Jon chuckles, taking the cleaning rag from me. “I’m sorry I can’t go,” he says. “I promised Will I’d go to his game. It’s homecoming.”
“No, it’s fine. Maybe I could bring over desserts or something to your mom’s apartment after.”
“We’ll see,” is his response, which I find odd. He doesn’t notice me staring after him curiously, but I decide not to press the issue. “Are you ready? I’ve got a seven o’clock study group in the morning, so I need to get back to the campus.”
“Yeah. Want me to drive you?”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“Then sure,” he says, taking my hand in his. I lock the door behind us after shutting off the lights. We start walking the two blocks to my house, just like we’ve always done. He stops me at the corner of the building by the stairs to the second floor and backs me up to the wall, kissing me. “I wish you could’ve stayed inside.”
“Me, too,” I tell him with a frown as we start walking again. Once at the house, I run inside to tell my parents that I’m taking him home.
“Be back by ten?” Dad asks. I look at my watch and shrug, knowing it’s more than enough time to drive him to Columbia and back. I don’t argue, simply nodding my head. I like the casual way Dad is letting loose of my restrictions. It always comes as a nice surprise to both me and Jon. This was an hour later than my curfew last year on school nights. I knew it was wasted tonight, though, since Jon had to be up early and I still had homework to do.
Jon drives my car to his dorm, like he typically does. He puts the car in park when we get to the campus. “So we’re on for dinner and a movie Saturday?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’ll come pick you up after Mom and I are finished at the loft. Around five?”
“Perfect. I can’t wait.” He squeezes my hand and looks at me, leaning in for a kiss. I take a deep breath and reposition myself in my seat, putting my hands on his face and bringing his lips to mine. Our kiss is long, the passion between us obvious, ending with the unmistakeable sign that I’d created for him.
Not only is he breathless, he’s speechless when he gets out of the car. I laugh lightly to myself as I climb over the console into the driver’s seat. He knocks on my window after shutting my door. I roll it down and kiss him once more.
“Some Saturday night, when we’re on our normal date, we’ll find somewhere to be alone. I know the loft is off-limits when your parents are in town. We’ll get a hotel room–”
“For a few hours?” My apprehension toward his suggestion is obvious.
“I’ll think of something,” he assures me. “Can we try again soon?” He looks so desperate and sweet.
“Think of something good,” I agree with a nod.
Dad meets me at the door to the garage, holding the door open for me.
“What’s up?” I ask him, setting my keys by the back door and joining him in the kitchen. He’s making hot chocolate–two cups. Since my brother’s in bed, and my mom won’t drink the sweet beverage, I know he’s prepared it for me.
“Have a seat.” Getting settled at the kitchen island, I pick a few marshmallows out of the bag and put them in the drink he sets before me. He leans over the counter, addressing me at eye-level. “What are you working on these days?” he asks.
It’s the first time he’s asked me such a question, and I’d decided that although I’d begged my mom to lie for me, I wasn’t going to. I know I need help getting back on track. “Nothing,” I tell him.
“Honey, you used to paint every day,” he says. “What’s happened?”
“I just can’t do it anymore, Dad. Everything’s changed so much. I just don’t feel the same anymore.”
“Well, have you tried?”
“I try every week.”
“Mom says you won’t even go into the studio you set up, Tessa. And the workspace in your bedroom is gathering dust. That doesn’t sound like you’re trying. She says you’re just going for walks on Saturdays.”
“I’m trying to get inspired,” I tell him. Granted, I’m trying to avoid the painting, too, but if I could find inspiration, I’d take it.
“Are you meeting up with him?”
“Who?”
“Jon.”
“On my walks?”
“Yes.”
“No, Dad! I see him Saturday nights. I don’t see him during the day.”
He looks at me hard, and I can tell he doesn’t believe me. “I think you’re spending too much time with him. I think he’s becoming more of a hinderance than a helper.”
“No, he’s not, Dad. He got me back to the Art Room. That’s a start.”
“Would you have gone if he wasn’t there?”
“No,” I tell him honestly. “I feel stronger with him, Dad.”
“Then why can’t you paint?”
“Because I just don’t feel like it!” I say, raising my voice in frustration. “I’m not a machine, Dad! I can’t just crank it out. It doesn’t work like that.”
“Well, excuse me for expecting that, Livvy. That’s how you’ve been working for the last five years of your life. Until we went to England. And since then, nothing. I don’t know what happened in Greece–”
“Nothing happened in Greece, Dad.” My cheeks burn red, though, and I take a sip of my drink with both hands on the big mug, hoping they hide the reaction my body has to my lie.
“Well, whatever happened... Liv, you and Jon have been seeing too much of one another. I thought when school started, we’d see a change, but there hasn’t been one.”
“Dad, trust me, this has nothing to do with him.”
“That would imply that you know what the problem is.”
“I do. And all I can say, Dad, is it’s not him.”
We stare at one another, both challenging the other. “Are you going to paint again?”
“Of course I am, Dad. But don’t try to force me to. I’ve tried that, and it doesn’t make me able to do it. I’ll paint when I feel like I can paint again. You just have to trust that.”
“What does Abram say?”
“I don’t let him say much,” I admit. “I’m the client, right?”
“He should be encouraging you. If Jon’s not, someone should.”
“Again, Dad, Jon has nothing to do with this.”
“I can see that. And I wish he’d get more involved with this and less involved with whatever you two are doing on your dates.” His voice wavers a little as he says this, and he pours out a nearly-full cup of cocoa into the sink. He doesn’t look at me on his way out. “Get some sleep, Contessa.”
“I love you, Dad,” I say tentatively, not wanting him to be angry with me. This stops him in his tracks, and he turns back around, returning to the kitchen. He hugs me and kisses me on the head before telling me he loves me too.
Three weeks later, my dad laughs as we get out of the car in front of the studio. “I don’t know why you’re wearing those, Contessa. You’re with me. People will know who you are, you know?”
I adjust the sunglasses Jon gave me and shrug. “They’re my favorite birthday gift,” I tell him honestly, even though that’s not the entire reason I’m wearing them. “Plus, they make me feel sophisticated,” I add as I stick my nose into the air, joking with him. He smiles at me as we walk up to the building. “Honestly, Dad, I’m scared someone will say something awful about one of the paintings, and I might get upset.”
“Awww, Tessa,” he says putting his arm around me. “Don’t worry. No one’s going to hurt you tonight.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say as he holds the studio door open for me. The event had been going on for an hour already, but I still didn’t expect to see the crowd congregating in the room. After all, it’s my first professional showing, and no one knows who Olivia Choisie is. Abram greets us, handing my dad a glass of champagne and me a soda in a martini glass. I am the only one with such a drink, and I know my agent has prepared that especially for me.
“There are hors
d’oeuvres,” he says to us privately in the front corner, “should you want to nosh on anything as you count the ‘sold’ signs. But don’t bother. There are seven, so far.”
“Seven?” I ask. “That’s good, right?”
“That’s wonderful, Miss Holland,” he says. Dad squeezes me into him, rubbing on my arm. “People love your work. In fact, a few have made calls to other people, inviting them to come see. I suspect we’ll sell at least half tonight.”
“Tessa, this is great!”
“Thanks!” I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet, forgetting any attempt to look sophisticated. “Can we see which ones sold? Is it weird that I feel a little sad?”
“They’re going to a loving home,” Abram says. “Of that, I’m certain. And we have the lovely pictures you and Jon have been taking, so you’ll always have a record of your work.”
We start to wander around the studio, and Dad asks me what I was feeling at each painting we come to that’s been sold. It almost feels like I’m memorializing them, but it feels special, and I find it sweet that he’s asking.
“Mr. Holland,” a man interrupts us. He’s wearing a large camera around his neck. “Forgive me for intruding. I’m Geoff Humbolt from The Times. I was wondering if I might get your picture for the society pages?”
He glances at me, considering the photographer’s request. He normally doesn’t like posing for these types of pictures, but a small smile forms on his face. “One photo, with my daughter,” he agrees. “And thank you for asking first.”
“Of course, sir.” I take off my sunglasses and run my fingers through my hair a few times.
“You look beautiful, Contessa,” Dad assures me.
“Thanks.” He puts his arm across my back and I smile–giddily, I’m sure. It’s admittedly exciting.
“Send a copy to my office?” Dad asks Geoff as the photographer makes a note in a small pad.
“Yes sir, of course. Thank you.”
“We should document this night,” my dad says, shrugging his shoulders and explaining his decision to me. “So tell me, Liv, are there any paintings you don’t want to sell in here? I’m your last hope,” he says. “I’ll buy anything you want to keep.”
“Dad,” I laugh. “No. This is fine. You already have my favorite one, anyway.” He nods, knowing immediately I’m referring to the painting of me, as a child, pulling on his necktie the first night we met.
“Okay,” he answers simply. “Dinner? We’re all dressed up...”
“Sure!”
After retrieving the car from the parking garage a few blocks away, Dad picks me up and takes me to an Italian restaurant that he likes to go to. He insists they have the best chocolate tiramisu in the city, but he never has the opportunity to get it when he goes with my mom.
The waitstaff knows my father, and he requests his normal table. Within two minutes, they’re ready to seat us.
“I want to talk to you about something,” he says. His tone is serious, but upbeat, so I know I’m not in trouble. Aside from the weekend they went to the lake house, I’ve been on my best behavior. I do worry he’ll bring up the lapse in my interest in painting again, so I try to joke with him, to keep the mood light.
“Here it comes...” I smile. “What’s up?”
“Yale,” he says, catching me off guard. “I’ve called in some favors–”
“Dad, I don’t want to go there!” I interrupt him.
“Let me finish, Tessa.” He waits for me to argue, but I bite my tongue, letting him continue. “I’ve set up a private tour of the campus. I just think we should check it out, talk to some of the art professors, maybe some students... look into the living situation. Just to keep our options open.”
“My options,” I state stubbornly, reminding him that it’s ultimately my decision. He sighs in response, rubbing his chin in moderate frustration. “You just want me away from Jon.”
“No, I want to present you with other options, that’s all. Parsons is great. You’ve seen Columbia, and yes, it’s a fine school. But the art program at Yale is the best in the country. You shouldn’t have any trouble getting in, either.”
“I know, I know, you keep telling me that.” I pick at my salad with the fork, letting him speak.
“Maybe it will get you back in the frame of mind–” he suggests softly.
“Dad...” I say, warning him not to talk about that anymore.
“You get to miss a few days of school,” he says. I look up at him, curious. “I thought it made more sense to visit the campus when classes are in session, so we can go up to New Haven the second week of November. We’d go up on a Monday and come back the following night. It shouldn’t interfere with your social time,” he says begrudgingly, referring to Jon.
“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,” I tell him.
“I thought we’d get Mom to come with us and let Stevie and Kayd watch Jackson. What do you think?”
“Wow, Mom and Dad, all to myself. Sounds fine, Dad.”
“If you hate it, you hate it, and I won’t bring it up anymore. I’ll just switch gears, and focus on Harvard–”
“Dad!”
He laughs at his own joke.
The following Monday, I run to my car after a talk with the guidance counselor. Our conversation lasted much longer than I’d expected. I feel like my dad’s gotten to her. She kept talking about Yale. She never once asked about Columbia.
“I’m on my way,” I tell Abram over the phone before I leave the parking garage by school. “I had to stay after to talk about college.”
“It’s okay, Miss Holland,” he says. His address is starting to get on my nerves, too. “I’ve got all afternoon.”
Despite my agent’s empty schedule, I don’t want to spend the next few hours with him. Finn, Camille and I were planning to watch the 1962 version of Lolita, much to my father’s chagrin. We were discussing censorship of literature in our AP English class, and the Nabokov book was offered as one of the novels we could read. I chose to read the controversial book, Finn had not–nor had he read any of the books on the list. He was convinced watching the movie would provide enough information for him to get by with our assigned essay.
I have a sneaking suspicion he’s in for a rude awakening. I’d read that the movie didn’t follow the book that closely, but Finn is too stubborn to listen to me.
When I get to the coffee shop, Abram is seated at a corner table with a book in front of him and two drinks; one coffee and another plastic cup with condensation running down the side. I know it’s my green tea, and I know he ordered it for me thirty minutes ago, when I was supposed to be here.
“I’m sorry.”
“The busy life of an American teenager,” he says, his accent making it sound poetic. “How was your day?”
“Fine. I found out today we’re having an art show and contest at school in January.” I sigh a little, wishing I knew whether or not I’d be painting by then.
“This isn’t like the Olympics, is it?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“Where they don’t allow professionals to compete.”
“I’d hardly call myself a professional.”
“Well, I believe the term professional refers to one that receives payment for participating in the sport. And this, my dear,” he says as he hands me an envelope, “shows you to be an active, paid participant in the sport of fine art.”
I take the paper and laugh, repeating his phrase in my own mangled British accent. “Spoat of fahne aht,” I giggle, opening the envelope and looking at the numbers on the enclosed check. “What in the world?”
“Miss Holland, it’s your first payday. And you did very well.”
“How many did you sell?”
“After addressing all of the calls the following day, we sold sixteen out of twenty. You, love, are a hit.”
“Does my dad know?”
“I wanted you to be the first to know,” Abram says. “You can be the one to share the news with
him. There will also be a write-up on the unknown painter in The Times this weekend, and–”
“This is after your commission?” I interrupt. He nods. “Wow, this is incredible... and you didn’t tell anyone I painted them?”
“People are actively searching for Olivia Choisie as we speak. As I was saying, The Times wants an interview, but I gave no indication of your true identity, love. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Well... thank you. I could live off of this sort of income...” I say, more to myself than to him.
“You’d have to paint to meet the demand first, remember. We don’t have an endless supply of art. You have to keep working at it.” I don’t take his words as nagging; they almost sound sympathetic, and I appreciate his understanding.
“You noticed...”
“A good agent can tell when the work stops. A better agent helps the artist to keep going. What can I do?”
“Nothing, Abram. I’m trying. It’s hard, but I’m trying.”
“If it’s inspiration you need, we could take a scenic drive one weekend,” he suggests. “Or go to some other exhibitions.”
“Right,” I tell him, looking off quickly. “Abram, I want to buy something for you.”
“There’s no need.”
“I insist. Finish your coffee, we’re going shopping.”
“Miss Holland–”
“Come on!” I stand up, impatiently tapping my foot.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says with a laugh.
One block over, we go into a men’s boutique I’d gone to with my uncle Matty over the summer. “I’m just going to be blunt,” I tell him as he looks around the store. “If you’re going to rep me, you need to dress–” I choose my words carefully. “You need to dress like a twenty-five-year-old art agent.”
“Well, I thought they dressed like this,” he says, motioning to his dated grey suit and tan shirt. I make a face, letting him know he’s not right. “All right, then. Sir,” he calls across the shop to a guy hanging shirts in the back, “my young friend tells me I need better clothes.”
The employee looks at Abram from head to toe and nods in agreement, walking toward us. “Honey, you need a whole better look.”