by Opal Carew
Words Jolie did not need to hear.
Finally the corridor opened into the hall. Canvases hung in front of the white fabric, some on easels sprinkled throughout the crowd. He must’ve been painting non-stop since she’d last seen him. There had to be more than a dozen, each with a group of people ringing it.
The throng in the center of the hall told her all she needed to know. Todd was holding court center stage. Her heart sped up and she had to catch her breath.
He was here. She was here. Oh, lord.
She couldn’t face him. Not yet. She patted her upswept hair. Maybe she’d coast near the pictures and see who, or rather, what he painted, then work her way in from the edges to talk to him. Build her nerve up.
And to plan what she was going to say. “Hi Todd, I love you and never meant to hurt you” was kind of a big left hook to hit someone with.
A pianist tickled the ivories in the corner; champagne flutes clinked amid the little tinkling of artificial laughter as someone said something so witty and droll (insert heavy English accent.) All very chi-chi and hip. Upper Crust all the way.
“So vulnerable,” one lady murmured as she sipped her champagne, turning from the closest picture. “Quite lovely, really,” her date added.
Jolie stood on her tiptoes to see over everyone’s head. Nothing but frame.
“A wealth of feeling.”
“Better than he was before.”
“Who is his model?”
Well, the guy was back with a buzz. He was going to have a hard time keeping Mike off his case if the crowd’s reaction was anything to go by.
Jolie had no luck whatsoever getting close to the picture and the one little sip of champagne she’d had was bubbling in her stomach, making the butterflies there a little tipsy. She needed to get this over with. She’d catch the portraits on her way out.
She wormed her way into the groupies around Todd, her knees threatening to go on strike when she heard his chuckle. God, she’d forgotten how it vibrated through every nerve she possessed, lodging directly in the middle of her heart.
She reached into her clutch with shaky fingers and pulled out the crinkled Domestic Gods & Goddesses form, needing the tangible reminder of why she was putting herself through this pleasure/pain.
“The model’s lovely, Best,” an older man said with a whiskey-deepened voice. “Anyone I might know?”
“Now Jefferson, that’s part of the mystique. You know I never explain the nuances to my work.”
Except to her, but Jolie didn’t say it.
“She’s not real,” a woman by her elbow said. “That’s why, right, Todd? She’s your ideal woman, the one you’re searching for?”
Way to be sensitive, lady.
There was a curt silence. Jolie was hoping Ms. Foot-In-Mouth recognized her enormous faux pas.
“I could tell you, Margaret, but then I’d have to kill you.” Chuckles all around saved Todd’s heartache from becoming public and Margaret’s gaffe from dampening the mood. “But yes, she’s real.”
“So tell us, Todd.” That female voice was laced with way too many innuendos and husky come-ons than Jolie cared to count. “How do you capture that feeling? It’s intangible, yet you make her vulnerability a physical presence in the painting.”
Honestly, it sounded like she was sliding her phone number into his pocket as she spoke.
“Unfortunately, Buffy, I can’t answer that.”
Oh puh-leaze. The name sooooo fit Miss Come-On.
“I have no idea how I do it. One minute I’m trying to capture something about the subject, and the next, it’s there. I’ve simply got it.”
Why did this conversation sound familiar?
Jolie had no time to consider this as, all of a sudden, the crowd shifted and she was there, face to face with Todd.
He was dressed head-to-toe in black, and, oh how it made his green eyes shine like beacons from his face, calling her in. He’d lost some of his tan, probably from painting like a fiend to get these ready, but those shoulders were still as broad as ever and his hair had finally had a date with a pair of scissors. She was rather partial to the earlier “do,” though.
Everyone else was carrying on their conversations as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, but Jolie, she felt like she was Alice down the proverbial rabbit hole.
“Jolie.” Apparently Todd felt the same way. He took a step back, blocking the picture near him.
“Uh, hi, Todd.” She started The Big Apology, then was jostled by some overweight, over-champagned, be-ringed, art connoisseur wannabe. Todd reached out to catch her elbow, stepping away from the canvas.
Oh.
My.
God.
It was her.
She was the woman in the portrait.
“Jolie.”
He was talking to her, but she couldn’t pull her gaze from the painting. There was a strange buzzing in her head as it registered that it was her back to the artist, her long dark tendrils of hair clinging damply to her spine, the swell of her hip peeking out from a white cloth covered in different colored slashes of paint, the curve of her breast visible beneath her arm. A swath of hair covered her face, but she’d recognize the tip of her nose anywhere. Pink rose petals covered her fingers.
He’d painted her and now he was showing that painting to everyone.
Just as he’d said he wouldn’t do.
Just as he’d promised he wouldn’t do.
“Jolie,” he whispered in her ear urgently as, suddenly, she was next to Todd and he had a vice grip on her wrist. “I can explain.”
Nothing. Not a single word escaped. Could be because she couldn’t breathe. She shook her head and pulled her hand to her mouth—the hand holding the form. It slashed her cheek and she welcomed the pain. It cut through the haze, making her realize she had to get out of there fast.
“Jolie, please. You’ve got to—”
“No!” Luckily, her breath was still AWOL or she was pretty sure she would’ve screamed it.
As it was, her voice came out raspy and stage-whisper-y. “Here.” She thrust the DG&G form at him and when he reached out to take it, she yanked her wrist back, turned, and pushed through the crowd.
She heard one “Jolie!” before she broke free.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
She ran. Again.
Out the opposite end of the exhibition hall and through a set of dark wood double doors, yanking on the old ornate brass handles with all her strength.
How could he have done that? How could he have put her out there for everyone to see?
The door closed behind her with a soft whoosh and she found herself in a moonlit courtyard ringed by a wrought-iron fence dressed in tiny white lights. A fountain gurgled to her left, an ornamental bamboo garden behind it. Two stone benches curved in front of the stone basin where a cherub poured fountain water. A café set of wrought-iron table and chairs filled the far side, another bench to her right. Across the courtyard, a set of stained glass doors led into St. Gabriel’s Church and next to it, a wall of ivy, honeysuckle and climbing roses, also draped in tiny lights. The gate was just visible beneath years’ worth of growth.
She headed that way, wanting the quickest way out. Of so many things.
She was almost there when she realized what she was doing. Again.
Running. Hiding. Pretending it would go away.
It wouldn’t. And therefore, she couldn’t. If she didn’t face him now, end this, she’d always be the one who ducked and ran. The one who’d be asking what-if questions for the rest of her life. She couldn’t do that anymore.
She was in charge of her life. Her. Not a social worker, not Mommie Dearest, not Naughty Girl, and most certainly not Todd Best.
She’d wanted him to be in her life, not in charge of it and he owed her an explanation every bit as much as she owed him.
She squared her shoulders and turned around, reaching for the back of one of the chairs as the heel of her new kicky yellow pump got s
tuck in a groove between the terra cotta tiles.
The door she’d come through slammed outward.
“Thank God. You’re still here.” Todd’s hair was mussed, those laugh lines at his eyes were decidedly frowning, and he pulled a big, paper-covered something in front of his heaving chest.
“Yes, I’m still here.”
“Give me a chance to explain, Jolie.”
“Like you gave me?” Sorry Todd. She might still love him, but she loved herself, too. And she’d never be heart-whole if she didn’t stand up for herself.
His eyes closed for a second, then opened, all emerald and pained.
It hurt her to intentionally hurt him. Almost as much as he’d hurt her. “I’m sorry. I guess that was a low blow.”
He leaned the object against one of the curved benches. “No, it wasn’t. It was well-deserved, actually.” He straightened, shoving his hands into his pants pockets. “Can we talk?”
There were two arguments there. She could A) say No and that’d be the end of anything—pain, hope, love, et cetera—or B) say Yes and see what happened.
Was there really any question?
She nodded and he swept a hand toward the bench and sat at one end.
Now, common sense would dictate she sit as far away from him as possible in, say, Nova Scotia, but nope, not her. She chose the other end of his bench.
She felt his gaze on her, yet hers was anywhere but on him. The fleur-de-lis top of the fence, the prism of color dancing through the cascading water, a cricket peeking out from the bamboo as it serenaded them—anywhere.
Unfortunately though, she’d gotten rather adept at her peripheral vision honing in on Todd while he’d painted her, so she saw every fidget and pant-leg-brushing he was doing.
“Jolie, I want to explain.”
As much as she wanted him to, now that the moment was here, her new bravado faded. What if it was just another relationship blown in her life? Again. Did she really want to take that chance? What-ifs were nice because she didn’t have to face the reality of a situation. What-ifs allowed the possibility to live on. The hope.
“You know what, Todd? It’s not necessary. I get it.”
“I don’t think you do, Jolie. I want you to understand why.”
She walked over to the stained-glass doors. The image beyond was distorted, but she saw a soft light shining somewhere inside. “Really, it’s okay. I get it. It’s a charity benefit and you had all of those paintings just hanging around, reminding you of the liar you lived with. I’d get rid of them, too.”
She turned, plastering some kind of a smile on her face as the cricket quieted down. She was going for a light-and-breezy, no-hard-feelings type of thing. “Don’t worry about it. I was surprised at first, but it makes sense.” Moonlight shone on his face and she turned back because she couldn’t keep up the pretense when those eyes that had burned into hers while they’d made love were burning still. “I’m over it. No big deal. I hope the church makes a lot of money from them.”
If she’d actually been looking in the door’s reflection as she was pretending to, she would’ve seen him approach. As it was, she jumped when she heard him behind her and looked up to see his eyes in the amber piece of glass.
“Don’t you ever stop being flippant? How can you just rattle off these little quips, Jolie? Don’t you feel anything?”
She spun around before better judgment kicked in. “Feel anything? I don’t feel? Are you out of your mind?” She put up her hand to ward him off. “I’ve always felt everything. Every little slight that’s ever come my way, every lonely night, every agony of a skinned knee with no one there to kiss it to make it better. Of course I feel. I am human, you know. But I can’t let it get to me. I’d be a mass of quivering flesh wrapped around a bruised and battered heart and I’d never get anywhere.”
She choked on the tears she refused to let fall. “And, yeah, I feel a lot about tonight. I have so much damn feeling it’s threatening to strangle me. But I’ve got to survive somehow. So don’t stand there and ask me if I feel anything, because let me tell you, mister, I feel everything so much it could overwhelm me. And if I let it, I might never recover.”
They stared at each other, and, Oh God, her heart felt like it was stopping. Something was squeezing her chest and she couldn’t breathe.
She had to get away from him. Put some distance. Gain some clarity.
She took a step around him back the way they’d come, but he grabbed hold of her arms and hauled her up against him. His mouth covered hers and, suddenly, she was breathing in the scent of him and she knew she was going to live.
Oh God, she shouldn’t do this, she shouldn’t, but she just couldn’t seem to help herself. She slipped her arms around his waist and hung on, literally for dear life, drowning in her own insecurities and fears and he was the one thing holding her afloat and safe.
And then he was holding her, all of her. She was swept up in his arms and he carried her back to the bench and somehow they were there together.
“God, Jolie, I couldn’t believe it when I saw you in there. I wanted to tell you beforehand, but I was finishing the pictures, framing them, arranging the details, and time got away from me. I was going to come see you yesterday, tell you, invite you, but I didn’t know where to find you. I even called Chloe but she wouldn’t tell me where you were.”
Because Chloe knew exactly what disenchantment did to a person. Jolie loved her friend for trying to protect her. “But you promised, Todd.”
His hand was shaky as he swept her hair from her face. The cricket serenade started again, softly this time, as if the moment was being orchestrated. “I know I did. And I regret that more than anything. I regret not discussing it with you.”
She shook her head. “You knew how I’d feel.”
He cocked his head. “Did I? You were the one who thought it’d be neat to be famous, to have everyone know who you are.”
“No. You don’t get to blame me.”
“You’re right. I don’t. And I’m not. But you’ve got to believe me. I didn’t do this to hurt you.”
She looked into his green eyes, which were open and honest and blazing. He meant what he said. It was who he was; every word was the truth.
Which was what he deserved as well.
“And I didn’t want to hurt you either, Todd, which is why I wasn’t going to get that book published.”
His eyebrow lifted. “Really.”
“Yes, really.”
His eyebrow didn’t settle back into place.
“Fine. Don’t believe me.” She squirmed, but he refused to let go.
“No way. You’re not walking away from me until we get this settled, Jolie.”
She stopped squirming.
She glared, but she stopped trying to get free. Running wasn’t going to solve anything. Not talking wouldn’t either. “Fine.”
His grip loosened. “So, if you had no intention of publishing the book, why did you? To spite me? To get your money’s worth after you left?”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t publish the book.”
“Really.”
“We’ve been through this.”
“Then what—” he pulled something from his back pocket—”is this?”
He handed her a thin paperback bearing the picture of a man with his arms around a woman on the cover. A golden haired man and a long-haired brunette. The title was The Best Man. The author was—
Her.
Her mouth dropped and she pushed to a sitting position next to him on the bench. Sure enough, the copyright page listed Jolie Gardener as the author.
She thumbed to the first page and wanted to die as she recognized every single word in the opening paragraph. Annie and Tom.
She flipped through more of the pages and scenes jumped out at her. Scenes she’d invented, wrote. There was Tom/Todd’s speech about a rose about to bloom, his “she never gave up on me,” and that big ol’ gnarled apple tree with the tree fort and rope s
wing.
She flipped the book over to read the blurb on the back, but then she opened it back again to that scene with the rope swing.
She’d never added that last part. She’d thrown the manuscript out without moving Annie and Tom off the bow of the boat.
“I don’t understand this.” She looked at him.
“That’s not your story?”
“Well, yes, I guess it is, but I didn’t do this, Todd.”
His eyebrow went sky-high.
“Really, Todd. I didn’t. I threw the manuscript in the trash that afternoon after I left.”
“So you’re saying a garbage collector went through the trash, found your manuscript, submitted it to a publisher, listed you as the author, and let you get the credit and royalty payments?”
“That’s what must have happened because I haven’t seen this since then. Honest.” It was as if she were in the Twilight Zone. “And, the ending is different.”
“That’s not the one you wrote?”
“No, and here’s something even more bizarre. This is the ending I was going to write. When I came up to my room and found you reading it, I was on my way to change the ending to this. But I never did.” She flipped a few more pages and shook her head. “I can’t figure this out.”
“So if what you’re saying is true—”
“It is.”
“Then how did it happen?”
“I have no idea.” She touched the cover. Totally surreal. Incredibly so. “Where’d you get it?”
“Your friend, Mr. Griff, gave it to me when I returned the Holbein book.”
“Mr. Griff gave you this?”
“Yes. Why?”
She tapped the spine against her mouth. Something wasn’t right. “I’m not sure, but I promise you I did not do this. I knew how you’d feel.” She set the book on the bench beside her, because, really, the physical book wasn’t what was important. “I knew, Todd, before I ever wrote that resolution between Annie and Tom. I knew you’d hate for me to use you as the model, but I had to finish the story.”
“But why, Jolie? Why did you use me? Us?” His eyes were full of hurt and she couldn’t let him think she did it out of spite.