Turning on the Tide

by Jenna Rae

  “Thanks for your help with that, Kaylee. And for telling me about Caltech.”

  “Whatever.” But she was smiling as she headed for her room.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Why did we do this again?”

  “Because I have to make an appearance, and Phil wouldn’t come, and I need you,” Marco replied, his wide, fake smile covering what she knew to be a bad headache.

  “Sorry. It’s just that you don’t seem to be enjoying yourself. Is everything okay?”

  He gave her a look. “Listen, sweetie, this is as much a part of my job as painting.”

  “I’m not complaining. I’m worried about you. You look like you’re in pain.”

  “You don’t exactly look like you’re ready to do somersaults yourself.”

  “Ouch,” Lola raised an eyebrow.

  “I know, I’m sorry. But you and Del both look like hell, and—”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “But your bag,” Marco ran a finger down the strap of her new purse.

  “Isn’t it lovely?”

  “It really is. I’ve been meaning to mention it. Did you actually spring for an honest-to-goodness designer handbag from a real, live retail establishment?” He faked a heart attack, and she laughed. “Good for you. Now we just need to get you a wardrobe to go with it.”

  Lola rolled her eyes. “This was scary enough.”

  “Scary, how?”

  Suddenly, Lola was fighting tears.

  “I’m sorry.” She turned away. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

  Marco shook his head. “Talk to me. Please?”

  “I hid the receipt.” Lola rolled her eyes and wiped at them with her sleeves. “I didn’t want Del to find out how much I spent. Who does that?”

  “Oh, God, honey, everybody!”

  “That’s not true, is it? That can’t be healthy.”

  Someone came up and hugged Marco, ignoring Lola, and she waited until he’d managed to extricate himself. She was going to have to do a better job of masking her loneliness and worry over Sterling and Del and Janet and everything. If she let him see how anxious she was, he’d probably go to Del and start that whole business up all over again. She couldn’t let that happen. Why had she told him about the purse? She was ashamed, and she could still feel the receipt, tucked deep into her wallet so Del wouldn’t find it. She felt like a sneaky child, hiding the wrapper from a stolen piece of candy.

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  Did I say that out loud? Lola reddened again. She felt like she was held together by the thinnest veneer of good manners and that, underneath, she was a crumpled mess of wet paper, too ruined to be worth anything.

  “What on earth are you thinking about? You have the strangest look on your face.”

  “I’m just proud of you!” She beamed at him. “Painting isn’t the hard part. This is, isn’t it? You’re a people person, but this is torture for you anyway. You do it because you have to.”

  “Well, you know.” Marco shrugged. “We all do things we don’t want to. It’s not that I don’t like seeing everyone. It’s just—

  They were interrupted again, this time by a man who wanted to show Marco a particular painting. Marco shot her an apologetic glance, which she mirrored, unwilling to tag along as the dealer dragged Marco through the throng crowding the gallery. Lola searched mindlessly for the fire code bulletin, the sign specifying how many people could safely occupy the gallery. Whatever that number was, she thought, scanning the crowd, this bunch was easily twice that.

  Everyone around Lola was making smart-sounding comments about a suite of off-putting paintings that looked to Lola more like the product of a demented kindergarten back-to-school night than art. Lola was the only person not wearing black, not wearing expensive shoes and not sporting a carefully casual hairstyle. Marco seemed to know everyone, and everyone seemed to know him. In the ninety-plus minutes since they’d arrived, Lola had been ignored by dozens of people who’d hugged, kissed and fussed over Marco. She looked over and saw him rubbing his temple with an absent hand while a petite, effusive woman laughed loudly in his face and her companion, a wildly gesticulating man in a black fedora, talked at him with an excess of enthusiasm and a mouthful of what looked like cream cheese and red peppers.

  “I know what you’re thinking, girlie. What a bunch of ridiculous, self-important art scene phonies!”

  The voice came from behind Lola, and she turned to see whose it was. A muscular man with a shaved head and large-framed eyeglasses waved his champagne glass at Lola.

  “Am I wrong?”

  Lola shrugged.

  “You don’t have to answer, your face already did. I get it. To an outsider it all looks very fake. But it’s no different than making deals on the golf course or at a titty bar. Can you see a difference?”

  “I don’t know enough about business or the art world to say.”

  “Cop-out.” The man narrowed his eyes. “I guess you’re just another phony, you’re just not very good at it.”

  Lola wasn’t sure how to respond to that either. She turned and tried to make eye contact with Marco, but he was being hugged by yet another overdressed matron in a very revealing, very little black dress.

  “Can you think of a single reason why this idiot has a show and Marco doesn’t?”

  “What?”

  “Can you?”

  “I don’t know.” Lola wasn’t sure what to say to this polished stranger, whose too-wide brown eyes were now fixed on her face. He was shiny with sweat and fairly vibrating with tension. His body odor hit her, and she fought the urge to cover her nose. It was strange, that bad smell coming from someone in such clearly expensive clothes. His designer suit was obviously custom-tailored, and he wore a watch that probably cost six figures.

  “Oh, come on, look at this garbage!” The man waved his glass again, at what was labeled a landscape. All she could see was a pink and yellow blob in a field of gray spatters. “What do you see? Huh?”

  “Well,” Lola started to speak but was interrupted.

  “That thing’s a nightmare! Jordon’s an idiot, but at least he knows how to play the game. Kiss the right asses, say the right things. Anyone with any sense gets it. But not your friend and mine—yes, I saw you come in with him. I thought maybe he’d grown a head on his shoulders, coming here. Thought maybe he was ready to play nice. But no, he’s still the same old Marco, thinks he gets to do whatever he wants. Ignores me. Me!” The man’s voice carried, and he’d dribbled some of his champagne on Lola’s arm.

  “Uh. Please excuse me, I need some air.”

  But the man grabbed her arm. His reddened eyes searched hers, and Lola was startled to realize that he’d pulled her up onto her toes and close enough that she could feel his body heat. He was a good six or seven inches taller than she, and she was looking up into his face. She was frozen with surprise and discomfort. She tried to ease away, but the man’s grip on her arm tightened.

  “Marco’s my friend,” she blurted.

  “Tell your friend he’s a fool. This could have been his night. Could have been, you understand? But he fucked with Ray Stowe, and I don’t take that shit from anybody. This is the price he pays until he’s ready to crawl on his fucking hands and knees like my goddamn prodigal son. Got it?”

  Lola nodded. She swallowed bile and kept nodding until he nodded back. He released her so suddenly Lola almost lost her balance, and she rubbed her arm where his fingers had dug into her skin.

  Ray Stowe stalked off into the crowd, and Lola searched for Marco. He wasn’t in any of the knots of people, and she eyeballed the various anterooms and exits.

  “Tag, you’re it,” Lola said, when she finally found him in the stairwell that led to the fire exit. He sat with his head hanging between his knees, and she tucked in next to him, rubbing his head gently. “I don’t think I much like your friend, Marco, and I’m not sure he’s really your friend, but he asked me to give you a message.”

 
“What friend, what message?”

  “He said this could have been your night, except you made him mad, something like that. His name was Ray, Ray Stowe.”

  “Oh, God.” Marco grabbed her arm, the same one the other man had. He hauled her to her feet and hustled her down the stairs. “Come on. Now!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Later. Hurry, come on,” he sprinted toward the back exit, dragging her along with him. “We have to go!”

  Marco was really running now, and Lola had no choice but to keep up with him as he half-led, half-dragged her down an alley. Their footsteps seemed to echo in the relative quiet here, away from the music and the laughter and the voices getting farther and farther behind them. It was getting darker, and the alley seemed to be narrowing, when suddenly they were out of the dark alley and on what seemed to be a side street. Marco didn’t slow down, though. He seemed to know where he was going, and Lola simply followed him, trying not to fall and trying not to breathe too loudly.

  “In here,” Marco ducked into a doorway and pulled her in with him, shoving her against a metal security door and leaning against her. He was sideways, they both were, and he was watching the street. She couldn’t see anything over his shoulders, and the metal of the gate was digging into her hip and shoulder, but she said nothing. He’s trying to protect me, even though he’s scared, she thought, and she finally let out the silent tears that had been building in her since the strange man had grabbed her arm. Marco was shaking, and she tried to somehow reassure him, but he seemed too keyed up to notice her.

  They’d been in the doorway only a minute when someone trotted past them. After another endless minute, Marco eased forward. He gestured at her to be quiet and ducked his head out. He grabbed her hand again and pulled her along the quiet street, keeping near the buildings and watching, it seemed to Lola, in every direction at once. After several minutes, they started seeing more cars and more people and lights, and Lola felt Marco tense up again. They were near Market Street, and Marco quickened his pace as they got closer to it. A bus was just pulling up near the intersection, and Marco pulled her into the line.

  She didn’t ask any questions until they had been on the bus for a few minutes. They’d been able to get seats together, near the back, and she leaned in close. Marco’s eyes darted around, trying to see every pedestrian.

  “We’re going the wrong way.”

  “I know. We’ll get off soon.”

  “Who—”

  “Not here.” He eyed the other passengers as though they might be spies or something, and Lola bit her lip. He seemed fragile, suddenly, and Lola shivered with a chill born of unease.

  She remembered a family of paper dolls she made for herself when she was a child, too young for school. She was able to hide them from everyone because they were so small, and she dreamed up dozens of adventures for them. One day, she thought they could have an adventure in a boat, and she made a little paper boat for them. Of course, they sank into the murky water of a mud puddle immediately. She pulled them out and smoothed them. The paper children survived the initial bath, but neither parent. It was important for reasons she didn’t understand to save those children, but only one survived. Lola held onto that little paper doll for days, trying to think of ways to save the tiny, sodden scrap.

  She experimented with squares of paper, wetting them and then trying various methods of strengthening the fibers. Nothing she did worked. One day she took the paper doll and laid her on the sidewalk. The paper was wavy and curled. It was discolored and twisted. The paper doll was grotesque, a mockery of itself. Lola let the wind take the now useless thing and carry it away.

  “Once they get wet, they’re never the same. When bad things happen to us, they change us. Maybe we can never get changed back. Maybe we’re just ruined.” Her voice sounded strange. She imagined a paper throat, curled up and unable to make a proper sound. She absently stroked the side of her neck, then caught herself and dropped her hand. Marco grabbed her wrist and pulled, and they were off the bus and into a taxi before Lola could catch her breath.

  “Here?”

  Marco shook his head and sat back. He seemed more tired than Lola had ever seen him. By the time they were on Eighteenth, Lola was shaking with adrenaline and cold. She started to head over to Marco’s, but he shook his head. His face was still grim and set, and Lola let him lead her to her own house with some apprehension. Whatever he was going to tell her, it was bad, and she wasn’t sure how much more bad she could handle.

  It was ten minutes later that they sat on the living room couch not sipping coffee and not nibbling cookies.

  “Lola, I’m so sorry.”

  “No—”

  “I should have told you about Ray.”

  She was silent, afraid to say anything that would make him even more hesitant than he already was.

  “Oh, God.” He put down his cup and hugged himself. “Okay.” He grimaced. “It’s stupid. I feel so incredibly stupid. It’s humiliating.”

  She took his hand and squeezed it. Again, she had the feeling that saying anything at all would stop the trickle of words, maybe forever.

  “I met Ray about three years ago. Phil—you know how he is—he’ll go to openings and shows and parties if I beg him to, but after twenty minutes, he’s ready to leave. Well, I don’t have that option, not if I want to make the right contacts.”

  Lola nodded.

  “I meet Ray at a reception at my friend Becky’s very fancy place in Hillsborough, down on the peninsula. I have to go by myself, of course. Anyway, this guy comes up to me, seems nice. I don’t know how I was so stupid. I thought he was a really nice guy. He’s really rich, knows a lot of influential folks in the art world, all of that. But I didn’t know all that. I just thought he was a nice friend of Becky’s. We started talking about tennis, Becky told him I was looking for a singles partner, and we set it up. We play, he’s pretty good for such a big guy, and all is well. We don’t really hang out, you know, we just play. One day he asks me to score some coke for him. I don’t know why he thought I was the person to ask about drugs, but he gets pissed when I tell him I’m not that guy. He starts hollering about how he can make or break my career, he’s a huge big shot in the art world, all this stuff. Well, by this time, I knew he was all that, but I didn’t have any coke, and I wasn’t about to go trolling for it for this freak.”

  “But he didn’t believe you?”

  “I don’t know what he believed, honestly. Maybe he thought I was holding out on him, maybe he was worried I’d tell people about it and embarrass him.”

  “Weird.”

  “He kept telling me how important he is, how he can make or break me, and I’m like, ‘Yes, okay, wow,’ you know? ‘That’s great, but I still don’t have any blow.’ What else should I say? He gets pissed, shoves me, screams at me, says he’ll ruin me.”

  “Crazy,” Lola replied without thinking. “Scary.”

  Marco nodded. “The thing is, I used coke a couple times when I was young, maybe Ray heard about it, and I was too embarrassed to tell Phil that part. Anyway, pretty soon, Ray’s texting me, emailing me, calling me, and it’s getting weird, and I don’t know what to do. Del comes up to me one day—God, I love that woman—and she asks me what the hell is wrong with me. Just like that. I knew Del a little. I mean, we’re neighbors. Yeah, we’d met, waved, said hi. Then she just walks up to me and demands an answer, just like that.”

  Lola smiled. “That does sound like Del.”

  “I told her about Ray. I didn’t plan to, it just came out.” Marco shrugged. “I don’t know what she did, exactly, but she said if he ever showed up or texted me or whatever, call her right then. I only saw Ray once after that, at a party, and he started to walk over, but I pulled out my phone. He’s, like, bulldozing through the mob right at me, and I pull out my phone, and he walks away, just like that.”

  “Until tonight.”

  “I’m sorry you got pulled into this.”

  “He w
as scary. He said you made him mad, and that’s why you couldn’t have a show. Is he really powerful enough to sabotage your career?”

  Marco shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

  “I’m going to tell Del and she may want to talk to you about it. Is that okay?”

  Lola nodded but all the blood drained from her face. She felt it. Her body was cold and stiff.

  “What happened between you two?”

  She shrugged, tried to speak, couldn’t. She shrugged again.

  “Never mind,” Marco said, his voice low and thick. “I know what happened.”

  She looked at him through tears.

  “Janet.”

  Lola hesitated. What she should say was that it wasn’t Janet. It was some fundamental misunderstanding or imbalance of power or miscommunication. It was because they moved in together before they were even a couple. It was Lola’s never managing to work through her sexual hang-ups. It was a thousand things wrong before Janet returned, all of which centered on Lola’s fundamental defectiveness. But she didn’t say any of those things.

  Marco nodded. “What a horrible day this turned out to be. I was so excited. I never get to see you anymore. I never get to go out anymore. I don’t mind Phil being a little on the quiet side. I always figured it was good that we balanced each other out. But he’s getting harder and harder to talk to, and he never wants to do anything.”

  “I’m sorry, Marco. He loves you and you love him. That’s something, anyway.”

  He pursed his lips. “I don’t mean to complain. Phil’s wonderful. And Del is too.”

  “Oh, please, I don’t want to think about that right now, okay?”

  “If you say so, love. Listen, I think we gave you a pretty decent bottle of wine for Christmas. I must not have known back then that you don’t drink. I don’t suppose you still have that?”

  “Oh, sure. It’s in here somewhere.” Lola rummaged around the cupboards while Marco pulled out two juice glasses. She finally found the bottle and held it out. “Ah, here we are.”