She looked around her. The sycamores nearby, naked on this bone-freezing November day, stood like stalwart sentinels over the entrance. Despite being ten minutes late due to the late arrival of her replacement at the coffee shop, Athena paused to admire the patchwork bark of the closest tree, with its palette of colors in grays, browns and mauves. She wondered briefly how she could capture that unique mix of shades with her palette knife. The sycamore’s bark beckoned to be captured in oil.
Such beauty.
No time.
She shook herself and continued on her way, through one of the double, glass entrance doors, and on up the stairs to the third-floor painting studio. A second-year student at the Art Institute, a prestigious private art college a subway’s ride from her parents’ Alexandria condo, Athena had graduated two years before from an American private high school, the same college prep school where her brother Chris was currently enrolled. There had never been a doubt in her mind what field of study her college degree would entail. An avid artist since she could wield a crayon, she’d gained admission based on a thick portfolio and hearty recommendations from a variety of art teachers and gallery owners. She’d already had a small exhibit of her landscapes and still-lifes in an Alexandria gallery and in a small but prestigious gallery in Kensington, their English home.
As she entered the vast painting studio, she noted their instructor wending her way around the easels, pausing to make comments about the students’ work-in-progress. Their assignment that week: Paint a portrait from a photo, using oil or acrylics, and choose a palette and style which reflected the mood of the piece and the essence of the chosen individual.
Her friend, Mikayla, looked over and, with rolling eyes, made a head gesture, as in, Watch out, the Wicked Queen has a bug up her ass. Her straightened, flowing, black locks in a Cher hairdo, Mikayla came over to Athena’s easel as she began to set up her tools.
“She’s busting all our humps today,” said Mikayla, leaning over and touching Athena’s shoulder. Her African-American friend was tall, statuesque, and worked as a part-time photographer’s model while she attended the Institute. This was a fact Athena found exciting, if a bit scandalous, for her high-school mates had been as conservative as their parents. Though her major was Interior Design, Mikayla loved to paint almost as much as Athena. Her friend returned to her easel but threw a warning gesture back over her shoulder.
When Mikayla touched her, an image had intruded into Athena’s mind, along with an emotional message. Her friend’s thoughts were on other matters today. Lusty ones. In Mikayla’s words, she was as horny as a horndog. Whatever that was. Athena still hadn’t mastered all the American slang. Without thinking, she replied, “Don’t worry, your bearded man is coming along nicely.”
Mikayla did a double take. “Dude, how did you know I’m painting a bearded man? You can’t see my canvas. I didn’t tell you, ’cause I wanted to surprise you.”
“Didn’t you?” Athena assembled her paints, brushes, and bottle of mineral spirits on the table next to her easel. Mentally kicking herself, she prepared the one-inch wide brush she’d need for the pale background, which she’d start first. The outline and some of the details of the man’s face were already drawn onto the canvas, but she was waiting for…for what, she couldn’t say exactly. Inspiration, a power from The Flow, that mysterious Otherworld her mother had guided her into and out of over the past years of her youth. Athena pulled out her own photo.
“I thought you mentioned it last week,” she added with feigned innocence. “Anyway, I knew you’d paint him. He’s your, what shall we call him, the new squeeze in your life? Oh, look here, Mikayla, what do you think of this chap?” Although Americanized, thanks to her father’s posting in the States for the past six years, Athena still lapsed into British terms and slang, although lately, mostly just on a whim or for humor. Any time she wanted, she could turn on the Brit talk and make her American friends smile. Sometimes she milked it, other times she even forgot she’d slipped back into her former accent and idioms.
“Ah, you’re going English on me, are you?” Mikayla gave her a peculiar look, even as she did her best upper-class British imitation. “Trying to distract me, luv? I know I didn’t tell you I was painting Jerry. I swear, Athena, someday I’m going to find out how you do that. It’s either some kind of parlor trick or you’re some friggin’ psychic. Now, let me take a look at your model.” A slow smile stretched her pretty, red-lipsticked mouth as she took hold of Athena’s 5x7 colored photo. “Ooh, he’s a hottie. How do you know him? And what’s the uniform he’s wearing? It’s not a British army uniform, is it? I thought you had no boyfriends in England.”
Athena elbowed her friend while she tacked the photo to the upper left corner of her canvas’ wooden stretcher. Professor White, their hypercritical art instructor, was fast approaching, a perennial frown fixed to her face. The woman walked like she was stalking her prey.
“He’s just a friend of the family, the son of my mother’s distant cousin. I think he’s a sheriff’s deputy, lives in California.”
“Good-looking.” Mikayla’s black eyebrows were arched with curiosity, “Are you sure you don’t have a thing for him? Like a crush from afar?”
“Absolutely not. Besides, he’s too old for me. My mother wanted me to paint him, that’s all. She wants to give it to her cousin as a Christmas gift. I don’t know why.”
Actually, Athena did know why. Her mother had confided a secret about the Skoros family, the California-based, Greek-American family her mother’s cousin, Lorena, had married into. Lorena Skoros was of the Delphi bloodline, the same as Anna and Athena. Lorena and Anna had met each other long ago in Como, at Nonna’s after Papa Trementino died four years ago. There, at the lake’s edge, the three older women—Nonna, her mother Anna, and Lorena—had kissed Athena’s cheeks after giving her a solid gold medallion. On the front was an embossed Athena, the ancient goddess of knowledge. The back was inscribed with Athena’s initials, AATB (Athena Anna Trementino Butler) so any members of the Bloodline would be able to trace the female line by their maiden names.
“Well, that’s bizarre,” Mikayla said, “Why would your mother want you to paint his portrait? He’s not your boyfriend.”
Athena shrugged. Lorena was the mother of four handsome, strapping sons and possessed precognitive powers which surpassed even Anna’s. The woman had seen a foreshadowing of tragedy within her own family, the sudden death of one of her two youngest sons. But Lorena wouldn’t tell Anna which son’s death she had foreseen. Therefore, she wanted Athena to paint the two sons, beginning with the youngest.
She put off Mikayla’s curiosity with a shrug. “Mom wants me to do portraits of two of her cousin’s sons. I’m just starting with this one.”
Was it this young man’s fate their cousin Lorena had foreseen? After all, he did work in a dangerous field, law enforcement. Athena stared at the photo, ignoring Mikayla’s stare. The man’s dark eyes appeared to sense his own pending demise. His thoughtful, even brooding, stare into the camera made her shudder.
I hope he’s not the one.
Engrossed in his photo, Athena looked up to find her instructor glowering at her. Edith White was a middle-aged woman of average height and weight, who seemed to have the Napoleonic complex of a short man, as if she were always trying to compensate for her insecurities by criticizing others. Their theory for her denigrating behavior toward others was that she was so insecure in her own artistic merit she often ridiculed others’ work. White was not Athena’s or Mikayla’s favorite instructor at the Institute but despite it all, the woman knew her painting techniques. She was a capable painter and had been featured in many one-woman exhibitions in the most renowned galleries in the D.C. metropolitan area. They knew this because she displayed the promotional posters of her exhibitions all over the studio’s walls.
“You haven’t begun, Miss Butler?” The instructor scowled at the white-gessoed canvas. On the white surface, an outline of the subject in pencil
was visible. “And you were late, I noticed.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I work every morning at the coffeehouse down the street. We were swamped and the other barista came in late. Drop by, Professor White, and I’ll treat you to a free coffee drink.” Athena tried a weak smile but not even her offer would dislodge Dr. White’s scowl today.
“I told everyone to prepare for today’s class by painting in the background, to spend class time on the subject, itself. You haven’t even begun the background.”
Gee, she’s like a pit bull with a bone. “I made a sketch, but that’s all. I haven’t decided on the palette yet. Perhaps you can suggest something.”
Although Athena had already decided the mood direction and color scheme of her portrait, she knew enough to soothe the always-ruffled feathers and insecure ego of their instructor by soliciting her advice.
“Hmm,” White murmured, gazing at the photo of the handsome, dark-haired sheriff’s deputy, the close-up photo an obvious professional one meant for the Sheriff’s online roster. His proud mother, Lorena Skoros, had sent it to her cousin Anna the month before. His thick, dark hair was parted on the side, his mouth masculine but sensual, his jawline and chin strong and angular. Her mother wanted Athena to capture his other qualities, his intelligence and courage. Although her mother knew him well enough, Athena had never met him. How could she capture a stranger on canvas?
With her imagination, that’s how.
And the aid of last night’s dream, a romantic fantasy in which she’d flung herself into his strapping arms and he’d kissed her passionately. They’d begun shedding their clothes when, unfortunately, she awakened. Long before their romance could reach a satisfying climax.
God, I am so horny.
I do have to get out more.
A heartbeat later, I need a boyfriend.
Mikayla had returned to her easel a couple of feet away, but Athena knew her friend was eavesdropping.
“He’s a friend of the family, but I don’t know him personally,” explained Athena, feeling more than a little foolish. Her focus turned back to the painting and the sketch she’d made. Tempted to touch Dr. White to find out what the woman really and truly thought, Athena nevertheless resisted the impulse. Going into the dark, troubled corners of that woman’s mind was a temptation she found wise to resist.
“I see,” was White’s noncommittal response.
“I mean, because I don’t know him, I’m not sure how to portray him. He’s handsome, to be sure, but there’s also his intelligence and courage, which according to his mother and mine, he has in abundance, how can I show these traits?”
Athena waited for the woman’s pearls of wisdom, or at the very least, a modicum of guidance.
Dr. White gave a loud harrumph and gave a dismissive shake of her head.
“Such is the very challenge of this assignment,” she said archly, and moved on to scrutinize Mikayla’s canvas.
Right, Athena thought. Well, thanks a lot.
Her gaze returned to the young man’s face, and then his trim build in a pale gray, snug-fitting shirt. She got nothing. Maybe if she emailed him, or called him and heard his voice, she’d get a clairvoyant feel for him. Then, it hit her. She would portray the young man full of hope and optimism, since his proud mother was wishing beyond the vagaries of Fate her son would be spared an untimely death. That she was mistaken. After all, their powers weren’t foolproof. At times Athena received images and thoughts that were difficult, even impossible to interpret. They were all first and foremost human beings, and humans were always fallible. One of the lessons her very wise mother had taught her these past ten years.
“Really, Miss Vega? Another boyfriend?” Doctor White’s assessment of Mikayla’s choice of subject had already met with mockery. “A world of topics surround you, and all you can paint are your boyfriends.” The woman made a tsking sound. “Your background is too busy. Your focal point will be lost in all the jumble, the focal point being his face. Or perhaps that is exactly your objective.”
Poor Mikayla! Nothing could please their instructor.
Their instructor moved on, out of earshot. Athena peeked around the girl’s canvas and observed her friend’s angry, flushed cheeks.
“Hey, never mind what she says.”
“I know, don’t get my knickers in a knot. Ain’t worth it,” was Mikayla’s flippant stance. “I’ll paint Jerry so hot, even Dr. Cold Fish will be panting over him.”
Athena gave her friend a thumbs-up and returned to her own subject. His dark eyes challenged her to see into his very soul. Okay, Mr. Kyriakos Skoros, let’s see what you’ve got, you sexy-but-too-old-for-me California chap.
She dipped her wide brush into the spirits, squeezed it dry, and then swabbed up a bit of pale gold acrylic paint. No, too dark. She wiped it on her palette, then added some arctic white to the dollop of pale gold and made a rough, stucco-looking mixture. Using some medium, she diluted the mixture a little. Whenever she thought of California, she imagined hills of pale gold grass. Or colorful stucco houses with palm trees swaying next to them. With her palette knife, she’d give the background a somewhat rough texture. With that in mind, she slowly covered the background with yellow ochre mixed with titanium white. She figured this was a good plan to start with, by golly.
His dark, good looks—well, they’d stand out against such a background. His handsome face—she’d imbue his face and eyes with hope and optimism.
Background first, Mr. Skoros’ soul next.
Hope and optimism, everyone needed it.
****
Anna drove from the Georgetown restaurant, where she’d just had lunch with her husband, Trevor, and his secretary, Winston Blake. They were knee-deep in preparations for an evening reception to honor and cap-off the British Prime Minister’s visit to the United Nations General Assembly. Her help was necessary, and both Trevor and Winston were depending on her to engage the PM’s wife during the UN’s two-day assemblage. Since this was to be the wife’s first visit to Washington, Anna was expected to take the woman under her wing and entertain her with visits to the Kennedy Center, various monuments, and of course, a special observation of the Senate floor in chamber. A formal dinner at the White House was on the schedule, naturally, and therefore a shopping visit might be included. The PM and his stylish wife, as Anna reminded her husband and Winston, had very little free time for fluff, but by the end of the lunch meeting, Anna had agreed to make a list of possible forays among the D.C. glitterati and places of interest.
She took the right-hand exit off Dupont Circle, drove another four blocks, and down into the parking garage of a station of the Metropolitan Police. She punched in the security code she’d been given and watched the steel bollards recede into the asphalt. A policeman at the booth checked her ID, made a phone call, and within a half-minute, waved her through. She took the prescribed visitor’s parking stall and turned off the engine of her BMW sedan. Puffing into her leather gloves, Anna closed her eyes to center herself. These visits always disturbed her, shook her to the core. Still, she could not stop. No more than she could stop the sun from rising in the East. Her husband would disapprove —no, he’d be furious—if he knew what she was doing twice a week.
Trevor, a lovely man in his own right, displayed more understanding and patience than the average man. Didn’t he occasionally say, with tongue firmly in cheek, that his forbearance was one of his finest qualities? To marry a gifted clairvoyant and father a daughter who’d inherited her mother’s whatever-it-was required the wisdom of a King Solomon. Anna quite agreed, and she made a point to remind him of her gratitude and admiration. After all, men needed affirmation in the face of interminable mystery.
The elevator rose with seeming slowness while Anna’s quick mind turned to thoughts of Athena. Her daughter had thrived in the U.S. and had loved her private school in the Virginia countryside, as did Anna and Trevor’s sixteen year-old son, Chris. Having Athena under the family’s roof had enabled Anna to gently guide her bea
utiful blonde daughter along the treacherous journey of their shared mental powers.
With Anna’s guidance came the wisdom of secrecy, also. She’d admonished her daughter to keep her clairvoyance a secret from everyone at her school and their social circle of expatriate Brits to their American friends and acquaintances, from their Butler family in London to their neighbors in Alexandria. Only Nonna’s family in Como, Italy knew the truth and extent of their powers.
Trevor insisted that his career not be jeopardized by any claim of her “psychic powers” for fear such a claim would make him an object of ridicule. Laughingstocks did not keep positions in the Foreign Office for long, unless they were willing to languish in some Godforsaken part of the world. How would you like a post in Timbuktu, my dear? Well, then…
Poor Athena! To be burdened with such powers and such a secret! However, her daughter had wisely agreed to secrecy for the benefit of her father and their family as a whole.
The elevator doors hissed open. Standing there to greet her was a tall, husky man, of whom she’d grown quite fond. Detective Gino Palomino—she even adored his name—shook hands with her. His touch sent a frisson up and down her spine. The man was in a dark mood. Her stomach, full from lunch, plummeted to her knees. Bile rose in her esophagus and tears sprang to her eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“You know, then?” he asked, staring at his hand, then her gloved one. His angry gaze traveled up to her face. “You know we found her? Right where you said she’d be, where you saw her. Under a pile of discarded cardboard and rags, by an old, broken streetlamp. That sonuvabitch, he strangled her and left her in a filthy alley. And he left no trace evidence behind. He’s either extremely clever or extremely lucky.”
Athena's Secrets Page 2
