Faking It d-2

by Jennifer Crusie

  “Classic con,” Davy said. “As long as the mark is crooked, he can’t go to the cops. Come over here and discuss this with me.”

  “And if he’s crooked, he deserved to be taken,” Tilda said. “I know this part. My dad used to drill it into me.” She went over to the last of the cabinets and pulled out another painting.

  “What if they buy it because they like it?” Davy said, wishing she’d come back to him.

  “Then they’re getting what they paid for, aren’t they?” Tilda said, turning the painting so he could see it. It was of a woman with protruding eyes hovering over a well-fed mother and her disturbing-looking baby. “This is our prize, a Durer Saint Anne,” she said. “A Goodnight Durer, of course, but still.”

  “Okay,” Davy said.

  “Antonio painted it in 1553,” Tilda said. “But it wasn’t his usual good work, so the family kept it. For four hundred years. If it was good and we sold this as a Durer, analysis of the paint and canvas would show that it was real. It would go for millions at auction, and nobody would ever catch on.”

  “But it’s bad?” Davy said, tilting his head to look at it. “It looks okay to me. Old.”

  “It’s not bad,” Tilda said, “but it’s not good enough. There are half a dozen paintings down here, any one of which would solve all our problems if we could sell it. But we can’t.”

  “Your morals do you justice,” Davy said. “Give them a vacation and come upstairs with me.”

  “It’s not my morals,” Tilda said. “We can’t afford to get caught. Nobody has ever tied the Goodnights to fraud, if you don’t count Great-uncle Paolo. If a fake turns up, everybody starts looking at everything they’ve ever bought from us. And we can’t afford to give decades of dissatisfied customers their money back.” She put the Durer back. “And I’m not good enough to stonewall them on it. I’m just not the wheeler-dealer my dad was. The guilt…” She shook her head. “I get upset. So this stuff stays down here, and it drives me crazy. I’d burn it all if I could, I really would, but I can’t. My family made these.” She picked up another canvas to put it back. “And a lot of them are good. They’re not good forgeries, but they’re good paintings. They should be on people’s walls.”

  “Sell them as fakes.”

  “Right,” Tilda said. “Nobody will notice that.” She bent over to slide another painting away.

  “You have a great butt,” Davy said.

  She straightened, and he waited for her to snap at him.

  “Thank you,” she said, and picked up another painting. “But I also have this problem here.”

  “Sell them,” Davy said again, waiting for her to bend over again. “Publicize the sale as all the paintings that Goodnights bought thinking they were real and then couldn’t sell when they found out they were fakes. That’s why there are so many of them, because the Goodnights are such honest dealers.” He looked around at the riot of color.

  “Yeah,” Tilda said. “I could bring that off. Because honesty is so easy to fake.”

  She looked down at the forgeries, so much pain on her face that Davy forgot he wanted her. “Okay, there’s something else going on here. This is the thing that got you last night, isn’t it? I’m not getting why this is so awful, or how the Scarlets fit into it.”

  “What?” Tilda looked up from the Durer. “Oh. They don’t. I wasn’t trained to paint the Scarlets, I was trained for this.”

  Davy shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “My dad trained me as a classical painter,” Tilda said. “The same way his dad trained him and his dad before that. But then one day Dad showed up with a Homer Hodge and said, ‘Paint like this,’ and they were so simple that-” She broke off. “I painted six of them and left.” She shrugged. “No big deal.”

  “Why did you leave?” Davy said.

  Tilda bit her lip. “It was a bad time,” she said offhand, but her voice shook a little. “I was a kid. It doesn’t matter. Long time ago, all over now.” She started to put the paintings away.

  “How old a kid?”

  “Seventeen.”

  Davy straightened. “What the hell happened?”

  “You know, it really isn’t-”

  “Tilda, stop lying and tell me.”

  Tilda pressed her lips together in a caricature of a smile. “I wasn’t lying. It doesn’t matter. Eve and Andrew found out they were pregnant, that’s all. He was my best friend, we were the way Nadine and Ethan are now, but he was Eve’s friend, too, and she was so beautiful, and he took her to the prom, and…” She waved her hand. “No big deal.”

  “That’s why you left?” Davy said back. “No. It’s something else. What happened with your dad?”

  Tilda turned her back on him and put another painting in the cabinet.

  “We’re not going upstairs until you tell me,” Davy said. “Spill it.”

  “It wasn’t anything,” Tilda said. “We found out Nadine was on the way, and I came down here to work on the last Scarlet.” She forged a smile for him. “The one you scammed from Colby. The dancers.”

  “The lovers,” Davy said.

  Her smile disappeared and she nodded. “I was working on it, down here, crying, and Dad came in and said…” She swallowed. “He said, ‘When will you learn you were born to paint and not to love?’”

  “I hate your father,” Davy said, rage slicing through him.

  “No,” Tilda said. “He was trying to… make me see my destiny. And, really, he was pretty much right. I mean, I’ve been loved. Scott loved me.”

  Davy felt that spurt of jealousy again.

  “But Dad was right,” Tilda went on, trying to smile. “I was happier painting than I was with people. I loved painting the furniture and the Scarlets, even the forgeries I was doing were more interesting than people. I just…” She sighed. “I just really loved Andrew. And I loved Eve. There weren’t any bad guys. It just didn’t work out for me, I’m just not… But I didn’t want to hear it then.”

  She gave Davy a wobbly smile. “My dad had really bad timing.”

  “He was an exploitive son of a bitch,” Davy said.

  Tilda took a deep breath. “So I scrubbed the paintbrush through the faces in the painting and threw it at him and walked out. I took the bus to Cincinnati, and found a job waitressing there and let Eve know, and she told Gwennie, and Gwennie sent money, every week, and never told Dad where I was, and it turned out okay. I’d graduated from high school the year before because he’d had me test out of a bunch of stuff so I could paint, and that meant I could work if I lied about my age. Eventually he found out and called and yelled and disowned me, but by then, the scary part of being on my own was over.” Tilda’s face eased a little. “And one day, the guy who owned the restaurant was talking about fixing up the place, and I said, ‘I can paint a mural for you,’ and I did, and one of the people who came into the restaurant saw it and wanted one, and the mural business just sort of evolved. And there I was, painting forgeries for a living just like all the other Goodnights.” She looked down at the paintings at her feet “Just like my dad said I would. He was right.”

  “He was wrong,” Davy said grimly.

  “The bad thing,” Tilda swallowed. “The bad thing was that the Scarlets… were… the way…” She swallowed again. “The way I really paint. So when he sold them, I couldn’t paint that way anymore unless I was Scarlet for him, so I couldn’t paint.”

  “How could he do that?” Davy said. “He was an artist. He knew what that meant. How could he do that to his own kid?”

  Tilda took a deep breath. “He wasn’t an artist.”

  “What?”

  “He was a terrible painter.” She leaned against the cabinets and slid down until she was sitting on the carpet, collapsing there like a rag doll in her pretty, silky dress, looking so tired Davy ached for her. “You can learn all the craft you want,” she said. “But if you’re not born with a sense of light and color and line and mass, you cannot paint. And he couldn’t paint. He was a
great teacher, but he couldn’t… It was like being born tone-deaf in a family of musicians.” Her face crumpled. “Eve couldn’t paint, either, he tried to teach her but she couldn’t. But I could.”

  I can’t stand this, Davy thought and went over to sit beside her.

  “I could paint before I could write my name,” Tilda said as he put his arm around her. “I loved everything he taught me.” She sniffed, trying to hold back tears, and he tightened his hold on her. “I think he resented me for it. He loved Eve so much, but he couldn’t… I couldn’t… I didn’t get it. I thought if I just painted better, he’d love me more. I didn’t get it that he… So I tried harder and harder and got better and better and he-”

  “Oh, God, Tilda.” Davy held her close. “I’m so sorry. And I really hate your father.”

  “No,” Tilda said into his shirt. “He did his best. And I got out. I walked away. I just didn’t get to take Scarlet with me.” She lifted her head. “Do you know that he wanted me to sign them as James? James Hodge, Homer’s boy. I was the one who named me Scarlet. I signed them Scarlet.”

  “Good for you,” Davy said, holding her tighter.

  “No,” Tilda said, her pale eyes swimming as she looked at him. “Good for you. He sold them, but you got every damn one of them back for me. Every damn one.”

  “Oh, honey,” he said and kissed her, feeling her tears on his face, and then he held her tight as she wiped her face on his shirt.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know I look like hell when I’m soggy.”

  “Yeah, that’s an issue now,” Davy said, still holding her. “Christ, Tilda.” He looked around at the Goodnight forgeries and suddenly they looked like bodies to him. “We have to get rid of this stuff.”

  “I can’t,” she said tiredly. “I want to, so much, but I can’t even talk to you about them without sobbing all over you. Imagine me trying to-”

  “I can,” Davy said grimly. “And you’re getting out of this damn basement, too.”

  “It’s a good studio,” Tilda said.

  “It’s the pit of hell,” Davy said. “I don’t care how white you paint this place, there’s blood on the walls. We’re moving your stuff up to the attic. Tonight. There’s plenty of room up there. You can paint in the sunlight tomorrow.”

  “He wasn’t a bad man,” Tilda said. “He-”

  “Right. He just couldn’t paint. Fuck him.” Davy let go of her and pushed himself off the floor. Then he held out his hand to her and hauled her to her feet. “What stuff do you need from down here?”

  “Davy, I don’t-”

  “Upstairs, Matilda,” he said. “All of it. I can’t beat up your father because the son of a bitch died on me, but I can get you out of this basement. Pack.”

  He started shoving Goodnight forgeries back into their crypts, and Tilda said, “Did you mean it?”

  “Mean what?” he said, giving a van Gogh a shove.

  “That you could sell them.”

  “I can sell anything,” he said. “But I don’t want to touch this stuff. I’m thinking we consign it to an auction house.”

  “I had thought of that,” Tilda said. “People collect forgeries. We could do it anonymously. But somebody will find out and ask about them. Somebody always finds out, and then I’d-”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Davy slammed another painting into a cupboard. “Pack.” When he didn’t hear her move, he turned around.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, standing there in misery. “I didn’t mean to unload all of this angst on you. I didn’t mean to be so…” She waved her hand. “Melodramatic. Drama queen.” She tried to laugh. “You must hate weepy women.”

  “Yeah, I do.” Davy walked over to her and put his arms around her and held her tight. “But not you, Scarlet.” He kissed the top of her head. “You can do anything you want, and I’ll still love you.” She went still in his arms, and he said, “I know. I can’t believe I said it, either.”

  “You can take it back,” she said into his shirt. “It’s just because I cried all over you, and you’re feeling sorry for me.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s because you kissed me in a closet and adopted Steve and support your family and painted armadillo footstools and really hot mermaids. It’s because you’re Matilda Scarlet, and I was born to love you as sure as I was born to con people, damn it.” She lifted her head to look at him and he added, “And I love you with everything I’ve got, which means your rat bastard father was wrong.”

  She came up on her toes to meet him, slippery in his arms as her dress slid between them, and when she kissed him, her lips were soft and open on his, no more secrets, and if Davy hadn’t already been in love, that would have done it. “Pack your stuff,” he whispered against her mouth, holding her as close as he could. “We’re getting out of here.”

  Tilda looked around. “You’re right.” She sighed and relaxed against him, pliant in his arms. “It’s a shame, though. It’s a good space.”

  “I know,” Davy said. “I’m thinking we paint a mermaid mural in here and put in a pool table. And a jukebox with music from this century.” He felt Tilda laugh into his shirt. “I love you, Matilda,” he said into her curls, breathing in cinnamon.

  “I love you, too,” she said, and he felt his own tension go because she’d finally said it. “But I don’t play pool.”

  “You will,” he said. “It’s your kind of game. Now pack.”

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, upstairs, Gwen was trying to figure out what to do with Mason. He was a nice man and a competent lover and she wanted him out of her apartment, out of her building, and possibly out of her life, although that was probably an overreaction. Why couldn’t he be like other men and leap out of bed, citing morning meetings or something?

  “That was wonderful, Gwennie,” he said, kissing her again.

  Get off my leg. “It was,” she said, “but I think you should go. Nadine is downstairs, and I don’t want her to think-”

  “Of course,” Mason said, pulling her close. “You’re absolutely right.” He kissed her again, and then got out of bed, which gave her a chance to grab her robe, wondering why she was so cranky. Mason had been very sweet, and first times were always a problem, or at least they had been in her teens which was the last time she’d had a first time-

  “You don’t need to see me out,” Mason said when he’d dressed, coming around the bed to kiss her again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He looked at the clock that said twelve-thirty, and added, “Or I guess I’ll see you today.” He smiled at her, almost shy. “It’s a brand-new day, Gwennie.”

  “Yep,” she said, smiling back and thinking, Leave.

  She walked him to the door, and patted his arm, and he had started down the hall, when Ford came up the stairs, passing him on the way. He stopped when he saw her.

  What? Gwen thought, sticking out her chin. You’re a hit man. Cut me a break.

  He shook his head at her and went inside his apartment, slamming the door behind him, and she felt like hell, which was ridiculous.

  She went back into her apartment and into the bedroom and looked at the rumpled bed, all white in the lamplight, like the site of a virgin sacrifice. Which was damn funny when you considered how long it had been since she’d been a virgin and the kind of track record she’d had before she’d married Tony.

  Maybe another vodka was in order. She was turning into a real lush, but at least she had good reason. She had problems. She tied her robe tighter, and went back into the hall, and Ford opened his door.

  “Listen,” she said, before he could say anything. “Don’t give me any crap. I’m having a hard life.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “Hey, I get to make my own choices.”

  “Not when they’re that bad,” Ford said. “You couldn’t wait another week, could you?”

  “Why another week?” she said, and thought, Davy. “Listen, you have to stop killing people.”

  “Killing people?”

  “So
meone overheard a phone call,” Gwen said, looking at the ceiling.

  She heard him move, and when she brought her eyes down he was there, and then he kissed her, his body blocking out all light and his mouth blotting out all thought, and she should have slapped him silly.

  Instead she almost crawled inside his shirt in her enthusiasm for his mouth, and when he finally broke the kiss, he had to push her away to look her straight in the eye. “Okay, it’s only a mistake if you do it again,” he said.

  “Hey,” she said, holding up her left hand. “I’m engaged.”

  He took the ring off her finger as she pulled her hand away. “And now you’re not,” he said, pocketing it.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” she said, trying not to be the kind of woman who was turned on by domineering men, which was a laugh, considering Tony. “I’ll kiss anybody I want. I’ll get engaged to anybody I want. I’ll sleep with anybody I want. Give me back that ring.”

  “No,” he said.

  “I’m still engaged,” she said and went back into her apartment, slamming the door in his face, suddenly feeling pretty damned good. The world had swung around and two men had jumped her in one night, not bad for a middle-aged former singer and grandmother of one. It was almost like the old days, guys lining up, and all she had to do was choose. And it was happening because she wanted it to, because she needed the change, because she was done sleeping through life.

  And Tilda was fine with her leaving. She could go.

  For the first time in years, Gwen felt no interest in a Double-Crostic.

  But just because she wanted it to happen, that didn’t mean she was with the right guys. Okay, definitely not Mason, she thought. What was I thinking? Well, she’d been thinking about the mortgage, but maybe they could work something out. And definitely not the hit man across the hall, either. She’d done the charming-crook thing with Tony. Forget it.

  But definitely somebody. There will definitely be somebody. Definitely, I am back in the game.