The Bad Twin

by Avery Scott

  He hadn’t felt this way since…

  A fragment of a memory flashed through Hudson’s mind: The weekend that Colin died. He was released from jail and couldn’t reach his brother on the phone. He kept redialing the number until a stranger picked up. It was a woman at the morgue. She had plucked the ringing phone from a pile of personal effects.

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Mr. Quinn has passed away…”

  Hudson had always secretly wondered what would have happened if he never made that call. As long as he didn’t know, his brother was still alive.

  What if he had never found out about Ms. Levesque’s deception? A part of him wished that he could have continued in blissful ignorance.

  I won’t think about that now…Hudson squeezed his eyes tight as if he could physically force the thoughts about Colin and Ms. Levesque out of his mind, but he couldn’t rid himself of a chiding voice repeating one simple truth:

  This is what you get for hoping.

  Another disastrous decision by Hudson Quinn.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Abby felt like she had stepped outside of her body, as if she was watching events unspool from somewhere far away. Perhaps it was a coping mechanism. She didn’t know how she would be able to survive her pain if she felt it all at once. The night seemed to lurch forward in phases, leaving her with only flashes of memory. She registered the smug smile on Gabrielle’s face, the glowing red taillights of the limo retreating in the darkness, and the sour-smelling bus that she rode back to Brooklyn. Somewhere along the way, it started to rain, and she was soaked to the skin as she walked from the bus stop to her house.

  Home. Sliding her key into the lock, Abby anticipated the comforting embrace of the place that had always been her sanctuary, but she was disappointed. Instead of finding a welcoming retreat, the hallway was cold and dark. When she flipped the light switch on, nothing happened.

  I forgot to pay the electric bill…Caught up in the thrill of Paris, she hadn’t thought about transferring the money out of her checking account to make her monthly payment. Of course, it had never occurred to Gabrielle to take care of it. Now there was no power and there would be a reconnection fee on top of everything else. To add insult to injury, the mortgage was coming due soon too.

  It was too much. Abby surrendered to her agony, sinking into a ball on the shabby wool rug. Her arms were clasped tightly around her knees. The ruins of her silk dress puddled around her as she finally gave in to her churning emotions. Tears mingled with the raindrops on her cheeks.

  She couldn’t remember how long she laid there crying. At some point, she fell asleep. She awoke in the morning, sore and chilled, but at least the sunlight had returned. She pulled herself together and went upstairs for a cold shower and change of clothes.

  There wasn’t any hot water for tea, so she decided to walk to the corner coffee shop to plan her next move. She was surprised when she opened the front door to find all her luggage from Paris waiting on the covered porch.

  Abby knew that the items rightfully belonged to Hudson, even if they had ended up back at her house. She ought to send them to him out of self-respect, but her financial circumstances had grown too dire for pride and so she decided to return her least-favorite ensemble to the store for a refund. The clerk at Celine raised her eyebrow when Abby walked into the boutique with a bag full of unworn merchandise but didn’t argue with the receipt. The original purchase was in Euros, for which Abby had no frame of reference. Her eyes widened at the fat stack of bills that the shop girl handed over in exchange for the clothes.

  Abby didn’t count the money until she was home. When she did, she nearly wept with relief. It was more than enough money to restore the electric and pay the mortgage with a little leftover for food. It struck her as faintly obscene that a single outfit had cost so much money, but she was grateful all the same.

  Two days later, her financial situation improved again when the postman delivered a letter from Quinn Holdings. Abby clawed at the envelope with the irrational hope that a message from Hudson was inside. She deflated as she reviewed the contents: a dismissal notice, legal release form and a check made out to “Ms. Abagail Levesque”.

  For Services Rendered.

  Abby cringed when she read the notation at the bottom of the draft. Surely Imogene had been the one to arrange the payment. What did the other woman think when she typed out that line?

  Probably nothing far from the truth, Abby thought, her skin flushing with shame as she recalled the “services” that she had performed for Hudson during their all-too-brief affair. Of course, the money was ostensibly for her work as a personal assistant, but it made her feel dirty all the same.

  Did Hudson know that she had been paid? Did he think about her at all? She couldn’t decide which answer bothered her more. If she was in Hudson’s thoughts, it wouldn’t be for anything good. Yes, she had salvaged the Marché d’Été deal- but only after she was the one to destroy it. She had felt things for Hudson that she had never allowed herself to feel for any other man. Although she couldn’t be certain, she doubted that he had opened up to many people about his brother’s death. She couldn’t shake the feeling that they had been on the cusp of something wonderful. Where had it all gone wrong? Why couldn’t she have just been honest?

  Levesque women do stupid things for love…

  She forgot that her family was cursed. She was a fool for ever hoping that a relationship could work out, even if she hadn’t pretended to be her own twin sister. Levesque girls were unlucky in love.

  The only solution was to pick up the pieces and move on. The money from the clothes and the paycheck wouldn’t last forever. Abby needed a job, both for money and for human interaction, but she couldn’t find the energy to start. Instead, she retreated into the only thing apart from the house that had ever given her solace: her art.

  Some artists carefully planned out their compositions before picking up a brush, filling sketchpads with studies and drafts before starting on a painting, but Abby had always been intuitive. She started with a white space and let the muses guide her hands. “Bleeding onto the canvas” is what her Grand-mère used to call it. The expression seemed particularly apt now as she poured out her heartache into picture after picture, sometimes working all night without stopping to sleep or eat.

  Abby was an abstract artist. She didn’t paint tear-stained faces or cloudy skies, but they were implied by the blue and gray that she slashed across the work, pressing her emotions into the picture by drips and drabs. She thought about the impressionist masterworks she had seen at Musée d’Orsay. While the style of painting was different, the concept was the same. “This is the feeling of sunrise”, Monet’s picture of boats on the water seemed to say, the brushstrokes bringing the rippling water to life so well that you could almost feel the salt-mist on your face. “This is laughter and carefree joy,” Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party proclaimed. “This is emptiness,” Abby’s canvas said, just as loudly. “This is regret”.

  One week after Abby’s return from Paris, Gabrielle reappeared. The sisters didn’t speak for two full days. They bickered as children but they’d never been through anything like this before and for a moment, Abby wondered if they’d ever be able to repair their relationship. For a while, the twins simply drifted past one another in the halls like silent, resentful ghosts. Then, one morning, Abby woke up slumped over her easel with a blanket around her shoulders and a mug of coffee cooling on the table beside her.

  She walked into the kitchen and found her twin eating a bowl of cereal and flipping through a gossip magazine. Their eyes met as Abby reached for the box, but they didn’t speak. Abby ate her breakfast in silence before returning to her paints.

  Abby was still working late that evening when she heard shuffling behind her. She turned around, surprised to find Gabrielle watching from the doorway.

  “It’s good,” Gabrielle remarked, gesturing toward the painting.

  Abby shrugged
. “Good” and “bad” really didn’t have any meaning for her in the context of the paintings. She felt as if she could barely take credit for their creation. They were inside her, forcing their way into the world. She was only the conduit.

  The lack of reply seemed to give Gabrielle pause. She twisted sideways. For a moment, it looked like she was going to leave. At the last second, she took a step forward. She walked over to one of the already-completed canvasses that was drying in a corner and reached out to touch a grey-green swirl of paint that looked as if it was being devoured by a dark grey shadow.

  “You really loved him, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” Abby’s voice was rough from disuse, but she didn’t hesitate to answer. She knew that it sounded crazy. She had only been with Hudson Quinn for a few days, but it was long enough for her need to take root. Despite fear, despite unworthiness, despite reason, “love” was the only word that was big enough to wrap around the ache she felt inside.

  Gabrielle turned and took a tentative step toward her sister.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Abby lifted a hand to rub her sore eyes and shrugged weakly.

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “It kinda was,” Gabrielle reached out to take her twin’s hand. The touch was soft and warm.

  “No…” Abby had been angry at her sister at first, enraged that Gabrielle hadn’t allowed her to have this one thing for herself, but she eventually came to realize that her impulse was misguided. Gabrielle had been spiteful, but that didn’t change the fact that what Abby did to Hudson was wrong. Her twin’s arrival had merely forced her to come clean to Hudson sooner than she expected. Yes, Gabrielle had been irresponsible for blowing off the trip to Paris to begin with, but Abby was the one who decided to lie. From the moment that she stepped into Hudson’s limo, the clock was ticking down to a moment of reckoning, whether Gabrielle had returned or not.

  In a way, Abby was indebted to her sister. Without Gabrielle’s recklessness, Abby and Hudson would not have met. As bitter as it was to accept that her time with him was over, she knew that she would cling to the memories of Paris for the rest of her life. They were unforgettable. Just like Hudson Quinn.

  Abby was surprised when her sister didn’t slip off to the clubs that night, or the next. Gabrielle was uncharacteristically helpful and concerned. Abby wondered if the gravity of what she- what they- had done worked a change in her careless twin. Gabrielle was far from perfect. Her laundry was still strewn haphazardly around the house and she slept until noon, regardless of how early they went to bed, but she was obviously attempting to make amends. Abby appreciated the gesture.

  Gabrielle’s attempts at responsible behavior did not extend to paying the bills. Abby was the one who answered the door when Mr. Saint came calling to collect the rent. She was ready for him this time.

  “I have it right here,” Abby said, proudly holding out a check for two months of payments, plus the extra that she had promised. It was unusual for the Levesque twins to have the money on time. She was surprised when Mr. Saint didn’t snatch it out of her hand.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Abby, but that’s not why I’m here.”

  She frowned in puzzlement.

  “I’ve come to tell you that I’m not going to be able to carry the note anymore. Some new developers have come in and made an offer, and I’m afraid my wife won’t let me refuse. You know she handles the money in our family. Your grandmother still owed an awful lot. Unless you can come up with it in a hurry, I’m afraid I’m going to have to sell.”

  “No! You can’t do that! That’s not fair.” Abby said, her voice betraying her shock. “We’ve been making payments. We’re all caught up!”

  Mr. Saint had the decency to look ashamed. “I’m sorry. My wife will never let me hear the end of it if we pass this up. It’s enough to…well….” His voice trailed off as if he was afraid that Abby and her sister would go directly to his buyer themselves. “I’ve just got to call the note due. You’re caught up now, but you’ve been late so many times in the past that you are obviously in default…I’m sorry.”

  “How much do we owe?”

  Abby’s face went pale at the number he gave her.

  “No. That can’t be right. Come inside. I’ll show you our receipts.”

  Abby let Mr. Saint into the front hallway and closed the door. “Wait here! I’ll be right back.”

  She scurried off to the living room to ransack the drawers where her grand-mère kept her sparse financial records. Abby’s mind was racing as she dug through the clutter, pushing papers aside in search of what she needed. Momentarily spared its endless pining for Hudson, her brain shifted its energy toward figuring out some way to save the house. She still had a lot of clothes from Paris that she could return. Her watch might fetch a pretty penny too. Still, even added all together, she couldn’t imagine it would be enough to cover the astronomical sum Mr. Saint had named.

  Abby returned to the front hallway a few minutes later with as many receipts as she could find. She already knew that they weren’t enough to make a difference in Mr. Saint’s calculations, but maybe she could soften him up with a reminder of just how long they had been paying.

  Mr. Saint didn’t seem interested in the receipts, however. He looked distracted.

  “Is that a real Auerbach?” he asked, eyes wide.

  Abby followed his gaze to the painting at the top of the landing and nodded her head. “It was a gift to my grand-mère. They painted together for a while.”

  Mr. Saint took a step toward the painting. Halfway up the staircase, his attention was diverted by another work, “And a Jean Mirre!”

  “Yes. My grand-mère knew a lot of artists. She was in London in the late sixties before moving here.”

  “I’m no expert, but I’m interested in art. I think these might be worth a lot of money.”

  “Do you think so?” Abby looked over the wall. Many of the pieces were by people who never found commercial success, but there were a few by famous painters. Abby had always treasured the works for their artistic value and connection to her family’s story. She had never really stopped to consider them in financial terms.

  “Like I said, I’m not certain about their value, but my daughter-in-law owns a gallery downtown. She could give you an appraisal if you would like.”

  Mr. Saint left a few minutes later, after promising to put Abby in touch with the gallery. She watched him return to his car. Then she closed the door and leaned back against it, sinking down to a seat on the floor. She put her head in her hands, wondering how much more she could take. Not only had she lost the love of her life, now she might be out of her house. She looked over at the paintings in the gallery once again, feeling silly that she had never thought of selling them before. Would they really fetch enough money to pay for the house?

  They have to, Abby thought desperately. She had already lost enough. It was time for fate to give her a break.

  Chapter Twenty

  Hudson sat back in his black leather chair, his impeccably shined shoes propped up on his desk. He reached his hands behind his head and yawned. It was late and the office was empty. Even Imogene was gone for the evening, and she was almost always the last to leave.

  Hudson was used to burning the midnight oil. It had been like that ever since his return from Paris. From the moment his limo pulled away from the airport, he poured himself even deeper into work. Some nights, he didn’t go home at all and used the shower at his twenty-four-hour gym to get ready for work. Imogene kept his suits rotating through the dry cleaner. It was easier that way. If he went home, there would be nothing to keep his thoughts from wandering and as much as he wanted to forget about Abigail Suzette Levesque and her sister, he knew that the memories would torture him if he were alone.

  It was hard enough to stay distracted at work. Especially at the end of the day, when there were no more emails to send or numbers to crunch. He was just about to grab his gym bag to knock out a few easy miles on the trea
dmill when he noticed a light turn on in the lobby. Through the clear glass wall of his office, he was able to make out the face of a figure walking down the hall.

  What was his father doing there so late? It was after midnight.

  “Hudson, I thought I might find you here.” Walker Quinn stepped into the office without an invitation and took a seat across from his son. “Imogene said you haven’t been home to your apartment in over a week. Your mother is worried about you.”

  “Mother worries about everyone all the time.”

  “True.”

  Hudson and his father might not agree on everything but there was one commonality that had never waned. They both adored Margaret Quinn and didn’t like for her to fret about her boys.

  “So, what can I do for you dad? I was just about to hit the gym.” Hudson hoped his father would take the hint and realize that he wasn’t in the mood to talk.

  Mr. Quinn went straight to the point. “Look, son, I don’t know what’s happening with you, but you haven’t been the same since you got back from Paris. You fired the pretty girl that saved your ass and you keep delaying the final proposal for the Marché d’Été deal. I don’t get it. I’ve tried to talk to you during the day, but you just ignore my calls. I figured I’d finally corner you when you couldn’t get away. Now tell me. What the hell is going on?”

  “Nothing, pops,” Hudson said, wishing that the old man would just go away.

  “Nothing? And your assistant? You fired her because…?”

  “Abagail just wasn’t a good fit after all.”

  “I thought her name was Gabrielle?”

  “Funny. That’s what I thought too!”

  “What are you talking about? I’m confused.” Mr. Quinn looked as if he was losing his patience.

  “It doesn’t matter. Gabrielle or Abigail, or whatever she’s calling herself today just didn’t work out and I’d really rather not talk about it. Don’t worry, I’m letting Imogene hire my next assistant.”