by Gun Brooke
Outside, the weather was nice and quite warm in the sun. Spring was on its way. Tiny mouse-ear leaves had sprung from the branches of the maples. People had started to fill planters with pansies and other flowers, which presented a colorful backdrop to the old brick buildings.
The sidewalk wasn’t entirely congested with pedestrians, which made me sigh in relief. Not sure how Hayden handled being jostled by stressed-out business people, I suspected she found it nerve-racking. Even I wasn’t feeling the love whenever I tried to navigate among a bunch of rude and careless people. No doubt I’d been guilty of hurrying along sidewalks a few times in my life, but I never shoved people aside to get ahead.
The crowd became denser when we neared the block hosting several restaurants. Hayden walked closer to me, her eyes darting back and forth between the faces of the oncoming people.
“It’s all right. We’re almost there.”
“Good.”
Glancing down, I saw her right hand working around her brushes, a now-familiar sign of increasing tension. “Listen, why don’t you walk on the other side of me?”
“Yes.” Hayden rushed to my right.
“Better?”
“Yes.” Hayden’s breathing slowed.
I tried to imagine being this sensitive, to feel so exposed and vulnerable. No matter what, she was damn courageous to brave the surroundings like this.
The Grande Gusto sat tucked in between a bookstore and a boutique. From my many previous visits, I knew the restaurant combined rustic ambiance with a contemporary Tuscan elegance. Avoiding red-and-white-checkered tablecloths and runny candles in old wine bottles, they’d opted for cream-colored linen, dark wood, and brass light fixtures. I love the versatility of Italian cuisine and knew this place wasn’t all pizza or pasta.
As we approached the entrance, much to my dismay, a line of people waiting to get a seat had formed along the wall. I’d lined up here before, but today that wasn’t an option. Glad I’d called ahead, I squared my shoulders and had to remind myself not to put a protective arm around Hayden’s shoulders. I remembered her reaction to Ulli’s friendly touch.
“Hey, ladies, there’s a line here.” A man dressed in a three-piece suit raised his voice and waved from the back of the queue as I motioned for Hayden to enter.
“We have reservations.” I bared my teeth at the guy, daring him to object. He didn’t, but a woman in front of him put her hands on her hips.
“They don’t take reservations. Not during lunch time.” She frowned. “We’ve waited twenty minutes already.”
“We—we should go. I should go.” Hayden was pale now and kept her hands pressed into her pockets. “This was a bad idea.” Her eyes, huge and dark, showed she was about to turn and run. Breathing in staccato bursts, she started to take a step back.
“Cut it out, lady. Can’t you see that girl needs to get inside?” A middle-aged African-American man shook his head. “Just go. You’ll be fine.”
Got to love Boston, I thought as I ushered the now-trembling Hayden through the door. She didn’t even notice my hand against the small of her back.
The maître d’ guided us to a horseshoe-shaped booth in the inner corner, away from windows and prying eyes. Hayden more or less threw herself in as far as she could get and sat there, panting and clutching her brushes in her pocket.
“Hey, we made it. Take your time to find your bearings.”
Hayden blinked rapidly. “I already have my bearings. I know exactly where I am.”
“Of course. I meant, regain your calm so you can enjoy the food.” I worried I sounded too condescending, but Hayden seemed to take my words at face value and nodded.
A waiter showed up with our menus and poured some ice water.
I studied Hayden furtively when she opened the leather-bound menu and started looking at it. I soon realized she was reading through the entire thing, and when the waiter appeared to take our orders and began to list the daily specials, I interrupted and told him we needed more time.
Closing the menu several minutes later, Hayden looked calm again. She wiggled out of her coat and didn’t look like she needed to clutch her brushes anymore.
“So, what are you having?” I motioned at the menu.
“Minestrone soup. Carpaccio. Stuffed portobello mushrooms.” She nodded with emphasis. “I like starters. Small dishes.”
I smiled in a way that felt soft and brilliant and completely different from that teeth-baring growl I’d offered the pesky woman outside for scaring Hayden. “Wonderful. I’ll have some soup as well and their famous antipasti platter.”
Hayden nodded again. “That sounds good also.”
I got the waiter’s attention and placed both our orders after seeing Hayden go rigid at his presence. Was it because he was a stranger? Or was it the setting? Hayden had never seemed shy or apprehensive with me, so that suggested it was more the situation. Or perhaps the chemistry between us benefitted Hayden’s equilibrium? I sipped my water. “I’m so glad the first master class started out well.”
“It was rewarding. I found it interesting to watch the students work without Maestro Gatti. He’s not a good teacher. He…” She looked up against the ceiling, as if searching for words. “He did not allow them their own thoughts or ideas. He didn’t want them to be themselves but to mold them.” She regarded me cautiously.
“You’re correct. I know Gatti from before, as you might have understood. He tried to pass himself off as an Italian maestro and fancied himself as the new Leonardo da Vinci. I wasn’t alone in bursting his bubble, but I helped.” I shrugged. “I guess I can be pretty scathing when I’m angry.”
“I never showed him my work. My grandmother always tells me to be careful who I show my paintings to. She says my heart is in them and I should be cautious. I don’t always understand what she means, but she is right about Maestro Gatti. He’s not trustworthy.”
Certainly not with anything containing Hayden’s heart, I thought grimly as I envisioned Gatti slashing at the beautiful paintings with his contempt—mainly because he had enough expertise to see they were amazing and to hate Hayden…My mind slowed to a halt. Could that be one of the reasons he’d been so horribly venomous toward her? Had he in fact seen some of her pieces and recognized her talent? Thinking about it, I found it logical but decided not to share this idea with Hayden. It would distress her, I just knew it, and I wanted her to relax and enjoy the food.
After eating our soup in silence, Hayden dug into her carpaccio with enthusiasm. She might not be so capable of expressing her emotions verbally, but I found nothing obscure about the way she enjoyed her food. She hummed around the first bite, looking so beautiful when she did, I lost my breath. I guessed her beauty wasn’t of the type that turned heads for being overtly sexy or sensuous. Instead she possessed a quiet loveliness that grew with each moment, and it certainly pulled me in.
The expression “moth to a flame” came to mind, and I tried to backpedal. My presence in Hayden’s life was that of a mentor, perhaps a future business associate. No matter how the muted light in the remote booth ignited golden highlights in her hair or her full lips closed around her fork in such a way it made me think of kisses, I had to focus on what was best for Hayden. I was great at business and sucked at relationships. That was the bottom line. I could not regard this woman in a romantic or, God forbid, sexual context. Her life was challenging as it was.
Hayden picked this moment to look up at me quizzically. “Is something wrong with your antipasti?” She pointed at it with her fork.
“Oh. Oh! I’m sure it’s fine. I got lost there for a bit.”
“But you’re here. You’ve been here the whole time.” Hayden frowned.
“Yes. You’re right.” I speared a piece of salami and added a large green olive to my fork. Chewing on them, I could tell they were delicious, but I really didn’t care. I couldn’t look away from Hayden, and I understood I was in trouble. I needed to snap out of this unwelcome bout of attraction and enter dama
ge-control mode.
Chapter Seven
Hayden declined my offer of coffee. She seemed content to sit in the booth, studying people as they came and went in the restaurant. Her dark-gray eyes glittered as something caught her attention. She tilted her head as she fumbled behind her. I was about to ask her what she was looking at when she pulled out a pencil from the inner pocket of her jacket. Another pocket held a small pad, and Hayden flipped it open and began sketching. She kept glancing at something, or someone, behind me.
I scooted closer around the semicircular booth and watched Hayden draw a portrait. I didn’t hide my interest, as it didn’t seem to bother her. Casting a furtive glance at whoever had captured Hayden’s attention, I saw a woman in her eighties sitting next to a man who looked slightly older. She put butter on some bread and handed it to him. He regarded it as if he didn’t quite understand what to do with it. The woman cupped his hand with such love and raised it to his mouth. The man took a bite, and the sheer joy on his face made my breath catch. The woman smiled at the man, perhaps her husband, and her expression was so beautiful, yet bittersweet.
I shifted my gaze to Hayden’s sketchpad, and I suppose I shouldn’t have been so surprised, but I did find it astonishing how she’d captured the woman with what seemed just a few strokes of her pencil. What struck me were the woman’s wistful expression and the aging beauty of her finely wrinkled face. Hayden drew her with such…such love, I realized, and this was in part what kept my throat from working as it should. I tried to swallow in spite of the lump lodged there, and it took me a few tries before I managed to speak.
“An amazing portrait, Hayden,” I said, my vocal cords obeying with obvious reluctance.
“She has an interesting face,” Hayden said, sounding distracted. “She looks the same age as my nana.”
“You must miss your grandmother.” I rested my head in my hand as I reveled in the pleasure of observing her work and listening to her alto voice.
“No.”
“No?” Taken aback, I tried again. “I mean, do you miss living with her?”
“Yes.” Hayden gave me a “what a stupid question” look before she returned her attention to her sketchpad.
I fell silent, not knowing what to say next. I witnessed the tender portrait of the woman develop, done with a sensitivity that contrasted starkly to Hayden’s matter-of-fact words.
“My nana will never live in her house again,” Hayden said, startling me.
“What? No?” This fact had to be devastating for both of them. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. Her doctors say she needs a level of care impossible to administer in her home. It’s old and would need major reconstruction.”
It was clear Hayden was repeating verbatim what the health-care professionals had told her. Her voice was, not indifferent exactly, but rather laconic. I found myself considering how a woman of such a controlled demeanor displayed such clear and obvious emotions in her work. Hayden’s eyes met mine; they’d literally darkened to black. Of course. This was where her feelings could be glimpsed: behind the lenses of her eyes. Just because she struggled to articulate them didn’t mean they weren’t pouring out in other ways.
“What sad news. Is it possible for you to live in your grandmother’s house on your own?”
Hayden didn’t blink or shift her attention, but the way she gripped her pencil showed this subject distressed her.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to smooth things over. “It’s none of my—”
“I want to, but I can’t.” Hayden placed the pencil on the table, patted it with gentle fingertips, and closed the sketchpad. She didn’t reach for any of her brushes but clasped her hands on the table. “My nana’s house is a bungalow. One floor. I cannot live like that. Not alone.” Her words lacked intonation, but sadness radiated off her.
“Are you uncomfortable being on the first floor?” I wanted to ask if she was afraid of the dark, but the question sounded too patronizing.
“Yes. Alone. At night. I don’t handle darkness well. I panic easily and believe I see faces in the windows. My mother lets me stay at the school as this is my only option.” Hayden now sounded forlorn, as if her circumstances weren’t merely less desirable, but also confusing to her. Frowning, Hayden seemed to wrack her brain for words. “She said I could have my old room back at her house, but it’s impossible for me to paint there.” Hayden’s fingers twisted around each other in what looked like a human Celtic knot.
“Which is the same as saying it’s impossible for you to live there.”
“Yes. I haven’t stayed with her since I was fourteen.”
Remembering the article about the custody battle, I decided never to mention that India and I had Googled her ourselves. Not to make myself look better in her eyes, but not to hurt her. I understood so much more now. “You can’t stay in the home you shared with your grandmother because of how it’s built. What about a condo above the first floor somewhere? Surely there are better alternatives for you than the school?”
Hayden’s lips grew tenser. “Condos are filled with strangers. I may meet them in the hallways or the elevator. They’re also badly lit. I couldn’t paint there.” She cleared her voice. “It’s better now that I have the key. I don’t have to be afraid of all the sounds when it’s dark.”
“Your mother…” I was unable to go on. I didn’t want to poison the moments with Hayden by bringing up her mother constantly. I gripped the edge of the table hard with one hand and fisted the other on my lap.
“My mother sees me as a burden.”
“That’s wrong on so many levels it’s crazy.” I was rather impressed with how calm I sounded when I really wanted to slam my fist into the table. “I don’t pretend to know anything about your childhood or your family dynamic.” I dislodged my hand that was gripping the table and placed it, relaxed and palm up, on the tablecloth. I knew she wouldn’t take it, but I hoped the gesture would convey I meant what I said. “I’m sure you have good reasons for thinking the way you do, but I can’t fathom anyone not liking you.”
A series of expressions dashed across Hayden’s face as she processed my words. I had come to realize how her mind worked to some degree, and now I saw how she mulled everything over.
“Do you like me?” Hayden folded calm hands on the table before her.
“I do. Very much.”
“You don’t know me.”
“If you mean it’s not logical, you’re probably right. I’m going with my gut feeling here.” I shrugged and knew I wasn’t explaining well, using too much imagery.
“Our emotions are processed in our brains,” Hayden said. “Do you mean you trust your stomach more?” She wasn’t being facetious; her eyes gleamed with obvious interest.
“Surely you’ve heard the saying before. Gut reaction? Gut feelings?” I struggled to clarify. “I think it comes from the strange sensation I can get in my stomach when I feel something strongly. Good as well as bad.”
Considering this explanation, Hayden nodded once. “I see. I have experienced this when I have a dentist appointment. It makes me think of parasites invading my body.”
I was impressed, even if I wouldn’t compare my liking Hayden to a parasitic infestation. Still, this was the first time I’d witnessed Hayden work her way through a metaphor—and somehow it was special. Perhaps I was reading too much into it, but the connection between us felt genuine.
“I tend to think of this tickling as butterflies. Sure beats the idea of parasites.”
“You prefer insects?”
“At least the imagery of butterflies.” I grinned now, sensing the lightheartedness emanating from Hayden.
“They are more aesthetically pleasing. Their wings allow for excellent color studies. It’s one of my goals, to achieve the gradients found only in nature.”
“I’d love to learn about that and the rest of your goals,” I said. “The way you paint tells me you have a very special gift. I’m still trying to grasp the f
act that you’re an autodidact. You’re an enigma when it comes to your work.” And she was an even bigger mystery regarding how she lived her life and managed on a daily basis. Especially when life sent her hurtling into the unknown, like her grandmother’s stroke had.
I blinked in surprise when it dawned on me that Hayden was now studying me intently. Swallowing, I envisioned her gaze as a light touch on my face and neck. She seemed to memorize my form, and I began to feel self-conscious. I had to prevent my hands from smoothing down my hair or straightening my shirt.
“You are a puzzle also. It’s what my nana says when she tries to understand someone. She calls her friend Mrs. Coya a riddle comparable to one of Fermat’s mathematical theorems.” And there it was, Hayden’s rare, faint little smile. It transformed her face, gave it an iridescent sort of life, so appropriate somehow. And it unnerved me, for some reason, making me clench my jaws. “I have spent enough time playing cards with Nana and Mrs. Coya to understand the analogy. This woman changes personality several times during a single visit.”
“Oh, my. Really? Sounds exhausting.” Chuckling, I forcibly relaxed my jaws and reached for my coffee.
“No, merely interesting. Well, perhaps tiring for her.”
Laughing out loud now, I checked my watch. “I have to get back to the gallery soon.” I wondered if I sounded as regretful as I felt. I didn’t want to leave Hayden just yet—not when we were having this lighthearted conversation and she’d lowered her guard even further. This in itself was puzzling, as I got the impression from Luke and the other students that they considered Hayden somewhat of a recluse. Was I reading too much into her opening up to me? Was it because she realized I understood art? Or something instinctive and personal? I told myself to not get carried away. I was starting to scratch the surface with Hayden, and if I became pushy, she might withdraw.
“We need to leave.” Hayden stood and held her jacket in front of her. She glanced around the restaurant. It was half-full by now, and the tables closest to the door were empty.
