Soul Unique

by Gun Brooke

  “Oh, boy. That’s amazing. Hayden’s full of surprises. I normally play the devil’s advocate when you put forward some of your more unorthodox ideas, but this time, about Chicago I mean, you’re very clever to do it this way. I hope mama Leyla doesn’t throw a paintbrush in the gears.”

  “What do you mean? Hayden’s an adult. If she doesn’t want to do it, fine, but I’ll be damned if—what?” I glowered at India, who was shaking her head with a sorrowful expression on her face.

  “What if Hayden isn’t in charge of her own affairs? I mean, she clearly has some problems handling certain situations. What if someone in her family has some sort of guardianship over her? God forbid, if that’s the case, what if it’s Leyla Rowe?”

  “Shit.” I hadn’t even thought of that. Hayden hadn’t said anything about it, and why would she? It’s not something you’d just blurt out to a stranger. “Hello, I’m not in charge of my own life. My mother calls all the shots.” My rampaging mind reeled. To be honest, I didn’t think Hayden had been declared incompetent. Still, if I intended to do business with her, I needed to find out once and for all.

  I decided to wait until after Sunday. This wasn’t something you asked over the phone, and I didn’t want to ruin the Sunday outing for Hayden by bringing up something potentially hurtful. Turning to India, I sighed. “I’ll make sure.”

  “Good. For what it’s worth, I don’t believe it.” India stood and approached me. “What are you doing tonight?”

  “I have a date with my hot tub, and then I’ll watch my favorite shows I recorded during the week. I’m certainly not in the mood to socialize. Got to deal with some work tomorrow, but tonight, my sights are set on chocolate, the couch, and my sixty-inch plasma TV.”

  “And here I hoped I could persuade you to go to a party with us. We can both bring a ‘plus one,’ and Erica is taking a guy from her work as hers. He’s new to the Boston area, so she’s doing it as a favor.”

  “I’m sorry. Sweet of you to ask, but you better think of someone else. I can’t imagine anything I want less, I’m afraid.” I smiled wryly, knowing India wasn’t offended.

  “All right. My yoga coach is never hard to convince.” She grinned in a way that said she’d been prepared for my bowing out.

  I gently touched her shoulder. “Thanks. And have fun.”

  “Oh, I will.” India pointed at her computer. “But no rest for the wicked. Tons of stuff to do before I can even plan what to wear to the party.”

  “I better get back to it as well.” I sauntered to my office and found myself thinking about Hayden and her work. Of the paintings I’d seen, several would fit in the Chicago gallery. I needed to see more, to choose from a wider selection, but remembering the multitude of paintings sitting in the old gym hall, I was certain we’d find the right ones. I prayed India’s and my sense of Hayden being in charge of her affairs and her life was correct. If Leyla was the one ultimately calling the shots, we were pretty much screwed.

  Chapter Nine

  As it turned out, Hayden had one major issue with cars. Not that she was afraid of riding in them or had to go through some sort of ritual to get in. It was worse than that. Hayden insisted on driving.

  “You have a driver’s license?” I blurted out before I edited myself.

  Hayden merely nodded. “Yes.” She opened the trunk and placed a bag, an easel, and a large canvas there. Dressed in jeans and a windbreaker over what looked like a white T-shirt, she looked lovely and casual.

  “I—I wasn’t aware of that.” I looked at my baby, my Mercedes SUV. I honestly loved this car and turned to Hayden to tell her it was out of the question. The words froze on the tip of my tongue at the sight of her sparkling eyes. Her full lips were slightly parted, and she regarded my car with a dreamy expression. “I have to ask, are you an experienced driver?”

  “I have only driven once a week during the last year, but before then I drove almost every day.”

  “You own a car?”

  “No.”

  “Then how?” This was confusing.

  “I drive Nana’s car. She has a white Lincoln Town Car from 2006. I used to chauffeur her where she needed to go, and when she was hospitalized, she told me to keep using it.” Hayden leaned forward and peered into the front seat. “You keep it tidy.”

  Not sure why Hayden sounded equal parts surprised and pleased, or if I should be insulted she pointed it out at all, I said, “Thank you.” I tried to think of how to refuse her without hurting her feelings but came up with zero. It began to dawn on me I was setting a daunting precedent for the future if I couldn’t say no to her regarding something this small. “All right. On one condition.”

  Hayden was already in the driver’s seat, adjusting it. So far I didn’t see any sign of paintbrushes. “Yes?”

  “You have to listen to my directions and still maneuver safely.” I had no way of knowing anything about her multi-tasking ability.

  Hayden looked surprised. “How else would I be able to drive there? I don’t know where you live.”

  “Good.” Dreading this experience, I sat down in the passenger seat, realizing this was the first time I’d ever sat there. Buckling up, I said a small prayer to whatever deity was ready to listen.

  Hayden started the car and checked all the mirrors, adjusting them meticulously. With soft hands and practiced ease, she pulled into traffic. I don’t know what I’d expected, but any misgivings on my part were clearly unnecessary—and I had to admit, prejudiced. I guided Hayden toward Beacon Hill and to the street where I’d spent a good deal of my childhood, teens, and all of my adult life the last twelve years. We didn’t speak much in the car, other than my giving her directions, since I didn’t want to distract her. She seemed fine with the moments of silence, which was such a big difference from the times I drove somewhere with India in the car. She either chatted nonstop or sang with the radio.

  Large maple trees, just starting to sprout leaves, lined the street. As it was a Sunday, some of my neighbors were out in their front yards getting them ready for spring and summer. I had a gardener who took care of the yard for me, as I had no time for such things and knew next to nothing about it. Still, it was cozy seeing people tend to their homes in the sun.

  “You can turn in there.” I pointed at my driveway. “That’s my house.”

  Hayden did as I said and parked the car. Stepping out, I noticed Hayden had managed to center the car perfectly. I wasn’t surprised.

  “Here we are then. My home. Used to be my grandfather’s.”

  “Your paternal or maternal grandfather?” Hayden asked and looked up the old brownstone house with its three floors and rooftop area.

  “My mother’s father.”

  “He died?”

  “Yes. Twelve years ago.”

  “Were you sad?”

  “Very.” Curious at the short and choppily asked questions, as I didn’t remember Hayden asking very many before, I studied her carefully. Was she pondering what might happen to her grandmother’s house whenever she passed away? Or how she’d mourn?

  “Want to go inside? I’ll give you a tour.” I motioned toward the heavy double oak door.

  “Yes.”

  Hayden walked up the flagstone walkway, and after I unlocked the door and switched off the alarm, she stood in my foyer and pivoted slowly. I knew it was an impressive sight with the massive marble staircase and tall ceilings.

  “Here. Let me take your jacket.”

  She let the jacket slip off, looking absentminded as she took everything in.

  “I had it restored to its original state.” I motioned at the stairs. “My grandfather had a lift installed the last two years of his life. It ran along the railing.”

  “Was he ill?”

  “Like your grandmother, he suffered a stroke. His left side was affected and he couldn’t manage the stairs.” This information piqued Hayden’s interest and she scrutinized them.

  “He lived in his home despite his condition?” Hayden walk
ed closer and stopped with a hand on the bannister. “I’ve wished so many times I could care for Nana.” She pushed her hand down into her jeans pocket and moved around something I figured was a small type of brush.

  “Looks like her stroke hit harder than my grandfather’s did,” I said, gently placing my hand on Hayden’s. It twitched underneath mine, and she gazed at our hands as if she’d discovered a mystical entity sitting on the polished wood. I moved my hand before she became too uncomfortable. “Want to tour the bottom floor first?”

  “Yes.”

  We walked into the main reception room, the area I mainly used whenever I was entertaining guests. I had kept my grandfather’s beautiful oriental rugs but had removed his carpet and redone the hardwood floors. The walls were off-white to display parts of my personal art collection.

  Hayden stopped so abruptly, I nearly walked right into her. Her eyes, wide and bright, took in the room and, mainly, the artwork. She walked slowly across the floor to the large Salvaggi above the couch. Kicking off her shoes, she climbed onto the cushions and stood close to the painting. She didn’t touch it but moved her hands in patterns as she examined it, as if she was following the painter’s brushstrokes. The motif, a Tuscan vineyard illuminated by a setting sun, was romantic but also one of my grandfather’s favorites. I had bought it for him after I brokered my first art deal at twenty-three.

  Hayden jumped down but ignored her shoes as she regarded the painting from across the room.

  “My granddad loved this. He was often in Italy as a young man. During World War Two, he was deployed to Sicily, and afterward, he stayed and hiked all through this devastated but beautiful country. He met his wife there, a British nurse. They spent their honeymoon in Tuscany before they returned to Boston. They went back every few years throughout their lives.”

  “And the painter?”

  “This is by a young man, Milo Salvaggi. It’s sad he didn’t survive to experience his fame. He got cancer two years after painting this.” It had broken my heart to learn of Milo’s rapidly progressing illness. He’d been destined for greatness but never lived to see what success his body of work up till then had reached.

  “He was very good. Do you have more by him?”

  “No. I was tempted to buy more, as all his pieces were amazing, but I didn’t think it was fair. His work should be divided up and shared. Be viewed in museums, which it is. I sometimes loan this one to a museum or a gallery. It’s rather funny, but I miss it when it’s gone.”

  “That’s not funny. On the contrary, since it makes you sad.” Frowning, Hayden looked at me with concern. “I wasn’t aware you could miss an inanimate object. I miss Nana every day, but she’s a person.”

  “Perhaps…” I stopped to think. “Perhaps this painting represents a little bit what I felt for my grandfather, and also the sadness about the artist dying so young.” I studied Hayden, who looked back and forth between the piece of art and me.

  “I see.” Her expression made me think she actually did.

  “If you were away from your paintings and brushes for longer than a few days, you’d miss them and what painting makes you feel and experience, right?”

  Hayden paled. “I’ve already experienced that. Many times, when I was younger.”

  I could’ve kicked myself. Of course she had. I just had to go and psychoanalyze her, didn’t I? “I’m sorry, Hayden.”

  “Why? You weren’t responsible.” She looked honestly nonplussed at my apology. Her color had returned already and she was curiously exploring the room. We viewed some of my other pieces of art, but she didn’t react to any of them with the same passionate examination as she’d done with Milo’s Tuscan vineyard.

  The kitchen coaxed out her faint smile. She stood in the center of the floor between the kitchen island and the breakfast nook and pivoted slowly. “I like it.” She pointed at the bay window. “You have a window seat. Nana has one too.”

  So this part of the house felt homey to her. This pleased me no end. I loved it too, even if I rarely cooked. Again, I saw myself sitting as a little girl at the table, eating waffles. Granddad used to make them, dressed in his apron with a big lobster on the front. “I sat on that window seat and read for hours.” I smiled at the old memories. “Mainly books about young girls and horses when I was twelve to fourteen. Did you go through a horse phase too?”

  “No.” Hayden shook her head. “I sometimes attempted to draw horses and other animals in my room. I spent a lot of time there. My nana says if she hadn’t gotten custody of me, I would still be there.” Her dark-gray eyes grew almost black. “After I went to live with Nana and Gramps, I could go wherever I wanted, and paint anything.”

  So Leyla’s idea about locking Hayden up and away from people was an old habit. Or method. Was she so ashamed of having a daughter with a psycho-psychiatric condition? I just didn’t get it. Granted, I had no way of knowing what Hayden had been like at that age and younger, but that still didn’t excuse breaking the law and locking someone in their room. “I’m relieved too. I can’t imagine what it might’ve been like for you if you hadn’t been allowed to develop your art. There’s only so much you can do from inside a room.”

  “I sketched what was on TV when I lived at my mother’s. It was…difficult to find the right perspective, the correct textures. When I came to stay with Nana, I touched everything in her house and outside. I smelled it. I tasted it too.”

  “Everything?” I wondered if she meant it literally.

  “No. A lot. When I put grass and dirt in my mouth, my Nana stopped me and said smelling it was enough. I agreed.”

  “Good thing you did.” I smiled at her, but inside I was appalled—not at the dirt-tasting, but at the implication of why the very young Hayden had done this. Had she not been outdoors at all before? Surely that wasn’t the case? I couldn’t bring myself to ask. Hayden would tell me the truth, but I wasn’t prepared to hear it. Not yet. I might react in a way that would land me in prison.

  “Oh, my. Where are my manners?” Eager to change the topic, I hurried to the fridge. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

  “Mineral water.” Hayden had turned to look at a small piece of artwork, when she stopped herself. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I pulled out two bottles and filled our glasses after adding some ice. “Here you are.”

  We kept strolling through the house, Hayden commenting and asking questions every now and then. The second floor held the four bedrooms and en suites, which didn’t seem to spike her curiosity. She looked at the artwork and only stopped with interest when we reached my bedroom. Scanning the room I’d decorated in light blue, gold-beige, and white, since I loved the New England style, she nodded as if approving. Those colors combined with dark wood furniture gave my eyes the rest they needed after a day of looking at colorful pieces of art.

  “Serene,” Hayden murmured, sounding dazed. “Like the beach. Sky over sand and water. Serene.”

  “Hayden?” Concerned at her tone, I reacted without thinking, putting my arm loosely around her waist.

  Hayden went rigid but didn’t withdraw. She turned within my light grasp, her eyes huge. “Greer?”

  “You all right? You sounded a little out of it.”

  “Out of what?”

  “You sounded a bit overcome.”

  “I’m not. I’m fine.” Her polite toothy smile appeared as an afterthought. “Thank you for asking.”

  Her learned politeness would have been discouraging if it wasn’t for the fact she was still accepting my arms halfway around her.

  “Good,” I said lightly and let go. “Now, I’ve saved the best for you.” I pointed upward. “Come on.” I nearly took her by the hand but thought better of it. I didn’t want to scare her off by being too forward. My inner words gave me pause and nearly made me trip on the first step on the stairs leading to my rooftop garden. Being too forward? With Hayden? I gave myself a mental kick at even having such thoughts. So unprofessional.


  Hayden’s reaction to my favorite place in the house—in the world, really—was worth everything. Her mouth fell open, and she simply stood among all the evergreen plants and the ones just starting to come up. The comfortable deck chairs, the fire pit, and the hot tub—nothing escaped her laser attention. I still waited for her to discover the best thing from her point of view. The moment she spotted it, I knew I’d done the right thing by bringing her here.

  “A studio?” Hayden whispered with reverence, her voice sounding fragile. “You have a studio?”

  “I do. Granddad built this for me when I was a teenager, thinking my painting might be good enough. It wasn’t, even if my eye for art is. I use it as storage during the winter for the deckchairs and so on. It’s empty, and my house cleaner just gave it a once-over. Want to take a look?”

  She gave me her familiar “stupid question” look. “Yes.”

  I opened the door for her, and we stepped into the small, but airy and bright studio. Designed like a 175-square-foot greenhouse, it had walls and a roof made of wood-framed glass. Granddad had made sure you could open half of the windowpanes, to avoid being virtually cooked in there in the summer. I’d even celebrated some fun teenage sleepovers up here, as my birthday is in July.

  “You like it?” I had to ask as her now-blank face startled me.

  “It’s a real studio. Better than the gym hall. Better than the conservatory at Nana’s. It’s up here, away from everything…like the sky!” Hayden wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed. Her eyes glistened with tears, and I think my next crazy idea began to take form right then. How could I deny her the chance to paint in a place nobody else used? I had to find a way for Hayden to do all her new work here. It was clear to me, judging from the look on her radiant face, that whatever she created here would be something new and amazing.

  Chapter Ten

  It took me a while to tear Hayden away from her new favorite place—my rooftop studio. She explored every windowpane, every board, and if I hadn’t interrupted her, I was pretty sure she would have dropped to her knees and examined the floor as well, tile by tile.