A Beautiful Sin

by Terri E. Laine

  Oh, God, no. The image was as vivid now as it had been then. The young girl who came here that day…right afterward, had been her. The soft knock at the door. Oh, I should have remembered those eyes, her hair.

  Oh, God. I shook my head back and forth. “No, no, no, it wasn’t like that. That’s not what it was. I didn’t turn you away. You have it all wrong. I sent you away, yes, but not for the reason you think.”

  “Yeah? Well, you sentenced me to Hell for six more years.”

  What was she talking about? “To Hell? What do you mean by that?”

  “My uncle, the devil. Straight to the Hell of living with him. I came here for help that night. I came to see if Father O’Brien could help me escape the beatings I was getting from that fucking bastard. I could barely walk that night. I…” She wiped her cheek that glistened from her tears. “But no! You sent me away. And you know what?” Now her voice lowered to almost a whisper.

  “What?”

  “I believed you. I didn’t think I was important enough for Father’s help. I didn’t think I mattered.”

  Guilt stabbed pain into my head. I pushed back my hair, hoping for relief. Because of what he’d done to me, I had ruined this girl’s life—sent her home to live with her own monster. I wanted to scream and curse, louder than she had.

  “I’m sorry,” I muttered.

  “You’re damn right you’re sorry. You’re a sorry excuse of a priest.”

  I shook my head in defeat. “You don’t understand—”

  “What I understand is you ruined my life.”

  “You’re right. And I’m sorry,” I said again. “This isn’t much of an excuse, but I wasn’t much older than you. I sent you away because I thought it was the right thing to do at the time.”

  It wasn’t much to offer, but it was all I had. What I really wanted to do was to offer her the comfort of my arms, but I was sure she’d rather see me lifeless on the floor.

  “What? What does that mean? That it was the right thing to do?” She looked at me like I was crazy. And I was closer to it than she thought.

  Lifting my head, I found her blue eyes targeted on me. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it? I did you a great disservice, and for that I’ll ask God to forgive my grave sin.”

  I shielded my eyes from everything as my head bowed. The idea that my actions hurt this woman drove a knife into my heart. My sins deepened as my soul grew darker. The prayer I said for years popped in my head like a beacon. “Merciful Jesus, please forgive my sins, cleanse me of the darkness within, and give me Your strength to rise above my weaknesses.”

  “You think it’s that easy? To ask for forgiveness and then move on like nothing ever happened? Well, I’m sorry, Father. It doesn’t quite work that way for me. The belt buckle and the pain I felt when it gouged into my flesh each time he laid it across me, I don’t think I’ll ever forget, much less forgive. I don’t buy into your Catholic ways that easily.”

  Her words slayed me, making me feel the sting of the buckle like I was the one who’d been beaten. I jerked as though the fires of Hell had burned me. And surely they were burning me—burning my useless soul and turning it to ash. She had the face of an angel, and I was the one who ruined her life.

  “I’m sorry, and I know that’s not enough. I will regret my words to you that night for the rest of my life.”

  “Small compensation, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know what else to say,” I said. My chest constricted as though iron claws were squeezing the very life out of me. I could barely get a breath past my lips. I didn’t want her to see me like this. She stared me down and for a moment I thought I saw her eyes soften, but then it was gone, replaced by anger again.

  “There’s nothing left to say.” She spun and slammed the door behind her, leaving me to fend off the anxiety attack I tried to hide. I hadn’t had one in years, but now it was on me in full force. I thought about Father O’Brien and the hell he had inflicted on both of us. May God forgive me, but I hoped the flames of Hell were burning his black soul.

  My run-in with Father Canaan Sullivan didn’t affect my opening night at the gallery. The designers were amazing at staging my art, using my largest piece as the anchor. It was nearly life-sized, reaching to my shoulders when I stood next to it. But they’d hung it on a wall, leaving it close to the ground so it could be seen and inspected by anyone wanting to get a closer view.

  “This anchor piece won’t last,” Jonathon said as he inspected everything the afternoon before the show.

  “I don’t want to sell it.”

  He whipped his body around so fast, it almost knocked me over.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s more than a painting to me. I have an emotional attachment to it.”

  His mouth was slack. He stared at me as though my words were utterly ridiculous. And maybe they were. To him. But not to me. It was a painting of my mother and the first and best I had ever done. I could never let it go.

  “Haven, you need to rethink what you just said. That piece is why you’re here.”

  “I’ll replicate it.”

  “Buyers don’t want copies and you know damn well why. People who come to these showings want originals. They’ll want a Haven Richardson. Original.” He spit that last word out. “Got that?”

  “Yes, I get it.” My annoyance rang out with my words.

  He stomped away, anger radiating off him. Maybe I should’ve told him it wasn’t for sale before today, but I didn’t. Now I was going to have to deal with his wrath. Shit. I took out my phone, snapped a few dozen pictures, and then left before I had to cope with any more of a pissed off Jonathon.

  When I got home, I relayed the incident to Macie.

  “Paint another one, change the background and you keep it. Make it different enough so the original will be original and the owner won’t know or care if he did know. Put your mom in a different color dress, too.”

  “You don’t understand. That was my mom and my best memory of her. I am emotionally attached to that piece. It’s not just a painting to me. It’s almost as though it’s a part of her. It may sound absolutely crazy and ridiculous, but it’s how I feel about it. I painted it right after I left the hell I was living in. It was my very first major piece, too.”

  “Then I don’t know what to tell you. If you don’t sell, you risk Jonathon sending you packing, and there goes your career.”

  I held my finger in the air. “Unless I can talk the buyer into a different painting. I can explain the significance to me and maybe he or she would be willing to negotiate. If not, I won’t have a choice.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it figured out.”

  “It’s my only chance, Macie.”

  As Jonathon promised, a car showed up at five thirty to pick us up. When we arrived at the gallery, I walked her around and witnessed her stunned expression at my work. She’d seen it, of course, but not on display in such an elegant fashion.

  “Oh, Haven, you’re amazing. Look at this. All those years of sidewalk shows have totally paid off for you. I’m so proud of you.” She wrapped me in a huge hug.

  “Doesn’t it look fabulous?” Jonathon asked as he approached us.

  We agreed and I introduced him to Macie.

  After placing a kiss on her knuckles with his eyes never leaving hers, I watched my best friend blush.

  “So nice to finally meet you, Jonathon. I’ve heard great things about you.”

  She nearly stuttered out the words. Jonathon’s amused expression showed that he was well aware of his effect on women. Hadn’t I been dazzled by his handsome face and pretty words?

  “Haven, do you want to take a look at the studio to make sure things are in order? I know how you artists are with your brushes. I wanted to have all of that stowed safely away.”

  “Sure. Let’s go,” I said to Macie. “I’ll show you around.”

  Soon people filled up the gallery and before I knew it, Jonathon was pulling me every which
way. He introduced me to those who wanted to meet the artist who painted the showcased collection. And there were many. As soon as I finished meeting one person, another was there to take the last one’s place. My head spun. When the showing ended, I didn’t know if I was up or down. My throat was parched and I was losing my voice.

  Macie brought me a bottle of water, which I guzzled in one long drink.

  “Another, please,” I croaked.

  One more appeared in my hand, this time from Jonathon. I downed that one too.

  “I need to sit. Is this how they always are?”

  Jonathon bellowed out a laugh. “Oh, hell no. I knew you were special, Haven. The Chicago Tribune wants an interview tomorrow. I told them that you wouldn’t be in until noon tomorrow. You need to rest after this. We had all sorts of offers. And the large piece went into a bidding war before it sold.”

  The news punched the air out of me. “Wait. You sold my large painting and didn’t check with me first?”

  He only shrugged, as if it were nothing. “You were tied up. It’s in your contract, but you probably didn’t bother to read it. I’m fair, Haven. This is your big ticket. Soon you’ll be able to name your price on anything. You can paint whatever you want.”

  It was not anger that consumed me but raw anguish. Feelings of abandonment and loneliness invaded my soul. Once again, someone I thought I could put some faith and trust in proved me wrong. “That’s all fine and good, but I told you I didn’t want to sell that piece.”

  “I thought you’d reconsider when you heard the price it brought in.”

  “No amount of money would have been worth it.”

  There wasn’t anything to say to him anymore. Maybe Macie was right. I could recreate it with the photos I had taken of it. Right now was not the time to argue. I was too tired to make any sense, and besides, the damage was done. The dang thing was already sold. And it only reinforced another hard lesson I’d learned long ago. Don’t ever trust anyone because they’ll only kick you in the face.

  “Whatever,” I said. “But I’d like the name of the buyer, please.”

  He eyed me suspiciously. “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”

  “Not in my opinion.”

  A glass of wine appeared in my hand, along with a small plate of food. My appetite was nil, though I should’ve been starving.

  “You know, I don’t seem to be hungry. I would like very much to go home and crash.” I looked pointedly at Macie.

  “I’m ready when you are.”

  Jonathon nodded. “I’ll call the driver. And, Haven, you should know this was the most spectacular gallery showing I’ve ever had. You were amazing. Congratulations.”

  As pissed as I was, he was going to give me the buyer’s name. And maybe I could convince them to take another painting. Meanwhile, I hated to admit it, it was all because of him I was standing in that moment.

  I bit off the snarly reply hovering on my tongue and instead forced out the plastic response, “Thank you, Jonathon.” Though I didn’t feel thankful at the moment.

  “No, you owe it to yourself. Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  By the time we got home, I barely had the strength to get undressed and crawl into bed. Exhaustion plowed into me and sleep stole every conscious thought.

  Three weeks passed and my anger toward the esteemed Father Sullivan hadn’t diminished in the least. At least he’d had the courtesy to act contrite. No doubt thoughts of him sent my blood pressure soaring. And if that weren’t enough, he was one more man who had shown his true colors.

  The whole Jonathon issue with him selling my painting from under me still rankled, and I didn’t quite know what to do about it. He saw it as nothing but a giant dollar sign, but to me it was a part of my past that will forever be lost. Losing that piece almost felt like my mother died all over again.

  So I threw myself into my work, like I often did. Escaping into my canvases was my therapy. My production was off the charts according to the asshole Jonathon. Small pieces were scattered all over my workplace like litter on the streets of Chicago. It didn’t take long for Jonathon to come and collect them, claiming how spectacular they were. I ignored him. They meant nothing to me except they were a way for me to release the emotions that had built up inside me in the few short weeks I had been back in my hometown.

  Wrath fueled my artistic hands. Canvas wrapped around a giant frame so large I needed to get help from the gallery employees. It was almost the size of a wall. And then my hands went to work.

  Dark colors emerged, forming splashes in the sky. Reds, purples, grays, and navies blended into a cloud-filled sunset that looked as ominous as my life was back then. Soon the background had been shaped. Days later, as I painted, I knew what was manifesting. It was a memory.

  A young girl stood with her back facing me, posture hunched as her arms hugged her frail body. What should’ve been a shelter of the church in front of her proved to be no shelter at all. And facing her was a boy, not much older than herself. Dark-haired and handsome, whom she thought to be carefree with the world at his fingertips, turning her away and sending her back into an Inferno.

  I hardly ate and slept as my hand continued to wield colors of paint, mixing and adding touches here and there, until the memory was complete. Only the painting wasn’t quite an accurate representation of the truth. Reality had happened during the day, which wasn’t stormy. My anger had fueled the colors to create the tempest in this reflection of the past and I was positive why.

  As I inspected the finished product, I began to notice something. Canaan’s eyes. How could I have painted him and not been aware of his pain? His brow was drawn and furrowed, and his green eyes matched the incoming storm. Did I do that intentionally or did I pull that from memory?

  “Holy shit! Where is all this coming from, Haven?” Jonathon stepped in front of me to scrutinize my work.

  I was so engrossed in examining my own memories that I hadn’t noticed his arrival. “Yeah, uh, I…” There was no adequate answer, so I let my voice trail off.

  “Jesus, Haven, this is brilliant. It’s like you’ve had an epiphany or something.”

  “Or something.” The fury that had driven me could be partially laid at his feet. But I had to reserve some of it for Canaan.

  “When will it be ready?”

  “This afternoon,” I muttered.

  I put my final touches on the painting. It loomed large and foreboding before me. I couldn’t get Canaan’s eyes out of my mind. He said he thought he’d been doing the right thing. Maybe so. He had been just a kid himself.

  Stop this! Let it go! There was no resolution so it was time to move on. He was the one who screwed up, not me. I’d been an innocent then, not so much anymore. I’d lost that label long ago.

  As I stared at the painting, the pain of the beatings nailed me. I flinched, imagining the bite of the buckle as it bit into my flesh. Squinting, I looked again at Canaan’s eyes. Were they a reflection of my own? Did I displace my pain onto him? Or was it there all along?

  The brush lifted as if it had a life of its own, adding the final strokes to him before I felt it was complete. I stepped away to take my final assessment. I always looked at my work with one eye closed. It gave me perspective to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Satisfied everything was in order, I considered the painting finished.

  Grabbing my bag, I walked down to the private bathroom that was in the back for employees and artists. The first thing I noticed was the reflection in the mirror. It reminded me of my mother with her haunted eyes. Since I was planning on meeting Macie for dinner later, I changed into my extra clothes because the ones I had on were paint splattered.

  Running some gloss over my lips, I headed up to my workspace. The painting drew my attention as soon as I entered the room. It sparked with life, almost as if lightning were going to strike from the cloud-streaked sky. Once again, Canaan’s eyes pulled me in. Pain spoke loud and clear, making me want to s
oothe it away.

  What the hell is wrong with you, Haven? I shook myself, tearing my gaze away from the gigantic piece of art.

  “Miss Richardson, we’re here to move the painting.” It was one of the workers.

  “This is the one. Be careful because the paint is barely dry.”

  It took four men to move it and they placed it with the rest of my work. Jonathon was there to supervise along with the display expert to figure out where to place it. They decided to showcase it in a separate space since it was so unique and large. Undoubtedly, it would be an attention getter. How could it not?

  “Unbelievable. Just look at it, Haven.” It was Jonathon who spoke.

  “I am. It’s kind of hard not to. The thing’s so damn huge.”

  “First your interview with the Chicago Tribune, and now this—you’re going to be at the top of the A list, my dear.”

  The interview. That had been interesting. They wanted me to talk about myself. And I wouldn’t. It made for an interesting hour, the reporter trying to pull information out of my bared teeth hidden behind my fake smile.

  “Don’t try to make nicey-nice with me. You’re still on my shit list.”

  He chuckled. “It’s okay. I’ll make us both a lot of bank on this.”

  And that was that as he walked away, leaving a trail of dollar signs. I wondered if in the end it would be worth it.

  Unfortunately, he was right about one thing. The painting attracted all kinds of attention, even as soon as it was staged. Like moths to a flame, every patron who walked through the door stopped in front of it as though they couldn’t resist it. During a lull, I took a picture of it with my phone so I could show it to Macie that night. I needed to ask her a question about it.

  It was five in the afternoon when I made another round, chatting with customers, answering questions. Then I turned around and saw him.

  Father Canaan Sullivan stood bathed in light as if he were haloed. Only I knew better. I watched him for a second as his pensive expression fixed on what essentially was himself. Caught up in the intricacies of my work, he didn’t notice my approach. I took in his handsome physique. He was certainly still as striking as he’d been when we were in school, despite the fact that he was dressed in black and had that little white thing around his neck, informing the world that he was a priest.