Reality's Illusion

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Reality's Illusion Page 7

by Stephie Walls


  “Sure, Tara. What’s up?”

  “Hang on. I’d like to add Ferry to the call if that’s all right with you?” Interesting, if she wanted us both, it had to be regarding Kaleidoscope Dark.

  I waited in silence until she conferenced the call and everyone exchanged pleasantries.

  Tara’s charm tended to get in the way of her making a point. “I heard through the grapevine the two of you have finished the project you were working on. I’d like to offer you an opening at the gallery.”

  I doubted the silence was as long as it seemed. Beside myself, I had thought there’d never be another opening in my future. Even when Tara had mentioned showcasing my work again, I’d thought it was a kind gesture, not a genuine offer. Hell, I had never believed I would produce anything worthy of hanging on another gallery wall.

  Tara continued, although I had no idea if Ferry had said anything in between because I remained dumbfounded. “Bastian, if you have any other pieces you’d like to add, we can certainly schedule the opening far enough out to accommodate those as well.”

  “I only have one other painting. It might take me a couple months to get enough pieces together.” My mind ran faster than I could contemplate what it would take to commit to what I needed for an event.

  “Tara, we should put it off long enough to get Bastian up to speed.” Ferry was resolute, and I appreciated his offering to push things out to accommodate me.

  “Ferry, do you want to add pieces?” Tara was still brainstorming. “We could do a joint opening and intersperse yours and Bastian’s pieces throughout the gallery with the project you’ve both been working set center stage.” Tara was extraordinary at what she did. Her angle was never one dimensional; she always thought outside the box to get the biggest return on her investments.

  “That would be good. I have a collection that compliments Bastian’s work. They’re all portraits of sorts that capture emotion. Bastian, you’re not saying much. What are your thoughts?”

  A showing of Kaleidoscope Dark and a joint opening with a world-renowned photographer was the opportunity of a lifetime, and one I desperately needed to seize if I had any hope of rejoining the art community. “Ferry, if you’re up for it, I’m in.”

  Tara went into business mode, not that she hadn’t been in it already, but once she started to plan, the Southern charm took a back seat to the Northern grit. “What about two months? Does that give you both enough time? Or do you need three?”

  “I’m going to default to you, Bastian.”

  Headfirst or there was no point. “Let’s do two, Tara. It will keep me motivated.” The fear in my voice was palpable, but neither commented.

  “Sounds good. I’ll need updated bios for both of you and blurbs for your subject matter. In the very near future, get me pictures of a couple pieces you’ll exhibit. If you guys can get me those things in the next two weeks, I can start marketing and planning the event. Now, what do you guys need?”

  I swallowed, hoping my voice didn’t crack. “I’m sure I’ll have questions as we progress, but right now, I’m in awe of all that’s taken place in the last five minutes and need a couple hours to wrap my head around what I just committed to.” I laughed, but it was obvious I wasn’t joking. Thankfully, they overlooked my anxiety.

  “Ferry, what about you?” Tara lined up her little ducks in a row, although my ducks were harder to arrange than Ferry’s.

  “I’ll email you if I think of anything. In the meantime, I’ll get you the information you need. And, Bastian, I’ll send over what we have on Kaleidoscope Dark.”

  And with that, the call ended.

  My immediate thought was to phone Sera, but my fingers dialed Nate instead. I couldn’t begin to repay him for putting up with my ass the last five years, but maybe telling him his faith in me had opened a door would give him a little bit back. Not one other person had stood by me. Even my parents had given up. I didn’t even hear from them on holidays anymore. They had buried me alongside Sylvie that day. Nate was it.

  “What’s up, man?” Nate sounded distracted.

  I probably should have asked if it was a bad time. I did not. “Nate, you’re not going to believe the call I just got.”

  “Damn, Bastian, your voice is shaking. Are you okay? I’m not far from your house. You want to talk when I get there?”

  “No. I mean, we can, but I don’t need to. I just got off the phone with Tara Winford.”

  “Is that the art chick?” Leave it to Nate to completely oversimplify Tara’s clout in the art community with his ignorance.

  I rolled my eyes and smiled. “Yeah, one of the most influential art chicks in the country. Anyway, she asked us to do an exhibit of KD.”

  “Your food thing?”

  Jesus, I didn’t know why I bothered sometimes. “Yes, Nate. The project with Ferry.”

  “That’s fucking great. When is it?” His excitement radiated through the phone, as did his happiness.

  “In about two months. Ferry’s going to add a collection, and I’m going to try to provide some work, too, with KD being center stage.”

  There was a long pause. Nate’s silence told me he wasn’t quite sure how to say what was on his mind.

  “Just spit it out, Nate.”

  “Do you have anything else?” He was afraid his words would destroy me.

  “Actually, I’m almost done with one now, but other than that, not really. I might’ve bitten off more than I can chew, but if I can come up with two to three more, it won’t be a total train wreck.” My face scrunched at the thought of failure as though it weren’t a possibility when, in reality, it was a very real one. “Well, if they’re any good it won’t.”

  “I’m proud of you, man.”

  I already knew he was. I could wither away in my house and never paint another damn thing, and Nate would still hold me in the same regard.

  My next call was to Sera. I couldn’t wait to tell her, to talk to someone who understood the gravity of the conversation I’d just had. But any thought of exchanging joy came to an abrupt halt when Sera answered. Her unrecognizable, broken tone shifted my thoughts from art to comfort—her comfort. I’d either caught her crying, or she’d done so recently.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She breathed heavily into the receiver and followed it with a labored response. “I’ve had a tough day. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have answered until I wasn’t acting like a girl.”

  “Do you want to talk about it? I’m a pretty good listener.” I really wasn’t. I was just quiet, which was often all people needed—someone to shut up long enough for them to get out their feelings. If she wanted advice, I was not the person to ask.

  She sniffled and cleared her throat. “I need to get out of my studio. Do you want to go get some coffee or something? Some fresh air would do me good, so maybe someplace downtown with a patio?”

  “Uh, yeah…sure. Let me throw on some shoes, and I’ll come pick you up. How about that little café on Coffee Street that you like so much that has the balcony overlooking Main? Rulatta’s?”

  “That’d be great.” Her voice hung like wet toilet paper in a tree. “Thanks, Bastian. See you in a few.” It dripped and threatened to fall apart.

  Driving to her studio, I racked my brain for what could cause Sera’s light to dim. She was the personification of a sunny disposition. But as soon as I rounded the hood of my car in front of her studio, it became painfully obvious what had snuffed her flame. I lifted my sunglasses to the top of my head—to ensure my eyes weren’t playing tricks—and attempted to smile, although I likely looked more like a constipated duck.

  In an attempt to eliminate my obvious shock and dismay, I called out, “Hey, Sera,” hoping words would lift my lips.

  She dropped her dark frames over her eyes, effectively concealing a large section of the bruising, and gave me a half-hearted smile before asking if I’d drive the three blocks to the café. I’d planned to walk since parking on Main Street was virtually nonexistent, but
if she wanted to ride, then that’s what we’d do.

  It took fifteen minutes to locate a space near the café. In that time, Sera hadn’t spoken—not a single word. I didn’t push. If I’d learned anything in life, it is that people talk when they are ready. I grabbed our coffee and followed Sera to the balcony, where she chose a table on the farthest end. Her lips wrapped around the edge of her mug, and she tipped the cup gracefully. When she set it down and put her elbows on the table, a bright smile returned to her supple lips, silently opening the door for me to probe a little.

  Pointing toward the bruise, I asked the question that had been on my mind since I’d picked her up. “What happened?” I kept my tone light and free of judgment, as though it were an everyday occurrence for a woman to have a huge-ass bruise covering half her face.

  Her fingertips brushed the bluish-gray skin. Sera’s eyes remained concealed, but she couldn’t hide the way her expression fell before she waved me off. “Freak accident with the kiln.”

  “Must’ve been one aggressive oven. Have you had it checked out? It looks like you took one hell of a blow.”

  “I’m all right. Just a klutz.”

  Something about the way she blew me off didn’t sit well. There was no descriptive story or animated tale about what had happened, which made me wonder why she’d lie. I’d been there. I’d hidden pain, consciously made a choice not to discuss things, and most of the time, I was happier when people didn’t keep digging. So I didn’t.

  Changing the subject seemed the best option, and I still wanted to share my news. “Tara Winford called me today.”

  Sera’s head snapped up, knocking her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose, revealing fear. The unadulterated kind. But just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.

  “Yeah? What’s she up to?” She wasn’t asking out of curiosity; it was if she already knew.

  Tilting my head slightly and drawing in my brow, I responded with the same tone she’d just used with me. “She wants me to do an exhibit.” Watching her closely for some sort of response, I continued, “Well, not just me. She wants to showcase Kaleidoscope Dark and have a joint venture with my work and Ferry’s.”

  An obligatory smile painted Sera’s lips. “That’s great, Bastian. When is it?”

  “Have you talked to Tara? You don’t act like you’re the least bit surprised.”

  She huffed a sarcastic laugh. “Bastian, why would I be surprised? Tara’s an entrepreneur. She makes her living on artistic talent. She would’ve been a fool not to snatch you up the moment you announced a completed project. I’m surprised you didn’t expect it. You’ve been the talk of the town since people saw the article in the paper, and making an appearance at my opening was huge. It was like you were coming of age again.” She sipped her coffee and leaned back with the cup in her hand. “You’ve always been this town’s prince. Your fans have missed you. I don’t know the depths of what you’ve been through, but your departure from the community left a vacancy no one has filled since. People are excited about the prodigal son’s return.”

  My thoughts drifted away from her unease to the words that came from her mouth.

  “So, are you going to do it?” she asked.

  “Do what?” I’d totally lost track of the conversation. “Oh, the exhibit? Yeah.”

  Her eyes glimmered with interest. “That’s awesome. I couldn’t be happier for you.”

  That spot kept us company for the next two hours, along with the people who lingered about on the sidewalk below. Shots of vitamin D kept spirits high, and a continuous flow of coffee kept us talking. The conversation was effortless, and the details kept me captivated.

  As an artist, I saw color and light differently than I imagined most did. I saw the way the sun reflected off Sera’s dark hair, changing the color entirely in that one animated space as the rays danced on the strands. I memorized the change in the color of her irises as the light moved over us—what little I was able to garner once she’d removed her glasses. I studied the depth of the bruises and the way they feathered out at the edges. Each time I glanced at her, I mentally snapped a picture of a different element—her thick eyelashes, her full lips, her high cheekbones. Michelangelo couldn’t have created a more beautiful woman. The lines of her body, the fullness of her breasts, the curve in her waist, her long, lean legs, she mesmerized me. And it wasn’t just the aesthetic beauty. It was how she talked, what she said, the stories she told.

  Every detail seduced me, every facet, every exquisite nuance.

  Then, as suddenly as her phone had chirped, she informed me that she had to get back to the studio.

  “Everything okay?” Clearly, it wasn’t.

  “Yep.” Her terse grin told a different story.

  Jesus, she was all over the place today.

  7

  Chapter Seven

  Days turned into weeks. If I weren’t spending time with Sera, then I was painting whatever she’d inspired. I’d slept less in the last month than I had since college. For years, sleep had consumed me. I slept to see Sylvie. And I could admit I missed her visits. They came less frequently with each passing night. But the Sandman had taken hours away from what now dominated my life.

  Art.

  I’d never produced the amount of work that had come from my brush in the last four weeks. Even more impressive was the fact that the canvases covering my house were brilliant. Never had I felt so strong about my own work. I had never believed more in what I did, and I had Sera to thank for that fresh life. My past work had always been nudes—classic, not crude—I’d never used art as a cover to cascade porn on people’s walls. The human form was gorgeous, male or female; I’d believed that since I was a small child.

  My mother still had rudimentary paintings from my early youth, illustrating my love of the human body. At that young age, I had only eluded to genitalia, found ways to mask those areas, because other than my own, I had no real knowledge of what they looked like. As I had discovered their true nature, my painting had evolved, but never to the extent it had now. The details evoked emotion, the emotion of the woman on the fabric, whether she was morose, elated, enraptured, pensive. Whatever the sentiment was, the intensity in the color and the range I’d pulled from my brush was impressive.

  Tara had been pressuring me for images of what I had in store for the opening, but I’d yet to decide what to include. It was an endless debate between the pieces because I only got one shot. If it weren’t superb, I’d be finished. This was my one chance to reenter the community, and while I felt great about my work, that brought uncertainty. So uncertain that I hadn’t allowed anyone inside my house since I’d started painting again, not even Nate. When he came to the door, I went outside. But most evenings, we met somewhere for dinner. He still got his daily Bastian fix, reassurance I was still breathing, and I kept my vault secure.

  Today, I was giving someone else the combination to the lock, baring my soul for criticism in order to receive help with the gallery selection. Sera’s knock startled my anxious heart. Her opinion, criticism, praise, whatever her thoughts were, would define where I went with the opening, or if I backed out altogether.

  She cruised through the door and pecked my cheek. “Hey there, Sunshine.”

  “Hey.” I shoved my hands into my pockets and kicked the door closed.

  Her hands clapped, and then she rubbed them together eagerly, waiting for me to show her the goods.

  “They’re all in the studio—”

  Her fingers curled around my forearm before she spoke, stopping me. “Bastian, you’re ready for this. You’re not an amateur. This isn’t your first rodeo. Take a deep breath.” She didn’t say anything else. She searched my eyes and unknowingly showed me something in hers. Despair maybe. The flecks of amber glimmered in a sea of green, calling for my attention. But just as quickly as they said my name, they disappeared along with whatever emotion she hid. “Show me.”

  Inhaling deeply through my nose, I took her to my soul. My chest
heaved, and I held my bated breath for any reaction, any slight indication of what she thought. A person’s expression typically carried more weight than their words, but Sera’s face was blank. Completely void of emotion. Empty, vacant—there was nothing.

  She zeroed in on one of my favorites, Dark Angel. Done completely in yellows, golds, and hints of orange, she exuded light—mirth. Her smile was so infectious it could cure even the loneliest heart. It wasn’t until you looked beneath the surface, under the exterior, past the two-dimensional work on the canvas, that one could see the devastation wasn’t superficial. It was deep, but it was there.

  Unable to see Sera’s face, I studied her back, willing her to talk with each second that passed.

  When she finally turned to me, the eyes staring back at me were those in the painting. The torment hid just beneath the surface, yet now it ran down her cheeks. She had identified. She’d found the windows in the face of my angel. I doubted that she recognized the curve of her own neck or the shape of her jaw; nevertheless, she connected with the painting just the same.

  I opened my mouth, but her raised hand stopped me. Those same delicate fingers hid her mouth, covering a sob attempting to escape.

  Sera pointed to the golden woman, nodding her head. “This one.” It was all she could muster.

  I had no words; I simply indicated my understanding.

  Turning away again, she continued through the other images on the floor and walls. She picked four and then took pictures for Tara. And she did it all silently. She gave no reason for her choices, made no comment about the validity of my work. Nothing. Sera just downloaded the images, emailed them to Tara, and then gathered her things, leaving.

  I was lost. I didn’t know what to say or do. I knew nothing about relationships anymore, much less how to be in one. Nate came to me. He loved me unconditionally, but I’d lost all other friendships after Sylvie. My social skills were the equivalent of an immature teen, not a grown man.

 

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