“Sure, but they all end with one glaring question. When my mother found out she was dying, why in the world would she think that the state would be a better option to raise a child than a biological father? Especially if he loved her, like the tree would lead me to believe.”
“Maybe she really didn’t know who the father was...”
“Maybe,” I say, not liking what that suggests.
“SD could stand for something else, you know? It might not even stand for your mom.”
“But if it did... could he have done something to make her want to keep me from him?”
“I’m not sure, baby,” he admits, sounding tired. “I’m not sure anyone can answer that question.”
“He might.”
“He might... or he might not. There’s no way to know.”
“I could ask him,” I suggest weakly.
“You know what you’re saying, don’t you?”
“What?”
“You’d be exposing yourself to him. Revealing your true identity–”
“I know–”
“If you know, then you have to really consider everything you’re risking. I know you’ve thought about the possibility of meeting the man, but that was before you knew that you could make it happen with a short drive to Hartford.”
“I’ve been thinking–”
“Olivia, have you told Jack?”
I sigh, and assume that my silence is a good enough answer to his question.
“You know you can’t do this without telling him. To introduce Isaiah to the heiress of the Holland fortune... you have to protect that.”
“I could just say I was Stella, like before.”
“You couldn’t keep up that lie. He’s obviously a sentimental guy, if he really did carve that in a tree. I would think that he’d be interested in knowing more about you. He may want to be a part of your life. The article said he wanted a family.”
“Maybe you could ask him...”
“Olivia, don’t pit me between Jack and him. Don’t pit me between Jack and anyone, for that matter. It’s taken me years to get on his good side.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I’m just grasping at straws. I could tell him it’s a one-time thing.”
“You’re opening up a big can of worms, baby. What if your parents did something... less than legal to acquire you–”
“God, Jon, they didn’t. I know my mom and dad. Plus, Granna said they did their due diligence. It was such a public ordeal anyway, surely people scrutinized what they did. And I’m sure Dad’s lawyers made sure all the bases were covered.”
“Still, let’s say there’s some loophole we don’t know about. You go to Isaiah, you say, ‘hey, I’m your long lost daughter, but I just have some questions and then I’ll be on my way.’ If he wants a relationship, he’ll find things out about you, and if he finds out you’re Jack Holland’s daughter, he may want something.”
“He doesn’t seem like a bad guy.”
“We talked to him for less than three minutes. You can’t make that sort of assessment in that amount of time.”
“But I want to know.”
“If you want to know, you have to tell Jack first. In fact, maybe he could get his lawyers involved to help answer your questions without telling Isaiah who you are. That could be a win-win. You get your answers and your anonymity.”
“What if he beat her or something?” I say, trying to understand my mom’s decision from every possible angle.
“That’s a good point. Are you ready to hear the truth if it’s disreputable? What if he was in jail? Or with another woman at the time?”
I hadn’t even thought about that. That could explain it. Maybe they were having a long-term affair, and he wasn’t available. She couldn’t tell him. She’d have to leave him.
“You have your street art class tomorrow?” Jon asks. I’m grateful he’s changing the subject.
“Yeah.”
“Looking forward to it?”
“Yeah,” I repeat quietly.
“Are you still with me?” he asks with a slight chuckle.
“I think I should go to bed,” I tell him.
“I understand. I’ll stand beside you, whatever you decide, Liv. I just need you to give this some serious thought, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t be impulsive. This isn’t the time or situation, alright?”
“Yeah. I won’t be. I promise.”
“Have a good day tomorrow, baby.”
“You, too, Jon. I love you.”
“I love you, too. I’ll call you tomorrow night.”
“Livvy,” my new art teacher catches me on my way out after class. “Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure,” I tell him, propping my backpack up and returning to my workspace in the front of the classroom.
“I’ve been going over your paintings from last semester with your departmental advisor,” he starts, standing a fair distance in front of me and rubbing his thumbs together nervously.
“Okay,” I say, waiting for a critique of some sort. I steel myself, locking my knees in place in preparation. I can defend my work. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong. Nothing at all; quite the opposite, actually.”
I smile, relaxing a little and putting my things on my desk and sitting down.
“I’m very impressed with your work,” he says. “Blown away, actually. I’ve never seen paintings with such complexity and depth from such a young artist. And your use of color is phenomenal.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I gather you’ve known for awhile that you’re a natural.”
“Awhile, yes,” I admit humbly, feeling my cheeks blush.
“Is this something you like to do, too?”
“Of course,” I laugh. “I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
“That’s nice to hear. So many times, people who’ve been doing it all their lives get burned out... or we find that kids your age have only been doing things to please their parents.”
“That’s not the case for me,” I tell him. “Sometimes I don’t feel like I can breathe if I go long stretches of time without painting. Some people need food and shelter. I need to create.”
My professor’s smile is huge. “I know what you mean. I’m happy to hear that’s how you feel. My daughter’s your age. She played the piano all her life. I never felt like we pushed her, but since she went away to college, she’s done everything to stay away from music. I don’t know why... but that’s neither here nor there. Again, I’m happy that you’re passionate about this.”
“I am.”
“There is a point to this conversation,” he continues. “I spend my summers in Manhattan, looking for new talent. I’m an art dealer outside of the classroom. Are you currently under representation by someone?”
“No, but I’m not looking for an agent,” I tell him politely. “I’m flattered, but I had a bad experience–”
“No,” he interrupts, laughing. “I’m not looking for a client... but I am looking for an artist.”
“Well, you found one?” I ask him, unsure.
“A specific one,” he clarifies. “Your work reminds me of some paintings I stumbled across about a year ago.”
“Do you think my work isn’t original?” It was always a fear of mine that I would steal someone else’s ideas, with as much art as I have exposed myself to over my short lifetime. I can’t hide the panicked expression.
“Not at all,” he assures me. “Unless...”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you are not the artist known as Olivia Choisie.”
I blink a few times, trying to maintain a poker face. “Who?” I say shakily.
“Come on, Livvy,” he says as he leans against his desk. “I understand your need for privacy, or your desire to be known for something other than your name. But Livvy? Olivia? Tell me it’s not a coincidence.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I lie.
“Livvy, y
our secret is safe with me, okay? We have experts here at Yale... people who specialize in identifying rare pieces of artwork and attributing them to their rightful creator. They study color, brush strokes, paint coverage, shapes, pressure... I had one of them compare some of your pieces with some of Olivia Choisie’s. They feel the work comes from one artist.”
I sigh.
“I have an opportunity for you, if you’ll admit to being the brilliant painter behind this piece of artwork,” he says, pulling out a medium sized canvas from a wooden crate that had been sitting behind his desk. I look away as soon as I see it, recognizing it as one of the ones I’d painted when Jon and I had first started dating. It was one of the ones my mom had called erotic.
“What’s the opportunity?” I ask, keeping my head angled toward my desk.
“Olivia,” he says with a sigh, “it is such an honor–”
“It’s Livvy,” I correct him, looking at him hard to show that I’m serious. “You said my secret was safe, so that means no hinting at Olivia Choisie’s real identity, okay?”
“Of course, I’m sorry,” he says. “I mean no disrespect. But I’ve never had an accomplished artist in one of my classes before. I feel ill-equipped to teach you anything.”
“I know nothing about street art,” I tell him. “It’s just something I think is fascinating, and hope to be a part of someday.”
“Well, that’s what I’d like to talk to you about.”
After class, I need another opinion, so I call my dad and tell him my news. I walk just outside the building and call him, keeping track of the time so I’m not late to my Spanish class.
“Hey, Daddy.”
“Hi, Tessa. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing... nothing really, anyway.”
“But something’s going on?”
“Yeah... Dad, in my street art class today, my professor held me back to talk to me about my paintings. He’d figured out that I’m behind the Olivia Choisie paintings.”
“Did he reveal it to someone?”
“Oh, no. No, that’s not it. He said that he was looking for her–me–because his sister was interested in my art for a project.”
“Really? Tell me more.”
“She’s actually a well-known street artist in her town, and she wants to take me on as an apprentice.”
“Is she in New Haven?”
“Um, no... she’s in... well, she’s in Brazil.”
“Brazil, the country?”
“Is there another Brazil?”
Dad laughs a little. “Wow. That’s interesting. When would you do this?”
“Over the summer,” I say, punctuating it with a sigh. “All summer.”
“Ohhh,” he says, understanding immediately my conundrum. “I see.”
“Is it wrong for me to even suggest it?”
“Wrong?” he asks, sounding surprised. “Need I remind you of the question you asked me about a million times last summer?”
“No, I know, Dad.” Why didn’t Jon tell me he’d be spending his summer in Utah the second he knew? Why did he keep that from me?
“If you two want the future together you say you want, then you need to start making each other aware of your opportunities. What are the specifics of this summer thing? Where in Brazil?”
“I don’t know all the details. Dr. Emory wants to take you and me out to dinner one evening to discuss it more. He said he spends most weekends in Manhattan. Something about visiting his sister beforehand.”
“Oh?” he asks.
“He suggested over spring break. I know you were already planning some things, but–”
“Contessa, I never expected you to go with us after you graduated.”
“He mentioned that she would fly us all out... she wants you and Mom to feel comfortable with the arrangement.”
“Well, Liv, I don’t think that’s for me and your mother to really decide anymore, you know? We want to support your creative endeavors.”
“Mom won’t like it.”
“Mom will be apprehensive. Mom will miss you. Mom will still support you.”
“I know,” I tell him. “I just don’t know if it’s even something I should consider.”
“Absolutely it is,” Dad says to me. “Considering it and learning more about the opportunity is absolutely what you should do. Getting Jon involved early, Liv... well, that would be my recommendation... if you’re certain you still want to be with him.”
“Of course I’m certain of that!”
“I thought as much. I just wanted to make sure. You’re both still young, but I’m accepting that, in itself, is not a reason to break up.”
“Thank you,” I say, relieved.
“Introduce him to the idea. Let him have some time to warm up to it. If I know him–and I think I do–he’ll want what’s best for you. If it turns out going to Brazil for a few months is what’s best for you, you can resume things at the end of the summer.”
“Maybe,” I say with hesitance. “Okay. I’ll mention it to him and just tell him it’s really early in the planning.”
“Sounds like a good start.”
“Will you have dinner with me and Dr. Emory, though? I’d feel better with you there... I’m sure you’ll have questions I wouldn’t even think about.”
“If you want me there for that, I’d love to have an evening with my daughter.”
“Thanks, Daddy. I’ll let you know when.”
“Alright. Don’t let this stress you. We’ll just get some details and start to consider the pros and cons. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I love you, Liv.”
“Love you, too, Dad.”
After getting off the phone, I go to my class, but it’s nearly impossible to concentrate; fortunately, most of what we’re learning are things I already know. I chose this class because I knew it would be easy. After connecting to the school’s Wifi, I start surfing the web for the artist that my street art professor told me about. I look at her work, amazed at what she’s done and the impact she’s been able to make in her community. Dr. Emory’s sister has a unique style. She uses bold colors like I do, but somehow her style is much softer, more feminine. It’s beautiful, and although I’d always dreamed of being able to paint large murals on walls and buildings, it’s not a dream I thought I’d realize anytime soon. Manhattan isn’t ready for it. There are too many zoning laws that kept artists from doing anything that wouldn’t be considered graffiti. I’d seen stories of artists who’d been arrested for making their own statement on public property. Sure, what they did wasn’t legal, but their projects always made the city look better, the streets look more vibrant–at least in my eyes. I knew I’d never have the guts to follow in their footsteps, thanks to my Mom and Dad’s strict moral compasses, but I looked up to those artists. I wanted to do what they did. I wanted to make my mark, and make it in a big way.
People start getting up before I realize today’s lesson has ended.
“La clase ha terminado, Livvy!” Señora Molina tells me.
“Sí, lo sé,” I respond, shutting off my computer and stuffing it in my bag hurriedly.
“Qué tengas una buena tarde,” she says.
“Tú también.” Without giving it another thought, I go straight to my advisor’s office and ask to drop Señora’s class.
I need to start learning Portuguese.
“Ladies, I’m leaving,” I tell Rachelle and Katrina as soon as I get to the dorm. I look around briefly before grabbing a duffle bag and stuffing a few necessities inside.
“What’s up?”
“Since our early class tomorrow was canceled, I think a weekday stay in Manhattan is in order.”
“Jon can’t live without you?” Rachelle says dramatically.
“Actually, he has no idea I’m coming.”
“You’re not going to see him?”
“I’m going to surprise him. I’ll be back for my poetry class at ten.” My roommates, having been very encouraging of my relat
ionship with Jon, help me get my things together.
I call Jon, not to tell him I’m coming home, but to find out what his plans are for the night. He lets me know he’s working at the firm until eight and was planning to head to the library until midnight, giving Fred and his girlfriend the dorm for a few hours.
On the way home, I can’t help but get a little excited about the idea of having my artwork on buildings. Maybe she’ll want me to paint her art... but in the end, it doesn’t matter whose art, as long as I can learn about the techniques and materials, and the logistics of the craft.
Once I drop off my things, I head over to the skyscraper where Jon works. A security guard welcomes me by name in the lobby, even though I’ve never been to the building before.
“Miss Holland, are you lost?”
“No,” I laugh a little. “I’m here to see Jon Scott. He works for Willow, Dash and Miller Design. Is he still here?”
“Let me call up there. I know he works late some nights,” he says, picking up the phone and dialing his extension. “Is this Jon? You have a visitor in the lobby. Yes. Livvy Holland is here to see you.” He smiles at me as he hangs up. “He’ll be right down.”
“Thank you,” I tell the officer before I start to wander around the area, looking at the paintings on the wall. They’re prints, actually, of overused street scenes from an artist that was prolific in the 1980’s. I have never been a fan, as the images are just too mundane for my liking.
“Liv,” Jon calls from about thirty feet away. “Are you alright?”
My smile is wide at the sight of him. I expected him to be wearing slacks and a nice, pressed shirt, but he’s in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt that’s too loose for me to see any muscle definition. Still, seeing him at all makes me happy. “I’m great.”
“Why aren’t you at school?” he asks, still looking concerned as he greets me with a hug.
“Tomorrow’s early class was canceled,” I explain, “and I thought I’d surprise you. Have you had dinner yet?”
“I have not,” he says softly. He releases me to give me a sweet kiss. “I would love to take you out.”
“Nope, it’s my treat. I have a table reserved... somewhere.”
“Am I dressed okay?” he asks.