pointing to the lot. “My car is . . .”

  “Get in.” His severe tone left no room for argument.

  Quentin tore from the lot, yanking the wheel left. Right. Left. He zoomed under the Aurora Brid
ge and up the north slope of Queen Anne hill, his driving erratic, far from the quiet calm I normally experienced with him. I clung to the door handle, my mind revolving through a list of what I should say, what I should ask for, what I should tell him. I did a mental catalog of excuses, but they all came up thin. I couldn’t look at him — his anger — as we flew past storefronts, blew through stop signs, and headed back down the south side toward his house.

  His house. A wave of apprehension dove deep into my stomach and turned it inside-out. Alone. At his house. I needed a diversion. I said the only lame thing that came to mind. “I’m sorry, Quentin. I’m so sorry for making such a mess of things with your family.”

  A pin had been pulled, releasing a whoosh of air from Quentin’s pursed lips. He looked in the rear view mirror and abruptly pulled the car to the side of the road. He sat. Motionless. His hands clamped tight on the wheel, staring out the front window.

  When he finally faced me, I could see the resentment boiling in his eyes. “Did you think this was about you?” He pushed his hand through his hair as he worked to contain his composure. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  Anxiously, I replied, “What are you talking about? I showed up uninvited and ruined your family’s entire evening.”

  “It is not possible to ruin time with my family. That was done years ago.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re not supposed to. You’re not supposed to be here.” The hard edge of his voice was laced with anguish.

  Guilt coursed through me. “I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

  “No, you don’t know. I purposely moved away from them and their convoluted world. I thought being alone and keeping to myself would be penance enough.”

  “Penance for what?” I wanted to reach out and clasp my hand around his, touch his cheek, but I didn’t dare move. The fear of rejection rendered me immobile.

  He didn’t answer my question. His head dropped back on the headrest deflated. “I spent so much energy extracting myself from their world, I wasn’t remotely prepared for you.”

  I was no longer sure whom he was talking to. Me or himself.

  “When we found out about your visions, I thought maybe, removed from my family, you and I . . . That your gift made us . . .” His voice faltered, the broken sentences dangled on his tongue. “It doesn’t matter. My brother’s right. You have no business being a part of my life. The only thing it will bring you is grief.”

  “That’s not true.” Fear popped in me like a firecracker, threatening to blast us from the precarious edge we sat on.

  “You have no idea what you’re saying. Or why you’re saying it,” he snapped bitterly. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’m capable of, or what I’ve become.” I could taste the bitterness stuck in his mouth. Of loss and lies. But I knew something else lay under there, well protected from the harshness of his family.

  “Then tell me. Tell me why you left San Francisco?”

  He just sat, unmoving. Every breath we took, gagged the stillness in the car. I reached for the door handle, tempted to let the cold air slap us both.

  “Cee,” he finally said, looking at me, his face a ragged mess. “I left San Francisco because I knew if I didn’t . . .” An internal struggle played out in the lines around his eyes, uncertain of what to say. “I allowed myself to be dragged down in my brother’s crap, and it cost me everything. Everything normal.”

  I let go of the door handle. My mother’s pearls rolled together under my coat, floating a sweet sound up to my ears. In an instant, her graciousness, her strength, her compassion embodied me, signaling what was important. The strength I’d been looking for earlier came pouring out in abundance. “I’m not going anywhere. And nothing you can say is going to change my mind.”

  His laugh was menacing. Thunderous in my ears. “That’s what’s so messed up. Somewhere the gods of fate are laughing at us. At your long line of visionaries and guardians. Because someone summoned me to protect you from what’s locked inside your head, but they forgot to do a security check on what’s sitting next to you.” I flinched unintentionally, his harsh enigmatic rhetoric catching me off guard. He turned to me, his ragged beauty etched through every line, and quietly said, “Who’s supposed to protect you from me?”

  “You will.” Confidence reverberated in my voice. I was done being left and there was no way I was leaving. Astonishing even myself, I crawled over the center console and straddled his lap—the seams of my dress straining under the pressure. I held tight to either side of his face, maintaining his intense stare with my own. “Because I trust you.”

  “I’m a thief.”

  “I don’t care. I trust you.”

  “I’ve done time in the system.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I’ve been shot. Should have died. Wished for a long time I would have.”

  I traced the line of his scar with the tip of my finger and quietly asked, “Do you wish that now?”

  His eyes captured mine. There was no hesitation when he answered. “No, not right now.”

  “Good, because you didn’t and here you are. With me. Away from them.” I leaned in, my lips moments from his.

  “But that’s just it. It’ll never go away. Not ever.” He pushed me back as he attempted to regain control of the conversation. “I’m not proud of what I’ve done, or that it took me so long to extricate myself from my brother’s bullshit. But every action has a consequence. And I will have to pay. Until someone buries me in the ground.”

  My thumb did a lazy circle around his lips before I pushed my fingers deep into his hair, my lips finding his. Sealing over his words. Accepting them as my own. He leaned into me as his arms snaked around my waist. Every kiss met by another. And another. The built-up tension of the evening poured back and forth between us. His lips forged a fire trail down my neck, spiking my blood like a drug. I leaned in further and quietly whispered in his ear, “You’re going to have to trust in us to figure this out together.”

  His head came up, his smoldering eyes fastened to my own. “So it seems.”

  We held tight to each other, like two sides of a coin—he not wanting to look back and me, afraid to look into the future.

  A car drove past us, breaking the spell of our connection. I peeled myself off his chest and looked out the window for the first time since we’d abruptly pulled to the side of the road.

  “Where are we?” There were houses everywhere, except for a small clearing directly across from us. On the far side was a small stone wall creating a barrier between us and the shimmering lights of Seattle below. The stretch of shining fabric rolled as far as the eye could see.

  “Highland Park.”

  “Is it public? Can we look?”

  “You want to walk around a park in the freezing cold?” He reached out and caught the back of one of my heels, his face pressing into the scoop of my dress. The warmth of his cheek set my heart to racing. “You don’t exactly have walking shoes on.”

  I pushed him back and reached over for my bag, whipping my tennis shoes up into the air. “Ah-ha! But I do have these.” I slid off him and changed my shoes.

  “And you brought tennis shoes because you thought you might want to go for a walk in the park?” His smirk was evident, even in the dim light.

  “No. I brought tennis shoes because balancing on heels is not one of my gifts.” Not waiting for a further reply, I opened my door and rolled out of the car. The chill was in full force, biting at my legs, but I ignored it as I bound across the street, pulling my coat tight around me. I ran past the industrial sculpture in the middle of the park to view the floating Space Needle that pierced the night sky. The structure, with its graceful, feminine bends, dared one to rise as strong and as bold. And tonight, it was ours and ours alone. No one else was here.

  Quentin moved up behind me and wrapped his arms around me, his body buffering me from the elements.

  “This is beautiful,” I said, captur
ed in the moment.

  Unsure if he heard me, I twisted my neck to see his face. But his eyes weren’t admiring the view. They were locked on me. He spun me around, pulled me tight, my body molding to his.

  “I was thinking the same thing.” His hand cupped my cheek, his thumb gently gliding over my eye. I leaned into his touch, the gesture sending waves of warmth to the pit of my stomach. “You and that dress are not a safe combination. It took every ounce of control I had not to pummel my brother when you walked in on his arm.”

  His eyes burned into me, but not with anger. A shy smile crossed my lips. “I really am sorry. He found me in the hall. I didn’t know how to leave without making a scene. It was never my intention to come between you two.”

  “Cee, you can’t come between nothing.”

  I wanted to instantly understand, to know more, to shoulder some of his burden, but I knew I had to wait. He had to tell me in his own time.

  “Quentin Stone?” We both spun around to the new voice standing behind us. A man dressed in a black raincoat asked again, “Are you Quentin Stone?”

  Quentin held fast to my hand and took a step in front of me. “Why?”

  The man lifted his hand, producing what looked like a badge. “We have a few questions for you.”

  Us? As in more then one? My eyes darted around. On the other side of the metal sculpture was another man, his head moving back and forth, scanning the small open space. Adrenalin lanced through me. Suddenly, the luxury of having the park to ourselves didn’t feel like such a boon.

  Abruptly, Quentin pulled me around tight to his side, slowly moving us away from the man. “Cee, go get in the car.”

  “What?” I spluttered, looking between Quentin and the man, my legs locked in place.

  “Go! Now!” he barked, giving me a push, his eyes a determined fire.

  I stumbled slowly, my head swiveling, trying to keep the two men and Quentin in sight.

  “What do you want?” I heard Quentin ask as my paced picked up, racing with my heart, suddenly beckoning for the safety of the car. I ran around to the passenger side and slid into the leather seat, sealing out any noise.