Faking It

by Jennifer Crusie

  “Thank you,” Tilda said, touched in spite of herself.

  “Clea fucks like you paint.”

  “Oh,” Tilda said.

  “If it’s any consolation, she probably paints like you—”

  “You’re never touching me again,” Tilda said.

  “Oh, and there was a chance I was going to before I said that?” Davy said. “Can we go now?”

  “Absolutely,” Tilda said, trying to remember what was important. She was getting the painting back. Davy would get his money back. Then the show would be over and he’d go to Australia and she’d go back to her nice, calm mural-painting life.

  “Now what’s wrong?” Davy said.

  “You know, I was happy before you came here,” Tilda said and headed for the door.

  “No you weren’t,” Davy said, following her. “You—”

  Ethan came in carrying Steve, who was wearing a brocade vest and a black bowtie and looking a little perturbed about the whole thing. “Nadine made the vest,” he said. “She said it was a gallery-opening tradition.”

  “That should perk Mason right up,” Tilda said. “Don’t bite anybody, Steve.”

  “You leaving now?” Ethan said.

  “Yes,” Davy said. “We’re—”

  “Well, ‘have fun stormin’ da castle,’” Ethan said and carried Steve out into the gallery.

  Davy looked at Tilda. “Does everyone know we’re committing a crime tonight?”

  “Jeff doesn’t,” Tilda said. “We try to keep him pure for the defense.”

  “Good to know,” Davy said and went out to the parking lot. “You should have lights out here,” he told her when they were in the car.

  “We should have the money to put in lights out here,” Tilda said. “Let me get Simon paid off for the gallery paint first. And, oh yeah, the mortgage.”

  “Right,” Davy said. “This is the perfect life I screwed up?”

  “I know.” Tilda let her head fall back on the seat. “Not your fault. Except it is.”

  “I did not—”

  “Before you came, I didn’t know I was unhappy,” Tilda said. “I just put my head down and kept moving. And then you grab me in a closet and, all of a sudden, I notice that I’m miserable painting murals and lousy in bed.”

  “ ‘Lousy’ was your word, not mine,” Davy said. “And I’m willing to coach you on that.”

  She rolled her head to look at him. “I was not happy about you fixing up the gallery.”

  “I know,” Davy said.

  “I am now. It’s beautiful, it’s actually more beautiful than I remember it. And seeing all that stuff I painted in there makes me want to paint again, for real. It makes me happy. And when you’re gone, that’ll be gone, too, because we can’t keep it going, we don’t have the time and we don’t have the ...” She waved her hand. “The razzle-dazzle. That was my dad. And Gwennie’ll go back to the Double-Crostics, and Nadine’ll go back to dating careers, and I’ll go back to painting murals. So thank you for giving me back the gallery, but you’re ruining my life.”

  “I know,” Davy said.

  She frowned at him. “You do not know.”

  “Yeah, I do,” Davy said. “I know you’re a great painter, I know you hate painting the murals, I know you love your family, I know you’re really mad at your dad for something, and I know that the gallery is where you belong. I know you.”

  Tilda lost her breath. “Not as much as you think,” she said, looking out the window. “Shouldn’t we be moving or something?”

  “Yes.” Davy started the car. “There will be closets, Vilma. Control yourself.”

  “There is one thing,” Tilda said.

  “What now?” Davy said, sounding wary.

  “If something goes wrong tonight,” Tilda said, “I’m staying. No more me leaving you to carry the can, no more you shoving me out the door. Tonight, we’re in this together.”

  Davy was quiet for a minute. “Okay.”

  “I don’t want to do this,” Tilda said. “But I don’t want you doing it, either.”

  “I know,” Davy said. “But tonight is the last time. It’s all over tonight.”

  “I know.” Tilda looked out the window again. “Let’s go.”

  BACK AT the gallery, Gwen was watching Mason and thinking, He’s such a sweet man. Maybe I can have Ford kill him. No, that wasn’t funny, but it would have been nice if somebody knocked him cold because he was single-handedly screwing up her gallery preview. And as much as she hadn’t wanted it, if she had to have it, she wanted it to be a success.

  She watched him now, telling some bewildered woman that buying a chest of drawers painted with tangerine-colored zebras was a good investment. “Art appreciates,” he said, and Gwen went around the counter and took his arm.

  “Mason, honey,” she said.

  “I think I’ll wait on that,” the woman said, backing away. “Can I pet the dog?”

  “Of course!” Gwen said cheerfully.

  Mason shook his head. “That dog is going to ruin the whole thing,” he whispered to Gwen. “Can’t we get it out of here? Nobody will take us seriously with it around.”

  We’re selling furniture with orange zebras on it, Gwen thought. “The thing is,” she told him, “this furniture is not an investment. You buy this kind of art because you love it, not because it appreciates.”

  He looked at her fondly and patted her arm. “You leave this to me, Gwennie. I know what I’m doing.”

  No you don’t, Gwen thought, but he wasn’t harassing that poor woman about the zebras anymore, so she went back to the counter.

  At the back of the gallery, Michael was laughing with a woman who was holding a Finster but looking at Michael. Miraculously, the man had sold three Finsters since the doors had opened. Maybe we should keep him around to run the place, Gwen thought, and then thought,

  No. Michael would sell everything they had including Steve and then leave with the money. Sweet man, but completely immoral.

  Across the room, Nadine was smiling and laughing, too, and selling furniture, and for a moment, Gwen could see Tony in her, or at least his charm. Then the woman Nadine was laughing with came over and paid a hundred dollars for a footstool painted with dancing cats and Gwen thought, She got his gift for selling damn near anything, too.

  She smiled at the woman and took her money and looked around for Mason. He was talking to a graying man in a suit about a table covered in red beagles. Gwen could have sworn she heard him say “investment” clear across the room.

  It was going to be a long night. My gallery for a piña colada, she thought, and went to rescue another customer.

  THE BASEMENT window was still broken so Tilda and Davy got in without a problem, and it was like old times, climbing the stair to Clea’s closet in the dark.

  “Very nostalgic,” Davy said, echoing Tilda’s thoughts. “Go on upstairs to the room with the paintings and find your Scarlet. I’ll hit Clea’s bedroom for the laptop.”

  “Okay.” Tilda looked up the next dark staircase with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

  “Unless you want to search the closet with me,” Davy said. “That’s always interesting for us.”

  “Upstairs it is,” Tilda said, and spent the next hour on the next floor with a penlight, flipping through dozens of wrapped paintings looking for eighteen-inch-square paintings or something that might be an eighteen-inch square framed. Some of the paintings had been clumsily unwrapped, and she gave in to curiosity and looked.

  There were some nice pieces, but nothing startling. As a collector, Mason didn’t have much flair, which was pretty much in line with the rest of Mason, poor man. Maybe Gwennie could liven him up some.

  She found the last square painting, carefully unwrapped a corner of it, and saw a checkered night sky, but not one of hers. What the hell? she thought and unwrapped it completely. It was eighteen inches square with a blue checked sky, but it was a forest scene, and she’d never painted a forest. She moved the penlight to the c
orner to make out the name, printed in block letters in the lower right corner: Hodge.

  Huh, she thought. Homer. I never saw this one. She’d forgotten that she’d copied the checkerboard skies from Homer, maybe because she’d liked doing them. Well, that made sense. She was a forger. She moved the penlight over the painting to see what else she might have copied. The trees certainly weren’t anything she’d have done, but in between the trunks were little animals, and she’d always liked painting animals, although not like these, they were too small and they had...

  Tiny sharp white teeth.

  Chapter 16

  “OH, GOD,” TILDA SAID, and sat down on the floor. It couldn’t be. It was a coincidence. Maybe Gwennie had gotten the idea for the teeth from Homer. Except that Gwennie had been embroidering teeth long before Homer showed up. Now we’re going to have to steal back all the Homers, she thought and then realized the impossibility of it. Homer had painted dozens and dozens of paintings. No, Gwennie had painted dozens and dozens. Some were in museums. There was no way she could get them all back.

  Gwennie was Homer. That was enough of a mind-bender right there, even without the museums. Tilda shoved herself up off the floor and rewrapped the painting to take it with her. One floor down, she found Davy waiting for her. “I couldn’t find—” she began and then she saw what he was holding, a package about twenty inches square.

  “This it?” he whispered, handing it to her. “Believe it or not, it was actually in her closet this time.”

  She pulled the painting out of the frame-store package by its cheap new frame and saw the Goodnight building. “This is it,” she said, sadness seeping into her bones. The first Scarlet, the start of the whole mess. Except not, because there was Gwennie.

  “Are you okay?” Davy whispered.

  She stuffed the painting back into the box before Davy noticed that Scarlet had painted the gallery building. “Boy, what a relief,” she whispered, trying to fake happiness. “I can’t thank you enough. And now you’ve got your money and you can go.” When he didn’t say anything, she said, “You did get your money, didn’t you?”

  He looked down at her, his face hard to read in the dark hall. “No. I’ll have to think of something else.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. “I’ll help you. Whatever it takes.”

  “Good,” Davy said. “What’s in the other package?”

  “A souvenir for Gwennie,” Tilda said. “Let’s go home.”

  WHEN THEY got back to the gallery, Davy carried the wrapped Scarlet into the office behind Tilda. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with her, but something had happened, and it wasn’t good. It had to be the painting she was carrying, another wrapped square, so maybe she’d found a seventh Scarlet, maybe there were more to steal. Maybe it wasn’t time for him to go yet.

  That was not as annoying as it should have been.

  Tilda went out to Gwennie, and across the room, Nadine saw Davy and waved. He motioned her over.

  “Did you get the painting?” she said when she came in. “Is that it?”

  “Yes,” Davy said, watching Tilda. “I need your laptop.”

  “Okay.” Nadine ran upstairs and came back with her computer.

  “Get me online,” Davy said.

  Nadine plugged in the phone line and tapped a few keys. “Anything else?”

  “Nope,” Davy said, sitting down. “How’s it going out there?”

  “Your dad is amazing,” Nadine said. “Mason is a horse’s ass.”

  “I’ll help tomorrow night,” Davy said. “I lied, there is one more thing. Where does Gwennie keep the bankbooks?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Embezzling your college fund.”

  “Right,” Nadine said. “Like I have one. They’re in the top left-hand drawer.”

  “Thank you. Go play.” When the door closed behind her, Davy logged on to his account and looked at the balance. Two point five million, a nice round number. There had been a little more in Clea’s account but he liked round numbers.

  For some reason, this one wasn’t much fun. Not as much fun as being without had been. Some people aren’t meant to be rich, he thought. Some people need the edge.

  And some people need college funds.

  He grinned to himself and began to move money.

  “HOW’S IT going?” Tilda said to Gwen when she’d finished selling a chair covered in ducks to a woman who seemed thrilled with it.

  “Except for Mason, pretty well,” Gwen said. “We’re not mobbed but...” Her voice trailed off as she saw the painting Tilda held up. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Mason’s storeroom,” Tilda said. “Look familiar?”

  “Of course,” Gwen said. “It’s a Homer Hodge.”

  “No, it’s a Gwen Goodnight,” Tilda said.

  “No,” Gwen said. “I painted the kits. Homer painted those.”

  “Gwennie, I know ...” Tilda said and then stopped as light dawned. “Oh, hell, Homer was your Louise.”

  “Not really, dear,” Gwen said. “Homer never had sex.”

  “Davy was right,” Tilda said. “Group therapy. Now.”

  “He was like the Double-Crostics,” Gwen said. “A different place to go, away from reality. And then I got tired of him, and I quit.”

  “Dad must have been upset.”

  “Yes,” Gwen said, smiling.

  “You didn’t tell me,” Tilda said. “You let me move out thinking Homer was real.”

  “I wasn’t too proud of him,” Gwen said. “It was those damn paint-by-numbers. Once I started to mess with them, Tony decided I was a great primitive painter, but that wasn’t enough, he had to be Brigido Lara and create his own art dynasty. He kept saying it would be Grandpa Moses and he’d have exclusive rights.” She sighed. “He wouldn’t even let Homer be female, damn him.”

  “What happened?” Tilda said. “He told me that he and Homer had a fight.”

  “They did,” Gwen said. “He came up with the child-of-Homer idea, and I could see him roping you into the fraud, too, and he was already making your life miserable with that damn Goodnight legacy. I kept saying, ‘Why can’t we just tell people the truth?’ and he’d say, ‘Because the truth won’t make us rich, Gwennie.’ He was getting damn good money for those Homers, but it wasn’t enough. He had to have Scarlets, too.”

  “So you stopped and I started,” Tilda said. “That’s why he told me not to tell you.”

  “I didn’t know until you left,” Gwen said. “I didn’t know until I went downstairs and saw that last smeared painting. He signed that one for you, you know. He sold it anyway.”

  “I can’t believe you never told me you were Homer. You sent me money so I didn’t have to come back home, but you never told me you were Homer.”

  “I wasn’t,” Gwen said. “He was just a mask. Bad drag, as Andrew would say. He didn’t fit very well. I’m just not male.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not why you didn’t tell me. You knew I’d stay if I knew. I’d have gone on painting the Scarlets if I’d known you’d painted the Homers.”

  “Don’t give me more credit than I deserve,” Gwen said. “I didn’t protect you. You painted those beautiful paintings and he made you put somebody else’s name on them and I didn’t see it, I didn’t stop him. Just another part of the Goodnight nightmare.”

  “It’s not all a nightmare,” Tilda said.

  Gwen lifted her chin. “Are you going to teach your children to paint?”

  “Yes,” Tilda said. “But I’m not going to teach them to forge. That’s done. That ended with me.”

  “So you’re leaving again,” Gwen said.

  “No,” Tilda said. “I’m staying. That’s one of the many things Davy has done for me. He gave me back the gallery. We can do some good things here. And I want to start painting again, my paintings. I’m going to try to get more mural commissions close to home. I want to stay home.”

  “I don’t,” Gwen said. “I want to leave.” />
  “Oh,” Tilda said. “Okay.”

  “I’ve been here for thirty-five years,” Gwen said.

  “Definitely time to leave.”

  “I’ll come back.”

  “It’s okay, Mama,” Tilda said. “It really is.”

  “I don’t know where I’m going, of course,” Gwen said.

  “I think it’s someplace with a boat.”

  “The boat’s like Homer,” Gwen said, turning away. “Not real. This is real.” She smiled at a woman who was approaching with a painting, and Tilda widened her eyes, when she saw what it was.

  “We’re selling Finsters?” she said to Gwen.

  “Michael’s selling Finsters,” Gwen said. “I’m just taking the money. Those Dempseys can sell anything.”

  “Right,” Tilda said. Davy had her Scarlet somewhere. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

  “Oh, let’s not,” Gwen said, and rang up the Finster.

  DAVY CROSSED the wide, white echoing space of the half empty storeroom, feeling pretty damn good about the world in general. He flipped back the quilt on the Temptation Bed. Five paintings, the sixth one in his hand, finally together again. He took the one he had out of the box and leaned it against the wall, and propped the other five up beside it, one long row of Scarlet Hodges. Then he stepped back.

  Cows, flowers, butterflies, mermaids, dancers, and the new one, the apartment building in the city. He looked again and realized that the paintings fit together in sequence, the cows flowing into the flowers that blew into the butterflies. The only one out of place was the city, that belonged at the beginning, and when he picked it up to move it, he looked at it closer.

  It was the Goodnight building. All the furniture that he’d been hauling for the past week came back to him, and all the joy and light in them now before him in the Scarlet paintings.

  “You are kidding me,” he said and put it down at the beginning of the sequence, watching the progression from city to country to sea to night sky, and wondering how in hell he had missed it before that Tilda had painted them.