by J. J. McAvoy
“No, it’s fine. Thank you so much,” she responded politely.
You would have thought she was the one asking for a favor.
“You said you’ve been trying to get in touch with me?”
My mother smiled sadly, looking between us. “Yes. I never realized we would be connected like this.”
“My mother is the chairwoman at the hospital, and was wondering if you could paint a mural,” I said, trying to speed things up.
“A mural?”
“I know you’re busy, but if you could consider it...you have no idea how much your work means to me. Eli doesn’t really understand art, so he thought I was crazy for buying your Whispers of the East piece. It brought me to tears.”
“That’s why he called me Con Artist.” She laughed.
My mother shifted her gaze to me. “Con artist?”
She just had to bring that up. Saying nothing, I drank my coffee.
“I can’t believe you bought that.” She sat up straighter. “I was shocked when it sold, I really didn’t think anyone would understand it but me.”
“I read that you drew it after the death of your grandparents? You said it hurt to breathe for a while. I saw the date; my husband actually died a week after that, and looking at it, I understood.”
For a brief second, I saw an expression on my mother's face I hadn’t seen in over two decades…since my father died. She had always done her best to stay upbeat and happy around us. Growing up, I often wondered how she could get on so well with her life, and now it seemed like that was not the case at all.
Guinevere shifted in her seat, gripping the cappuccino. “My grandparents meant more than I could put into words. Painting that was really therapeutic for me. I’m so happy it’s found a good home. As for the mural, I will talk to my agent, and I will have to look at the space, but I would be more than happy to do it, Mrs. Davenport.”
“Truly?” My mother smiled and took her hand. “Thank you. Eli can show you the space whenever you are free.”
“What?”
Guinevere kicked my foot under the table. “Great, I’m sure we will work out a time.”
“I have to run to a meeting, but please have your people contact me on the logistics.” She stood, as did I, pulling back her chair. “Oh no, please finish your coffee, I will see you all later. Oh, and Eli, call your brother.”
“Yes, Mother.”
She waved, already on her phone. Her driver appeared at the door, holding it open for her and giving me a short nod before leading her out.
When she was gone, Guinevere fell back onto her seat and took a deep breath. Her posture completely changed, and she placed her elbows on the table.
“Why were you so nervous?” I asked.
“I always get nervous around parents, or anyone over the age of 50, really. I don’t know, I always want them to like me.”
I fought back a laugh. “Why?”
“Do you want to be the person hated by old people?”
I wasn’t even sure what to say to that, other than, “You are an odd one, Guinevere Poe.”
“Please, just call me Gwen, and do you want this? I’m allergic to coffee.”
You’re what?
“Why did you take it?”
“Your mother bought it for me, so I didn’t want to be rude.”
“Guinevere, I’m sure if you told her you couldn’t have coffee, she wouldn’t have been offended. How bad of an allergy is it?”
“I just can’t digest it and drinking it gives me a small headache sometimes or my face swells. But it’s no big deal. And just Gwen.”
But it’s no big deal?
“No,” I said, leaving a bill on the table and throwing the coffee in the trash as she followed me onto the street, her heels clicking as she caught up to me.
“Why won’t you call me Gwen?”
“Three reasons,” I answered as I walked to the corner.
“Which are?”
“One: calling you Guinevere seems to seriously bother you.” I smirked.
She smacked my shoulder as we walked across when the light changed.
“Don’t you want to know the other two?”
“I already do. You're an ass, and you’re an ass.”
Ignoring her, I continued. “Second: calling you by a nickname would mean we have a closer relationship than we do. Third: if I did, you might just fall for me, and I wouldn’t want to break your heart.”
She paused once we reached the opposite sidewalk, looked me up and down, and laughed. “Ha! That would be the day.”
“What do you mean, ‘ha’?”
“I mean what it sounds like. I mean maybe, from a distance, if I squint and you aren’t speaking, you might look attractive. But other than that, I don’t see it.”
“Yes, because you are definitely a catch, especially with the drool pouring out of your mouth this morning.”
Her eyes widened. “I do not drool!”
“I was there, and you do. Even your dog didn’t have that much saliva coming out of his mouth.” It hadn’t been that bad, but seeing the horror creep onto her face was just so amusing. She was really easy to bother.
“You’re just a modern day Prince Charming, you know that?” she snapped.
“I get that a lot…” My voice drifted off when I saw her photo hanging in the gallery across the street. Guinevere Poe: Heroes, Rebels, and Thieves, read the sign under her name.
“Wow, it’s up. With everything else, I almost forgot about this,” she whispered, moving to the curb and gazing up at herself in the windows. “Can you believe that? I spent a year working on this, and because of a guy, I almost forgot.”
“I’ll be sure to check it out when it opens next week.”
She turned to me. “Don’t be nice, it’s weird. It’s all right, I know this isn’t your thing.”
“No, I want to know what my mother is spending her money on, and if it’s good enough to be in my hospital.”
Her eyebrow twitched.
“What? You told me not to be nice.”
“Why don’t you see it now? Unless you have someone else’s ego to go trample on.”
“I can’t go back to work until tomorrow, so lead the way.” I stepped out onto the street. In all honesty, I wanted to understand why my mother felt so attached to Guinevere's work. Even after finding out who Guinevere really was, she still couldn't stop raving about her art.
That was the only reason I was going.
Guinevere
Even though I knew he knew nothing about art, I was still nervous. I was always nervous when people viewed my work. My art wasn’t just for me, but a part of me. Every time I had it on display, I felt like a spotlight was on my soul for everyone to see. If they disliked it, in a way, it was like they disliked me, too.
“Welcome, Lady Guinevere. I was not expecting you.” Mr. D’Amour met us at the entrance. He was a short, tan-skinned old man from Le Mans, France, with a hunched back and wrinkles as deep as the Grand Canyon. In his hand was an old wooden cane. He owned the gallery, along with a few others around the world. He had been one of my very first supporters.
He was like a mentor to me, and the only other person who refused to call me Gwen. Hugging him, I said, “I just stopped by to show this place to a critic of mine.”
“A critic?” he repeated when I let go.
I moved aside so he could see Eli, who stood with hands behind his back, gazing up at the changing photos on the ceiling of people from all races and walks of life weaving, giving peace signs, or thumbs up.
“Ah,” he groaned when I elbowed him in the ribs to get his attention.
“Eli, Mr. D’Amour. Mr. D’Amour, Eli Davenport.”
“Only a man with a defective heart would be a critic of Lady Guinevere’s art,” Mr. D’Amour boasted for me.
I nodded in agreement.
Eli’s blue-green eyes seemed to shine as a smirk graced his lips. “Lady Guinevere? You two seem quite close, sir. Are you sure you aren
’t just a tad bit biased?”
“Let’s see if you still feel that way once you go through it all,” Mr. D’Amour countered as an employee came up to get his attention. “Please feel free to take as long as you like. Keep in mind, they are still putting some pieces up.”
“Thank you!” I waved to him as he walked off.
“You have some very passionate fans. Are you sure someone won't stone me if I don’t like something?” He had already started walking.
“Just don’t dislike anything, then.”
“That’s a tall order. Well then, Lady Guinevere,” he mocked. “Please enlighten me as to what I have apparently been blind to.”
Rolling my eyes, I started at the beginning of the gallery. It was the largest space my work had been in to date. The ceilings were low and arched, which worked great for the photos projected on them. All the lights were dimmed slightly, except for the ones on my paintings. The floor was pure black, and so sleek I could see my reflection. Before patrons reached the first piece, they were offered wireless headphones to use as they walked around.
“Hmm…” He took a step back, stroking his chin when we reached my first painting.
I grabbed one of the headsets and placed it over his ears. “Stop trying to understand it and just see it…silently, if you can.” Jeez, he is a pain in my ass.
Eli
There was a long silence before the music started. For a few moments it was as if I was deaf; I couldn’t even hear myself. Slowly, the soft melody drifted into my ears.
She took my hand.
My eyes immediately looked to our joined hands.
Rolling her eyes, she let go, pointing for me to move to the next painting.
When I did, I noticed the volume increased, and the notes changed. Again, I glanced at her.
She just nodded like she could read my mind. The music changed depending on what I was looking at.
This is pretty cool. The thought ran through my head before I could stop myself. From the corner of my eye, I could see her grinning, and I tried to regain my composure, walking slowly to the next piece, stopping and moving backward just to check if the music would change back immediately. To my surprise, it did.
She smacked my arm and, walking behind me, forced my head to face the painting.
Giving in, I focused. I wasn’t sure how to describe the music for the next image, other than tragic. The painting was massive, almost taking up the whole wall. It was of red, gold, and orange swirls, with faceless figures dancing around them. Noticing the lighting change, I glanced up to the arched ceiling, upon which was projected a close-up photo of a firefighter battling a burning bus, sweat dripping down his face as he gripped the hose in his hands. I felt like I stared at the photo for hours before my eyes finally fell back to the painting again. I realized those weren't just swirls, but flames, and the faceless figures weren’t dancing, they were trapped. My chest felt heavy, and I didn’t want to look anymore.
With my next step, the music changed to what seemed like gunshots or firecrackers. This time, the painting was much clearer, depicting a riot in the street between police and civilians. Things were being thrown, and the scene looked like an all-out war was about to take place. When I looked up, this time the photo on the ceiling was of two teens in the midst of the chaos, kissing against a car.
Make love, not war. I smiled, moving on to the next painting.
The music turned to laughter, and the painting was of an old man holding up a bat in front of a toppled ice cream cart, the contents spilling out onto the ground. Above me, the photo showed three young boys, no older than seven, their hands filled with ice cream and the biggest grins on their faces as they ran away.
Taking a few steps back, I tried to view all three paintings at the same time, the music blending the tragedy, gunshots, and laughter together.
“Heroes, Rebels, and Thieves,” I said out loud, understanding the transition among them. I realized the whole gallery must have been arranged in sets of threes.
Once I understood how it all worked, I went on. It felt like the space was sucking me in, and I was too curious to stop myself. I wasn’t sure how long I spent on each photo or painting. I couldn’t deny that each made me feel something, even when I didn’t want to. She was able to capture human emotion on extreme levels. One moment you were in pain, and the next you were laughing—all in the span of one footstep.
By the time we reached the end, not only had we spent two hours there, I was emotionally drained…something I hadn’t been since my wedding day.
“Well?” she asked me, taking off the headphones. “Am I still a con artist?”
She was something, I just didn’t have a name for it yet. “It was…better than I expected, I guess. You're no Jackson Pollock, but it’s decent.”
I only knew that artist's name because I had seen it in an old textbook. I wasn’t sure what else to say though, without giving her a big head. She was hard enough to deal with as it was.
She grinned, giving herself a pat on the back.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes.
“Two compliments in one day from Dr. Davenport. I can die happy—”
“When else did I compliment you?” I tried to remember.
She twirled around, her heels now in her hand. “You said I looked nice.”
“Obviously I’m sleep deprived,” I muttered under my breath. I didn't like that smile on her face.
“Okay, sure… Anyway, thank you for viewing the whole thing.”
“He enjoyed it?” the old man asked, his cane clicking against the ground as he approached.
“He did, but his pride won’t let him admit I’m amazing,” she answered.
Oh god. “Aren’t you supposed to be humble?”
“I’ll work on it.”
“If you don’t mind, can I steal her away now?” Mr. D’Amour cut in.
I nodded. “Please do, I need a break. I’ll see you.” I waved, heading toward the exit. Only when the summer breeze hit my face did I think back on what I'd just done.
I’ll see you? Waving? When had we advanced to doing that? I could hardly believe I had spent two hours alone with her, on top of the time we had already spent together.
Apparently we were friends now.
Guinevere
Waving back as Eli left, Mr. D’Amour wrapped his hand around mine, walking slowly with me through the rest of the gallery that had not yet been set up.
“This is your best work yet, Lady Guinevere.” He stopped in front of the blank wall, watching as his crew lifted my painting gently, almost like it was a child. He looked grateful for the amount of care they took with it.
“You always say that, Mr. D’Amour.” I smiled.
“Of course. If I didn’t say it, that would mean you are getting worse. That is one of the goals for an artist, to make each work better than the last.”
“I’m not sure if I try to make each work better.” Some days it all looked like an absolute mess with no rhyme or reason behind it.
“Are you all right?”
“Huh?” I glanced back down at him. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
He frowned, stroking his beard. “I said, are you all right? I heard about the end of your engagement, Guinevere, and have not seen you since then. So once again, my dear, are you all right?”
How many people have heard about it? I tried to smile, but for some reason I couldn’t fake it with him, and I couldn’t handle looking at his face either. I just stared at the wall as I made us keep walking. “I’m sorry for disappearing while you were setting all of this up. I…I forgot. The only reason I came to the city was my art. When I first got here, it was all I cared about, all I wanted. And now I’m opening another gallery, and it’s so beautiful. I feel I’ve come so far, and yet for some reason, I can’t feel the way I dreamt I would. I want to be completely over everything that happened and never think about it again. I don’t want it to affect me. When do you think that will happen?”
&nbs
p; “Your heart broke, Guinevere. There is no way to fast-forward or avoid the pain. You must accept that first before you can heal. You and your art will be better for it. If you don’t believe me, there are a billion songs all about it.”
I laughed. He was right, because the more I thought about the last few weeks, the more I realized I was able to laugh.
I had forgotten that just because your heart breaks doesn’t mean the world comes to an end. I wasn’t better. I didn’t think I would be better for a while, but I wasn’t horrible either, which made me sort of proud.
Chapter Six
Baptism By Fire
Eli
“Look to your right,” I told the little girl with a bright pink bow tied in her hair as she sat in front of me. She wasn’t sure which way I meant, so I nodded my head to her right.
Grinning, she nodded, her brown eyes shifting.
“Now look to your left. Okay, thank you Molly. You have pretty eyes.”
“I get them from my mommy,” she replied happily.
I would have called her father a lucky man, but he only seemed more depressed at her words. “My interns here will draw some blood from you while I talk to your dad, okay? If it hurts, tell me, and I’ll make sure they go back to school.”
“Wait, what?” one of the interns whispered behind me.
I nodded to her father to follow me outside.
“Is she all right?” he asked as soon as I closed the door.
“Mr. Wesley, how long has Molly’s eye been twitching like that?”
“I’m not sure. I might have noticed it a week or two ago? It was only after she rubbed it, and not often, so I just thought it was an infection or something.”
“Has she been sick? Vomiting at all, or complaining about headaches?”
He nodded. “She just got over the flu last week. Dr. Davenport, what is it? We only came in for her shots.”