Our waiter had been hovering nearby, blatantly eavesdropping. When he approached the table with the tomatoes and oysters, I glared pointedly at him. He smiled broadly back at me, as if our “table tension” was giving him a contact high. His nosiness pissed me off, but his interruption bought me time to gather my wits. After weeks of talking myself out of messing around with Trip and the last week talking myself back into it, Sam and his revelations were particularly unwelcome. My mom was an addict, and I’d ridden that roller-coaster enough to see that Trip definitely needed to work the twelve steps with Sam. I glared at the waiter as he leisurely refilled Trip’s water glass.
“Enjoying the show?” I sneered. Sam’s eyebrows shot to his hairline at my snarky remark to the man. As the chastised waiter fled as if his pants were on fire, I turned both barrels on my table companion. “Tell me this… if Trip’s so unredeemable, why come to lunch with us?”
His near lavender eyes swept me with a frigid detachment. I saw a flicker of something…some twisted mournful…something. “So I could have this conversation with you. I wanted to spare you the trouble that follows Trip around. I guess I’m still my brother’s keeper, whether I want the job or not.”
I blinked in surprise, but his conflicted behavior made a hell of a lot more sense. He’d come here solely to warn me off. Sam’s handsome, angular features were set in a manner that suggested he took no pleasure in what he was about to say. I braced myself when he glanced around and leaned in closer to me.
“That hostess…Jen? She hooked up with Trip once. This was shortly after Trip’s wife left him, and he checked himself out of rehab. He called me and said he’d picked up some chick and was going out to this bonfire on Tybee Island and wanted to know if I’d like to come along. So I went. I wanted to be sure he wasn’t going to drink and drive again. Trip spent most of the party off in a back bedroom with Jen. But he got so trashed that he ended up in the E.R., and I had to drive her home. She sobbed the entire time. She even showed up at the hospital the next day to see him. And he doesn’t even remember her.”
As I processed what he’d told me, my eyes drifted to the view through the windows. I saw Trip across the street smoking. He leaned carelessly on a lamppost, bobbing his head in time to a street musician’s tune. His wide smile as he applauded along with the tourists contradicted Sam’s clinical description of him. I continued to observe Trip thoughtfully as he shook hands with the guitar player and dropped some cash in his open case.
“People are capable of change, Sam. Maybe he’s finally ready to clean up his act.” This hadn’t exactly been my experience, and I wasn’t sure if I said this to challenge Sam or to make myself feel better.
He heaved a sigh and tossed his napkin on the table. He glanced at me, then lifted his drink to his lips and muttered “Forgive my lack of optimism. I’d love to be wrong. But I very much doubt that I am.”
I found myself reexamining Sam as he pulled out his phone and scrolled through the screens. Except for the stubble and denim, he looked like a prep school darling. The epitome of “white collar”. How could he claim to be his brother’s keeper when he’d been gone for months and hadn’t seen him in such a long time? I wondered how much of his animosity toward Trip was about his brother’s past skeletons and how much was just old sibling rivalry bathed in the juice of sour grapes. I was just about to ask why he’d dropped out of law school when Trip reappeared and hastily took his seat.
“Oysters! Fantastic.” He smiled broadly and scooted his plate in my direction. “You know what they say about oysters-don’t ya, Angel?”
A silent spectator, I brooded over lunch as my brother sprinkled compliments all over Annabelle like unholy water. To my horror, she seemed to drink in his attention like a lost soul gulping down sand at a desert mirage. If anything, she seemed more into him than before our conversation. From the moment I saw Trip kiss her cheek, she was off limits. I vowed to wash my hands of the entire mess, but I had a wriggling feeling that doing so would be easier said than done.
First impressions are Trip’s specialty. He is a legend when it comes to making people fall in love with him, and if a competition existed for this talent, he’d flawlessly land the dismount. Unfortunately, his charm wasn’t a sustainable resource these days. I hoped for Annabelle’s sake he’d show her his true nature before she invested too much time in him and that his inevitable fuck-up wouldn’t leave permanent scars. Though my dream girl had turned out to be a delusional, know-it-all Yankee, she didn’t deserve to drown wearing Trip’s designer cement shoes.
As the waiter removed our plates, Annabelle turned to Trip. Determination shone in her dazzling eyes, and her full lips curved in an impish grin.
“Alright, I’ll do it.” A light, musical laugh erupted from her that nearly shattered me.
“Do what?” Trip wiped his mouth with his napkin, and I could tell by the lascivious twinkle in his eyes he had a good idea what she meant.
“I’ll pose for you.” When Trip chuckled devilishly, she held up her hands, blushing. “On one condition. I’m wearing my bra and panties. Take it or leave it.”
The image of her in a bra and panties just about made me spit my drink all over the table. Focused completely on each other, neither of my companions noticed. Trip let the silence hang in the air just long enough for dramatic effect. “Fair enough.”
I was racked with sudden indigestion.
I chose to blame the vodka tonic.
As the heinous luncheon came to a close, I tried to make a break for it, but Trip guilted me into coming along to his new place to help carry in his purchases. Tension constricted every muscle in my neck and shoulders caused partly by their incessant flirting as Annabelle drove us past lush Forsythe Park, skirting the edge of the Victorian District. I could tell by the subtle expressions Trip wore when he looked at her that he had a soft spot for Annie. Bad blood or not, he was my only brother, so this placed her immediately in the “off limits” category. Though by now it was obvious I wasn’t her type, I still found myself disappointed.
A block later, we pulled up alongside the curb of an immaculate Victorian. I couldn’t help but notice this address was still within stumbling distance of Violet’s place. My mood lifted a little. I covered a smirk with my hand, taking odd comfort in the fact that some things never changed.
As we entered Trip’s condo, I fought to contain my surprise. The home had been painstakingly remodeled with impressive crown molding, meticulously restored hardwoods, and modern light fixtures. As we passed by the kitchen, I noticed a new butcher-block island and stainless steel appliances. Other than scattered charcoal pencils, sketch pads, and other various artistic accoutrements, the place was tidy and lacked the frat house feel of his previous bachelor pads.
“This place is amazing,” Annabelle gasped, moving toward the ornate fireplace for a closer look at a painting of Trip’s daughter, Maisie. It was a fine piece, much more of a literal interpretation than his usual work and understandably deserved this place of prominence in his home.
Trip shrugged and looked pleased by her response. “I like it. Lots of natural light.”
I could feel him looking at me, as if he were expecting some sort of reaction. I refused to look in his direction.
“Any trouble with the neighbors?” It came out before I could stop myself. Though I knew my attitude would lead nowhere good, I found myself back in the role of the bitter nonbeliever. Annabelle’s fiery eyes bore into me.
“No, I own it. I live in the front half and use the back half as a studio and storage,” Trip responded, and at that, not only did I look at him, I gaped. He’d finally invested in real estate after a couple of years deluding himself that he’d reconcile with Violet. I was more astonished by this revelation than the sobriety chip, and doubt began to gnaw at me. It had been eons since I’d dared to hope my brother would climb out of the bottle. I honestly never thought we’d find ourselves having a sensible conversation about owning property and natural light. Wondering
why Mama hadn’t told me about Trip’s journey of self-help, I crossed to the windows and admired the impressive view.
As I puzzled over whether my brother was actually clean and sober, I heard Trip mutter something about being a bad host and leaving the room. I felt Annie next to me before I saw her out of the corner of my eye. Her sudden nearness had my body on high alert, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. She looked out onto Forsythe Park as if searching the tree line for something. I cleared my throat nervously, and she turned toward me.
“Your brother has a pretty impressive home.” Her delicate features contrasted with her bold eyes, which double-dared me to challenge her.
“Yes. He does,” I conceded.
“Looks like the home of a man with his shit together to me.” She muttered under her breath. Against my better judgment, I chuckled. Her smart mouth would have totally been attractive if her bite weren’t directed at me. She quickly shot me a look and then relaxed when she saw I was not laughing at her, but in appreciation of her. The delicious apple scent of her hair made it somehow hard for me to catch my breath. She locked eyes with me for a blissful moment, and I was able to take in her exquisite face unchallenged. I’d never stood so close to such flawlessness, and she stunned me silent. Physically, I couldn’t have found a more attractive package. I’m not sure how long I stared at her, but I could have happily continued to do so for days. But there was something else that pulled me to her. Underneath her undeniable surface beauty, I could just make out a lost little girl. As if she’d caught me reading her diary, Annabelle frowned and blinked rapidly like she was trying to clear her head. With visible effort, she coerced her perfect features into a harsh expression and turned back to the view of the park. Guilt gripped me, and I forced myself to look away. My brother liked this girl, really liked her. Then I remembered Violet, and that crushing weight of guilt vanished from my shoulders.
“Water?” Trip asked from behind us. I definitely needed something to quench my thirst, but I suspected a cold shower would have been considerably more helpful. We both took a bottle from him. The water was painfully cold and I couldn’t suppress a grin when Annie practically chugged hers.
“What the hell are you going to do with all these, Trip?” She asked as she ran her long fingers across a framed rubbing nearby.
“Hang them in the bathroom…or maybe on the ceiling over my bed.” His gold-medal caliber grin scored a perfect ten as she giggled that melodious laugh of hers.
“Classy,” she chirped. “I really want to see the studio. Do we get a tour? ”
Annabelle twirled a strand of her long, wheat blonde hair as she waited for a response. Her enthusiasm felt almost childlike and her clipped, rapid speech must have seemed exotic to Trip, who’d never spent time up north like I had. His face softened in response to her request, reminding me of the look he wore the morning he stole Violet from me. Maybe that explained my sudden bout of nausea.
Violet Duchamp was the only girl Trip and I ever fought over. And did we fight. He ended up with two black eyes, a broken nose and a bloody lip. I had to have six stitches and pissed blood for a week. Violet wouldn’t speak to either of us for a month. It’s funny because Trip and I usually attracted very different types of women. He usually lured the kind who chased after the “life of the party.” I usually nailed those who sought out the shy guy. I met Violet first, but unfortunately for everyone involved, Trip ended up being her type.
A seventh generation Savannahian, Violet had all the breeding expected of a Beaumont wife. She’d been sent off to boarding school as a child, a fact which probably accounted for some of the glaring differences between her and the Georgia Peaches we were so accustomed to. Violet knew all the rules in the blue-blood handbook and broke them with spectacular panache. Though her family was notorious for having more money than brains, she was definitely an exception. Yes, indeed. Violet had vision. Pursuing a degree in business, the night we met she informed me she intended to be a buyer for Saks Fifth Avenue. Three weeks later, I introduced her to Trip and that was the nail in the proverbial coffin of our romance.
Trip, who had just started grad school at the time, planned to do restoration work for museums after finishing school. He’d been a track star in high school and continued to compete in college; his exceptional talent and unearthly charisma made him very popular with the ladies. Vi, it seemed, was no exception, and he was instantly enamored with her. I’d never seen my brother so consumed by a woman, and it was clear to me from the moment I introduced them that I was seeing the beginning of something monumental. They were the talk of the town when they started dating: a perfect blend of good looks, old money, and lofty ambition. My parents adored Violet, especially Cosmo, who remarked many times that Vi reminded her of a younger version of herself. After a whirlwind romance, Trip bought her an obnoxiously large diamond, and they threw an opulent engagement party that was the talk of the Savannah society columns. Their future seemed to overflow with infinite promise.
Then everything went down with Daddy, and my brother cracked and splintered, only to later resurface as a crumpled version of his former self. Violet inexplicably married him anyhow. I suppose she believed, as all of us did, that once he’d had time to properly mourn, he’d eventually return to the exceptional Renaissance man he’d been before Daddy’s death. We were all idiots.
Violet was the last to realize that holding out hope for Trip was wasted energy. Watching her transform from a cheeky spitfire into a bitter whiskey widow was maddening for me. I pleaded with her to leave him. I know that sounds messed up, but I swear it wasn’t because I wanted her back. I’d moved on long before that. They’d had a child, and it was my firm position that I would be damned if Trip’s new brand of bullshit would destroy an innocent life. Thankfully, the same pioneer spirit that had attracted us both to Violet helped her to wriggle free from Trip’s issues which were tethered around her neck like an anchor.
Trip offered his hand to Annabelle and I felt the past and present collide around me. My chest ached when she took it, and I struggled to understand why. My response to their chemistry was downright annoying, and I presumed it was all just echoes of his betrayal with Vi. He led Annabelle out of the door, and I followed robotically. As I stepped back out into the heat, I was tempted to continue up the street away from my brother and our tumultuous past. But something told me to join them on the studio tour, so along I went.
As we crossed the threshold into the studio, the smell of paint thinner stirred my adrenaline, and I was instantly energized. As a kid, my brother’s gift for painting always blew me away. I could barely draw stick people, so watching my brother’s genius with a brush was like watching a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat. When we both still lived at home, I’d be in my room studying or in the rec room training at the speed bag, and the scent of fresh paint thinner would permeate the house, calling to me. I’d drop everything I was doing to see what amazing creation Trip was pulling out of the thin air. That was really how it seemed, like he had some exclusive third eye that allowed him to somehow see what belonged on that empty, creamy canvas.
I entered the studio in time to hear Annabelle gasp and immediately understood her reaction. Paintings overtook the room – dozens of them. They hung from the walls and leaned in bunches against the sparse furniture. Unlike the melancholy paintings that hung in my mother’s foyer, these were bright, vibrant pieces. Bold, colorful and brilliant. The kind he used to paint.
Old school Trip Beaumont.
Sober Trip.
Trip and Annie had moved on to the next room, but I was stuck as if the wood beneath my feet were quicksand. Goosebumps erupted on my arms, and I gaped as I slowly turned 360 degrees. Seeing those paintings was like glimpsing into the past through a peephole, and I was floored by my emotions as a lump rose in my throat. My eyes stung and when I finally inhaled, it was more like a heave. My physical response embarrassed me, and I felt juvenile…vulnerable. I was suddenly very glad they’d left me a
lone. A tiny part of me dared to wonder if Trip had finally managed to follow the trail of breadcrumbs out of the twisted forest he’d been lost in for so long.
When I was finally able to propel myself onward, I joined them in the back room which I took to be his work room. A man-sized canvas loomed in the center of it, facing away from me toward the widows. Annabelle stood to one side, examining its contents with wide-eyed wonder. Trip stood on the other side, arms folded with his thumb to his lips. His eyebrows were critically drawn together as he examined his own handiwork. Curiosity gripped me and I rushed around the mammoth easel to see what it held.
The subject of his painting was a narrow road canopied by draping oaks and Spanish moss. Shades of green dominated the large canvas. Though one side was only three-fourths completed, the detail was already phenomenal. As with the bounty of canvases in the first room, Trip had chosen dynamic shades of color. It didn’t escape me that the avenue that tunneled down the center of the painting stood conspicuously empty.
“So you’re going to paint me naked…onto this?” Annabelle’s genuine awe charmed me, and had I not been so disturbed by the location he’d chosen for his subject, I would’ve chuckled.
He shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’d like you to wear a white dress, if that’s alright.”
Trip seemed to be a million miles away, his voice reflecting a quiet thoughtfulness. As I beheld his Technicolor depiction of the avenue at Wormsloe Plantation, I was awestruck by its perfect detail and optimistic vibrancy. This picture was practically a snapshot of the spot where he proposed to Violet; however, the startling colors gave it an otherworldly feel, as if the viewer were the Mad Hatter peering through the looking glass. I felt a familiar weighty pressure in my chest, and my blossoming hope for Trip’s recovery blinked out of existence.
Crazy Love Page 4