A Storied Life

by Leigh Kramer

  “All right, all right,” I caved, yawning as I shuffled back upstairs.

  “You'd better not get back in bed,” Mom called after me. “I want to hear that shower running.”

  * * *

  Upon arriving at Gram's house, I made sure Mom and I stayed in separate rooms, lest I be put to work on some inane detail. Paige and I had a different aesthetic. If Mom had me working on aisle bows, the results might inspire a bridal meltdown. Instead, I cloistered myself with Gram upstairs. Scott and his groomsmen were ribbing each other a few rooms down the hall; Paige and her bridal party were on the opposite end of the house in the great room. Never the twain should meet until the altar.

  Gram opted to proudly bare her bruised leg by wearing a dress suit. It looked better than it did after the fall but the bruises needed more time to fade away completely. She didn’t seem to mind the way her home had been invaded the past week. Whether workers were installing the tent or flowers were being delivered, the house stayed abuzz with wedding plans.

  When the doorbell rang twenty minutes past noon, I shook off the last of my sleepiness and positively skipped down the stairs. Reagan and Gram were planning to spend time together before the ceremony began and he was earlier than expected. Butterflies circulated on the off-chance Gram would not approve, but I wasn't too concerned. Who wouldn't fall in love with Reagan?

  Not that I was in love with him. I didn’t think. We liked spending time together but it wasn’t serious. Definitely not “I love you” serious. Still, I couldn’t deny how happy I was to see him.

  I pulled him inside quickly and enveloped myself in his embrace. “You're finally here to save me from the madness,” I chirped.

  “You look gorgeous, Liv,” he said, holding me at a distance so he could take in my peacock blue cocktail dress. I flushed with pleasure before I curtsied and thanked him, forgetting for a moment why he was there.

  “And you look handsome yourself,” I said, recovering. Reagan wore a suit well and it was almost a shame he didn’t need to wear one more often. We didn’t take our eyes off of each other until a few bridesmaids ran through the foyer, ostensibly under the bride's order. Reagan ran his fingers through his hair and tugged the ends. I looked at him from the corner of my eyes.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked with an incredulous laugh. Mr. Confident nervous about meeting the family? I hadn't seen that coming.

  “Maybe a little,” he gave a self-deprecating smile. “After everything you've said about them, I don't know what to expect today.”

  “You'll be perfect. Don't even worry about it. Gram's been looking forward to this for weeks.” With that, I led him upstairs and made introductions. Before I could sit down, Gram banished me, saying she wanted to be alone with Reagan for a heart-to-heart. My eyes widened. Reagan nodded he'd be okay. I had no choice but to comply.

  When I checked on them an hour later, laughter rang from the room.

  “Olivia, you have managed to find a marvelous young man here,” Gram declared upon seeing me. I peered at her expression, hoping this was not the Southern charm speaking. She did seem to mean it.

  “I have, haven't I?” I replied, a glow spreading throughout my body until my smile matched. Then I remembered why I'd come back to the room. “Mom says it's time for you to get in line to be seated. She must think you walk at a snail's pace now.”

  “Very well then,” Gram replied. She braced her hands on both arms of the chair to gain leverage. Reagan jumped up from his chair to assist her, though she was fairly upright by that time. She beamed as she looked up at him. I could see her noting good manners, helps the elderly. Another unofficial test passed.

  Gram began walking toward the door, when I noticed something amiss.

  “Gram, aren't you forgetting something?” I looked pointedly at the cane she'd abandoned by her chair.

  “Honestly, Olivia, I do not require that device. Not when I have such a strapping gentleman to escort me.” I had to hand it to Gram for her effective portrayal of a damsel in distress. She might have been the strongest woman I knew but she could still play dirty.

  “I don't mind escorting you, Ella May, but it's not a bad idea to keep your cane handy,” Reagan replied. They were on first name basis already. This was a good sign.

  I flashed him a grateful smile. I didn't want to argue with Gram about the cane, or worse, tattle to Justin when he visited next week.

  “Fine, fine. Olivia, you bring the cane. Reagan, you can hold on to me. Tell me, how do you feel about upgrading on Frasier women?” Gram gave him the look that had captivated many a man in her lifetime. Reagan chuckled as he offered her his arm. I rolled my eyes, cane in hand. We filed down the stairs and out to the backyard.

  The guests sat beneath a white tent flanked by Gram's flower garden. We three hovered by the patio. I didn't know seating etiquette. Did Gram sit when Paige's grandparents were seated or had an exception been made to conserve Gram's energy? She looked like nothing would stop her but her energy faded easily. Ever since she'd fallen, she’d needed to take an extra nap. She refused to cut down on her usual activities but it was apparent she didn't have much left to give upon returning home.

  This afternoon, none of that mattered. Another grandson was getting married. Gram would be in her full glory. If she felt pain, she would ignore it. If she was tired, she'd push herself even harder. I didn't want to nag her, but I didn't want another late-night phone call about an accident either.

  Mom came tearing toward us. She apparently hadn't received the memo about the wedding planner coordinating this day. Before she could deliver orders, I introduced her to Reagan. Her eyes widened in shock, as if she'd forgotten that she'd be meeting my boyfriend.

  Boyfriend. I nearly tripped over the word. It was the first time I'd called him that. It sounded official and serious. It had weight when I wasn't sure there should be. There had been no relationship-defining moment. I hadn't brought a guy home to the family since high school and that particular instance had not gone well. I shook away memories best left in the past. Reagan was worlds above that boy, who probably deserved my family's poor treatment that fateful day.

  ‘It’s so nice to finally meet you, Reagan,” Mom said, all smiles and sincerity. “I was starting to think Olivia was making you up.”

  Thanks, Mom. I suppressed a frustrated sigh.

  “Meeting your daughter has been the best part of moving to Chicago. She’s a wonderful woman,” Reagan said, glancing at me and holding my gaze.

  No mother could resist this praise. Mom nodded with approval and I melted. I owed Walter for putting Reagan on my path.

  As the time for the ceremony drew nearer, I stood in the back of the tent with Reagan's hand in mine. I wouldn't sit down until Gram took her place. The sun shone at last. The outline of Paige's wedding dress was visible through the windowpane. The pink bridesmaid dresses swished about as they lined up. Music began and all the months of planning were put aside as we witnessed Scott and Paige say their vows.

  With Reagan beside me, my thoughts naturally slid toward wondering if our relationship would head down the aisle. Someday far, far away, if ever. I liked him, I did. But I didn't know what he saw in me and whether the burdens I carried would eventually drive him away. I couldn't foresee a happy ending but I couldn't imagine a dissolution either. It seemed I'd never learn from my mistakes.

  Then again, there was a first time for everything. Maybe Reagan would be my consolation prize for the road I presently walked with Gram. He would help me carry on once she died. I tore my attention back to the ceremony, as the pastor mentioned those who were not with us today. Dad's name interrupted my equilibrium. Another milestone missed, but not the last.

  At least Gram was still here. Lord willing, she'd live to celebrate her birthday in August. If I were to ask for the moon, I'd beg and plead for another round of holidays and birthdays and weddings. One more of everything, if you please. I couldn't reconcile the woman sitting in the front row with her awful prognosis.<
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  The pastor pronounced them man and wife and Scott kissed his bride to our applause.

  Reagan and I sat at a table with some of my cousins at the reception. We talked about the White Sox, of course, and my cousins got to know Reagan, asking about his artwork and what he thought about Chicago so far. They weren’t half bad when they wanted to be.

  If I was honest, the wedding turned out to be more fun than I expected, and not only because of my date. I could mostly leave the Frasiers as a collective. As individuals, however, I liked most of them and the wedding reminded me why.

  When the music started, I didn’t even have to ask Reagan to dance.

  “Only for you,” he said, holding his hand out for me to take. I glided into his arms and we moved to a slow song. I burrowed my face into the crook of his neck as he held me tight. Maybe there was hope for something more.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As soon as Reagan opened the door to his apartment, I launched myself at him. He'd asked me over to look at his new couch, which I thought was a pretext for staying in and letting the chips fall where they may. If I had anything to say about it, the chips would lead us straight to the bedroom.

  Reagan caught me in his arms and I wrapped my legs around his waist as we kissed. He pressed my back against the now closed front door. Months of foreplay meant I was primed for something more and this afternoon was the perfect time. After how well he’d done with my family at the wedding and all the big and little ways he proved himself to me in the weeks since, I was more than ready to take the next step. I wasn’t in the habit of leaving work early but my life was full of extenuating circumstances lately.

  Reagan broke the kiss and then gently lowered my legs to the ground. I stared up at him, panting.

  “A guy could get used to being greeted like that,” he said with a giant smile.

  “Keep playing your cards right, mister, and you will,” I answered. “I thought we could skip the tour of the couch for now and go straight to your room.” When I was ready for something, I was really ready.

  Reagan groaned. “You are so tempting right now.” He looked torn and I waited for him to make the right decision. Surely, new furniture could wait or could be incorporated into our amorous activities.

  Unfortunately, instead of exploring each other’s bodies, we were testing the limits of my patience and fears. The pretext for inviting me over was just that—a pretext. Reagan’s new couch wasn’t the real reason he’d invited me over because he knew I wouldn’t have otherwise come. He wanted me to paint and there was no talking him out of it. No matter how annoyed I was, I had to admit his stubbornness was hot.

  The blank canvas loomed before me, anchored by a wooden easel. The vaulted ceilings and bay windows in Reagan's apartment lent an open cheeriness to the room he'd designated as his workspace. I’d spent plenty of Sunday afternoons reading a book or catching up on paperwork in this room while Reagan painted. It was disconcerting to be the one in front of an easel and I hesitated. Unsure I could do this, I glanced at Reagan.

  “Go ahead,” he urged, standing to my side. His own canvas was already streaked with red and orange. “Don't think about it. Just paint.”

  “That's easy for you to say,” I muttered. I tried to gauge the space between the easel and the door. There might still be time to escape.

  Reagan set his brush down and covered my hand with his own. I leaned into him, hoping to absorb some of his creative confidence. He dipped my brush through the acrylic colors dotting the palette and traced a line through the canvas.

  I stared at the blur of blue, green, and red. Muddled together yet beautiful just the same. I thought back to years of art classes, people huddled together in a studio. We'd paint and muse and critique and encourage. The communal blessing of our work inspired us to keep creating.

  That was then, however. I hadn't painted in front of anyone in years. This canvas paralyzed me. Not because I didn't have ideas but because I was scared of what Reagan might think. I didn't want pity or fake praise. Or worse, scathing criticism.

  “Olivia,” Reagan said, turning me around to look at him. “You can do this. Aren't you the one who tells the kids at your workshops there's no right or wrong way to paint?”

  I glared at him. “Yes, but—”

  “No buts. Do you want to tell me what your hang up is?” I shook my head no. He shrugged in response. “Then, paint.” He firmly placed the paintbrush in my hand and drew it up to the canvas.

  I didn't know why Reagan insisted that I paint with him. He hadn't listened to my protests or excuses. If I'd known this was what he had in store for me, I never would have taken a half day from work. I sighed. Would it kill me to do this? No, I knew it wouldn't. Even so, I couldn't stop my heart from hammering or my insides from twisting.

  I stalled. “Why is this so important to you?”

  “Because it’s important to you. I want you to trust me with this. I want to see the look on your face as you’re painting.”

  “I can think of another expression you’d like to see.” My voice was laced with innuendo.

  Reagan looked torn for a moment before he shook his head. “I know what you’re trying to do and it’s not going to work. I already told you we’re painting first.”

  Damned man and his self-control.

  “That’s what you think,” I grumbled.

  “Trust me, Liv. It’ll be worth the wait.” His eyes glittered with promise and I nearly swooned before turning back to the easel.

  I closed my eyes for a second, then swirled the brush across the canvas. I sensed Reagan's nod of approval and then his absence as he returned to his own work.

  Now that paint had touched down, I surveyed the empty white spaces. If I was going to do this, then I would give myself over to the process. Without limitations, inspiration came to me. I added more paint to my brush and lost myself for a while.

  The room faded away, as did Reagan. A Ray LaMontagne song played in the background. With emotions swirling inside, I painted fear and freedom through color and brushstroke alone. It had been a while since I'd delved into more free form techniques. I was surprised to find I’d missed it, though I taught this to the workshop kids quite regularly. I guess it's true we should practice what we preach.

  I finally set my brush down and took a few steps back to survey my work. It couldn't have been more different than my typical portraits but I liked it.

  Reagan no longer stood by his easel and I looked around for him.

  He got up from a chair angled behind me and walked over. Anxiety returned as I realized he'd been watching me work. I couldn't guess as to how long.

  “Do you have any idea how beautiful you look when you paint?” He wrapped his arms around me and nestled me in his embrace as we both looked at my painting.

  “N-no,” I stammered, wanting to deny it but relishing the compliment just the same. My face flushed red with heat.

  “You concentrate so fully on what you're doing and the expression on your face is pure joy,” he continued. “I don't understand why you don't paint all the time. You're talented, Olivia.” He turned me around to face him and raised my face until I looked him in the eye. “You need to believe that.”

  I wanted to believe him. I did. He didn't understand the hornet's nest stirring beneath us. I struggled for words to distract him.

  I inched up on my toes to kiss him. A kiss could say so many things.

  As we broke apart, I stepped back. “Good thing I set my brush down first, otherwise you would have been my next canvas.” This was safer ground.

  “That sounds like a challenge,” he countered with a teasing glint in his eye. The conversation wasn't over but I felt relieved to move past it for now.

  “Oh, it's a promise, my friend.” A charge flew between us. We both ran for our respective brushes, thin and reedy though they may have been. A laughable Western started to take place in the room.

  I glanced down at my clothes. My favorite 7 For All Mankind jeans had
been a worthy splurge and I didn't want them ruined. I should have thought this through a little better. On the other hand, I didn't think it would take too much elbow grease to get acrylic paint off. Not that I intended to let Reagan get near enough to cause any damage. The downward glance cost me, however, as Reagan zagged a streak of blue on my bare arm.

  “That's for calling me your 'friend.' As if that's all we are. We both know you can't get enough of me,” he crowed.

  “Au contraire,” I parried, wielding my weapon and searching for a point of weakness. “It's the other way around.” I stabbed forward and landed a dot of red on his hand.

  I retreated behind an easel as he let out a cry of surprise. I giggled at the thought of two grown adults in a paint war. I could see Reagan loading his brush with more paint and then edging closer to me. I backed away from the easel, cursing myself for not putting myself between the easel and the door originally. He would literally paint me into a corner unless I thought of something quick.

  I glanced around the small room but nothing would save me from Reagan's approach. Stacks of boxes and art supplies stood between us. It looked hopeless. Unless I got him first.

  “You should choose your battles more wisely, young grasshopper,” Reagan admonished. I didn't trust his grin.

  “You are such a nerd,” I shot back, then thought better of it. After all, he had the paint. “Just not my clothes,” I pleaded. “Or my hair,” I added, as an afterthought. Let him think he had the best of me.

  I crouched amid stacks of boxes as he neared. There was just enough room to feint to Reagan's left. He was so confident of his win, he didn't think to use his body to block my escape. I struck my brush on the nape of his neck as I ran past, cheering my mark.

  “Truce,” I called, laughing, as I scampered into the kitchen to wash off.