Olivia

by Lori L. Otto

  “I’m still trying to work that out,” I tell him honestly. “Nothing’s happening at this house, that’s for sure. Not until I’m married.”

  “That’s fair. Did you want to elope when you’re ungrounded?”

  “Funny,” I tell him, knowing he’s joking. “When’s Frederick going to find a girlfriend that’ll keep him occupied elsewhere?”

  “He has one that he’s very faithful to, she just goes to college out of state,” Jon says. “That’s our problem. He’s so faithful he’ll barely go out with anyone, including me. But...”

  “What?”

  “He’s going home for the summer... there’s a chance they won’t move anyone in with me.”

  “Oh, don’t get my hopes up.”

  “I won’t. That’s why I haven’t said anything.” He’s quiet for a few seconds. “Olivia, I really am proud of you,” he says.

  “Thanks. I better wrap this up.”

  “I’m glad you called. We’ll celebrate in two weeks. Deal?

  “Deal. Thanks for this weekend.”

  “You, too, baby.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “So can I go stay at Matty’s apartment sometime?” I ask my mother on our way to the loft.

  “You’ll have to ask your dad that question,” she answers. “I think he has some trust issues with his brother right now.” I roll my eyes, even though she doesn’t see me.

  “Dad seemed genuinely sad to see him move out yesterday.”

  “I think he liked having him around–no matter what, you know Jacks loves his family.”

  “More than anything,” I add, walking into the door Francisco opens for us.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Holland. Miss Holland,” he says politely. “Feeling inspired today?” he asks me.

  “I am,” I tell him with a smile. It’s the same answer I’ve given him every week, despite the fact that I never really am. Today’s no different.

  Mom smoothes down my hair in the elevator, fussing with it like she used to do when I was little. “What are you doing?” I ask her with a slight laugh.

  “Just admiring my beautiful daughter,” she says, tucking some strands behind my ear. I look at her strangely, but she simply grins at me, rubbing my shoulder.

  When we go into the loft, I’m surprised to see Dad in the kitchen, pouring coffee into three travel mugs. “Hey, Dad.” I look at my mother, who obviously knew he was going to be here. She just walks over to him casually, kissing him on the cheek. Instead of handing her a cup of coffee, he grabs a cup from the microwave from her favorite tea shop and hands her the beverage.

  “Thanks, Jacks. Where are they?”

  “Where are what?” I ask.

  “Who,” Dad clarifies, putting sugar in two of the coffee mugs. “In the studio.”

  Mom starts toward the closed door. “Mom?” We haven’t opened that door in months. I take a few steps back, wanting to leave.

  “Contessa, come here,” my dad says softly. When I don’t obey, he walks over to me and puts his arm across my shoulders. Mom waits by the door as he talks to me. “The painting you did is beautiful,” he begins. “Granna would be so proud.”

  “I hardly started it.” I start to feel as if I’m going to hyperventilate. “It’s not finished.”

  “Maybe it is,” he says as he guides me to a kitchen chair. I nearly collapse in the chair as he squats in front of me, putting his hand on my knee. “Did you ever think that maybe you were painting the void she left in your life? Her absence? I thought that’s what it was,” he says, and even though I know he’s just making helpful suggestions, I can almost believe that’s what I’d painted. “You conveyed it beautifully.”

  “Daddy, you know that’s not–”

  “Livvy,” he says as he looks at me and puts his hands on my shoulders. “For now, just accept it. And later, when you’re ready to remember her, you can begin again.”

  I stare into his kind and reassuring eyes. “Is it in there?”

  “I’ve put it away for now. It’s in storage. It’s in good hands.”

  I nod my head. I was painting the loss. The void. The absence. It was not a painting of Granna. It was a painting without her. “Okay,” I whisper, my voice shaky from lack of air even though I just took a deep breath for strength.

  “You don’t have to paint yet. But I do want you to at least be able to try. We’ve set everything up for you in the studio. And we have a surprise for you.”

  My mother finally opens the door to reveal a handsome man who my dad favors. “Grandpa Holland?” My grandfather smiles at me, holding out his arms for me. I walk quickly toward him and hug him, noticing my grandmother standing next to him. “Grandma!” I hug her, too. “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re house hunting,” Grandpa says.

  “But I love your home in Wyoming. Are we not going there next month now?” I ask. I’d been looking forward to visiting Wyoming over Spring Break.

  “We won’t get rid of those houses,” Grandma says, “but with all my kids now living in New York, and a new grand-baby and great-grand-baby on the way, this just seems like the time for us to find a permanent place nearby.”

  “They’re thinking Connecticut,” Dad says. “Maybe near Stamford.”

  “Then you could stop by and see us on your way home for the weekends sometimes,” Grandpa says. “Grandma can make dinner for us.”

  “I guess Dad told you I got into Yale,” I tell them. “I’m not sure I’m going to go there, but if I do, that sounds great.” I avoid looking at Mom or Dad, and finally glance over to my easel, relieved to see that Granna’s painting isn’t there anymore. A blank canvas rests on the small shelf by the window. It’s comforting to me.

  “Livvy, we wanted to hire you to paint some things for our new house,” Grandma says. I look first at my dad, knowing he can see the worry on my face, but then look at my grandparents. “We’d like family portraits of everyone.”

  “I’m, uhhh...” I start. “I’m a little rusty on portraits,” I tell them, knowing I’m probably a little rusty on everything, “but I can definitely try.”

  “That’s all we ask, sweetie,” my grandmother says.

  “Well,” Dad begins, walking back into the kitchen and picking up two of the mugs, “we are going to hit the road to Stamford.” My grandparents meet him in the kitchen. “And we will leave you two to your creative pursuits.” He kisses Mom on the forehead first, then does the same to me. “Just try,” he whispers.

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll see you tonight,” Dad announces after I’ve said goodbye to Grandma and Grandpa. “They’ll be staying in the guest room in the basement, Tessa, so don’t be too loud when you come home tonight.”

  “Okay. I’ll be home at midnight,” I tell him, making sure he knows I have plans with Jon.

  “Midnight,” he reiterates and smiles. “I’ll be up. And ask Jon if he might want to make a little money taking some family portraits that you can use for your paintings.”

  I smile, happy that he is inviting Jon to be involved in something, hoping that he is beginning to like him again.

  “Okay.”

  When they leave, Mom reaches into her tote bag and pulls out my yellow smock. “Just in case,” she says, offering it to me.

  I take off my jacket and pull the garment on over my white t-shirt. Mom helps me fasten all the buttons, and she smiles at me reassuringly. “That’s my Livvy,” she says simply, adjusting its collar. Just wearing it again, for the first time since Christmas, makes me feel inspired.

  “I’ll be in here,” I tell her, pointing to my studio. She nods and settles into her couch, tucking her legs beneath her body and pulling out a book to read.

  “Mix a color,” she suggests casually. “Do a couple strokes. Don’t feel like you have to create a masterpiece today. You’ve got time, just try to work your way back into it.”

  It’s good advice, because I was already feeling overwhelmed. I peer out the window in the studio, catching si
ght of my dad’s car as it pulls out of the drive. I examine two of the brushes on the work table. They’re brand new, as is most of the paint. It’s obvious my parents went to a lot of trouble to make this place workable. When I’d thought about returning to this room to paint, I imagined it would be caked in dust and cobwebs.

  I feel a sense of relief, replaying the words Dad said. Maybe you were painting the void. Maybe I was. Maybe that painting is complete. Only time will tell.

  Missing my old brushes, I search the closet until I find them, stashed away in a drawer. The well-used brush feels natural in my hand, but my muscles feel stiff. I rub my wrist and the muscles in my hand until they’re warm. It’s a ritual I had to do when I was younger and didn’t paint every day. I guess it’s something I’ll have to do now, too. Maybe not for long.

  After blending some colors, I shut the doors to the studio and open the window to ventilate the room. I pull out my iPod and connect it to speakers, turning up the volume a little louder than I should. If it was truly too loud, Mom would tell me.

  The wind blowing inside is full of smells of spring. The scents of fresh cut grass and flowers actually stand out more than the smog today, a welcome invitation to create. I close my eyes to make the first few brushstrokes, not wanting to be too cautious or careful or even mindful of what I’m painting. I just need a rhythm. I have no idea what I want to paint... just as long as I paint something.

  When the first droplet of paint stains my smock, I feel as if I’m beginning to find my way again. I’ve broken through a barrier, and there’s no turning back. My brain feels alive again, and I find it hard to keep up with the ideas it generates. This is how I work. I’ve missed this feeling. It was a feeling I could never really describe, but being without it for so long, I can identify definite things that I’ve missed. My music sounds clearer. The colors look brighter. I feel happier than I’ve been in a long time... and I hadn’t even realized I wasn’t truly happy. Tears fall from my eyes, and I let them flow, even though they cloud the vision of the artwork in front of me. Somehow, the tears make it better. They make me better. All the while I’m silently crying, a smile is glued to my face.

  The painting is abstract, to say the least, and I think if Granna was still here, she’d say it was a companion piece to Big Grey Mess, a painting I’d done that she didn’t like. I had a feeling she’d like this one, though. It seems as if every color and sound and smell of spring is represented. I take a few steps back and marvel in the first painting I’ve completed in nearly nine months.

  Mom knocks on the doors, and I invite her in.

  “Honey, I think Jon’s called a few times,” she says, only peeking in through the french doors.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly six,” she says.

  “Really?” Jon and I normally meet up around five on Saturdays. “I completely lost track of time.”

  “I didn’t want to disturb you,” she says, and her eyes drift to the canvas in front of me.

  “You can see it,” I tell her. I angle the easel toward the doorway since we’re losing the natural light of the sun. The colors don’t look as pure, but it’s still pretty.

  “It’s lovely.” She barely gets those two words out before she starts to cry.

  “Mom, don’t,” I laugh at her, tearing up again myself. She envelops me in a tight hug and holds me for what seems like minutes. When she lets go, though, I miss her. “I didn’t think I could do it,” I tell her softly.

  “I knew you could,” she says, diverting her attention back to the painting. “That would look beautiful in the foyer of the Art Room, you know?”

  “Next to where you always put the fresh flowers?”

  She nods.

  “Well... I’ll think about it,” I tell her, not ready to let go of it so soon. “Mom, I want Jon to see it.”

  “Okay,” she says.

  “Can we stay a little longer? And I’ll invite him over for a minute?”

  “Why don’t you ask him over,” she suggests, “and I’ll go pick up your brother and a pizza and we can all have dinner together here since Jacks and his parents are stopping for dinner on their way back to the city. Is that okay?”

  “That sounds great.”

  “Then you can go watch your movie after that.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  Jon shows up twenty minutes after I call. Francisco notifies me that he’s here, and doesn’t give me any trouble about it. Mom obviously told our doorman to expect him.

  “Where’s your Mom?” he asks even before saying hello.

  “She went to pick up Trey from Chris and Anna’s, and then she’s picking up dinner for us.”

  “How long do we have?” He wraps his arms around me and kisses my cheek, then my ear, as he kicks the door closed.

  “Not enough time for that,” I tell him, pushing him away gently.

  “I’ve missed you,” he says before kissing me slowly.

  I want to get carried away, but I know we can’t. “You saw me last night,” I giggle.

  “It’s never enough.”

  “I know,” I agree. “I have something to show you.”

  “Are you wearing it?”

  “You didn’t even notice!” He pulls back and eyes my smock. “Yes.”

  He takes the bottom hem of it in his hands, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes drift to the open doors to my studio. “Do you have something to show me in there?”

  I nod coyly.

  “Show me,” he suggests, putting his hand on the small of my back and following me into the adjoining room. I step away from him when he reaches the canvas, and watch for his expression. “It’s colorful,” he says with a laugh.

  “Do you like it?” I ask him.

  “It... look at it, Livvy,” he says, grabbing me by the shoulders and positioning me between him and the painting. “Do you see anything?” I can hear laughter in his voice.

  “I see colors,” I say, squinting my eyes in an effort to see what he finds funny.

  “That part there,” he starts, motioning to the bottom right corner, “looks like a pink muppet.”

  “No, it doesn’t!” I laugh. He steps in front of me and looks at me in disbelief.

  “Fur,” he says, pointing to a round shape with jagged edges, “and eyes,” he adds. Suddenly I see it and start laughing.

  “And there’s a hand!”

  “Right?” he says. “It’s an adorable little pink muppet, baby!”

  “Well, that’s what I meant to paint,” I tell him seriously, unable to keep a straight face. “I painted a muppet,” I chuckle lightly. “My grand return as a painter is a freaking muppet!”

  “It’s the cutest–”

  “Shut up!” I yell at him, playfully smacking him in the chest. “Mom thought it was lovely.”

  “She’s your mom,” he reminds me. “But all kidding aside, it is, Liv. It has a quirky resemblance to a puppet, but if we turn it this way,” he says, picking up the painting carefully by the corners of the canvas and flipping it on its side, “it looks like... a new beginning. Like springtime.”

  “That’s really what I was going for,” I admit with a blush.

  “I see that now,” he says softly. “I’m so proud of you, Livvy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You look like springtime,” he adds, running his fingers through my hair. “It could be the paint on your brow, but you look more alive than I’ve seen you in months. Those bright eyes,” he says, sounding distracted and looking even more so. He kisses me quickly, moving one hand to my lower back and keeping the other on the nape of my neck, kneading his fingers into my skin in both places. I tuck my fingers under the waistline of his jeans, pulling him as close to me as he can get.

  Out of breath, he tucks his head into my shoulder and I turn my head, pressing my ear against his heart. “Baby, I am so proud of you.”

  “Thank you,” I say again putting my arms around his body and holding him tightl
y. We separate quickly when we hear my brother’s laughter coming from the hallway.

  “Let me help you with that eyebrow,” he says with an adorable smirk, taking my hand in his and leading me to the kitchen. He finds a paper towel and heats up some water.

  “Hey, Mom!”

  “Hi, Emi.”

  “Hey, you two,” she says, holding the door for Trey who’s carefully carrying the pizza. Jon dips the paper towel beneath the warm stream and dabs my left brow. “Well?” she asks, looking at Jon.

  “She’s back,” he says with a smile, pressing harder against my forehead to get the paint off.

  “He says it looks like a muppet,” I tell her, still amused by his interpretation. He chuckles, and doesn’t deny it. “A cute one, though.”

  “Right,” he adds, finally cutting off the water and setting down the towel. He runs one hand though my hair and presses his lips to the newly-cleaned brow, holding them there for a few seconds. My heart speeds up as my cheeks turn bright pink, assuming my mom’s watching, but she isn’t.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving,” I admit, realizing I haven’t eaten today.

  “Me, too,” Jon says.

  “Sorry it took so long,” Mom says. “When Trey heard Jon was having dinner with us, he had to go home and get his mitt.” She looks at me warily as Jon and I both sit down at the table.

  “I haven’t been to the park today,” I tell her.

  “It’s the perfect evening,” Jon adds.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” she asks.

  “Pleeeease?” my brother begs.

  “I’d love to play some catch,” Jon says, ruffling my brother’s hair.

  “That won’t mess with your movie?”

  “I haven’t even looked to see what’s playing,” I tell her. “Maybe we can go back to the house and watch something,” I suggest, looking at Jon.

  “If Jon wants to see Jack’s parents...”

  “Your grandparents are here?” I nod. “I’d love to say hi.”

  “Even if that means we stay in?” Jon knows that means we’ll have no privacy tonight.

  “Sure. It’ll be a Holland family night. This could be fun. And maybe a chance to get your dad back on my side.”