A Storied Life

by Leigh Kramer

  “Olivia, you came. I didn't know if you were being serious. How are you doing?”

  I headed Suzy off before she could say anything else. “I'm fine, or at least I'll be fine. I already promised I would take all of next week off. Please don't worry about me,” I answered.

  “That’s impossible. I want this night to be all that you dreamed it would be,” Suzy said. She was sweet to care about my vision to that degree. She looked nervous. Her eyes darted around the gallery. There were always a bunch of last-minute details. She didn’t need to babysit me.

  “Seriously, Suz. Go on. Take care of whatever you need to,” I said, patting her arm. “Have there been any snags? Wait. I take that back. I don't want to know. You're in charge tonight.” A smile broke across my face. I could do this. The lack of responsibility agreed with me.

  I scanned the room to see who had arrived so far. Mostly my staff scurried back and forth while the artists of the hour held court with friends or family arriving early. I couldn't see Reagan and guessed he was on the other side of his exhibition wall. I wouldn't let myself look at the canvases on the backside of his wall. Reagan would show me his work soon enough.

  I made the rounds quickly, starting with the left side and working my way over to Reagan who was stationed on the right. I'd hand selected these artists and barely been able to work directly with them. Claudia and Malachi didn't disappoint me with their offerings and neither seemed to mind working more with Suzy than me. How easily I'd been replaced.

  The gallery turned out to be a fickle mistress and it stung. This was why I couldn't make up my mind about my future. The moment I settled on a new direction, the rug got ripped out from beneath my feet. At this rate, I'd question my career choice for the rest of my life.

  I finished talking with Malachi and told him I'd check in by the end of the night.

  “Have fun,” I told him, then started walking toward Reagan.

  His back was toward me but he turned around as I drew near, as if he sensed my presence. I lifted my face toward his for a quick “we're in a professional setting” kiss.

  “You look beautiful.” Reagan took my hand and held it out as he took in my knee-length navy blue wrap dress. A wan smile settled on my lips.

  “How are you doing?” He peered into my eyes, seeking the truth.

  “I'm fine,” I deflected. “How are you doing? This is going to be a good night for you, I can feel it. I'm so proud of you.”

  “You haven't even seen anything yet. Or have you?” His brow furrowed.

  “No, I saved the best for last.” I slipped my hand into his. I couldn't see any of the canvases from where we stood. “Let's go.”

  His hand held me fast. I looked questioningly at him.

  “Before you look, I should explain,” he started.

  “Reagan, I don't need to hear about your technique or inspiration. We've already talked about this. Stop worrying,” I admonished him with a laugh. “I'm going to love it.”

  With that, I broke away and headed toward the wall, my eyes taking in the whole wall before zeroing in on an individual canvas toward the bottom. My smile sank. Hot dread crept through my body.

  That couldn't be. There had to be some other explanation. My hands shook at my side.

  The canvas featured a cacophony of colors in the background. It shouldn't have worked but it did. I knew that because I knew the woman featured in the foreground. Her head was turned to the side in contemplation and reflection, her peaceful expression a stark contrast to the explosion behind her.

  Beneath the painting, a placard read “Untitled by Olivia Frasier.” I’d painted it the night I'd shared my secret with Reagan. Unable to sleep and feeling frustrated, my raw emotions poured out on the canvas about my hypocrisy since college. A canvas no one would ever see.

  Benoit’s cutting words in Paris taunted me. “You’re a fraud, Olivia. Anyone who sees your work knows you’re no good. You didn’t deserve to be here and you never will.”

  The gallery lights burned hot and I swayed as I looked at the canvas in disbelief and horror.

  I turned my head back to look at Reagan for an explanation. When I saw the hopeful expression on his face, my heart turned to lead.

  “What did you do?” I hissed, mindful of the people nearby.

  “Olivia, I can explain. Remember how you said you wondered what it would be like to see your painting on display,” he started. He took a step toward me, but I held up my hand.

  “Don't you come near me. How could you?” I asked, my voice growing louder. No answer could make this right. How could he do this to me? Shock pinned me in place.

  “A couple of weeks ago you asked me to pick a few files up for you.”

  “That painting was not out in the open, Reagan. You went through my stuff?” I shrieked. The room stifled me. A wave of dizziness came over me and I regretted not eating anything before coming here.

  “This is too good to hide away in your closet,” he said, his eyes pleading for me to understand.

  “So you went behind my back? Who else has seen this tonight?” I felt naked and exposed. The lights were too bright. Was everyone staring at me? The room closed in. My hand slid over my heart as if to protect it. My breathing sped up and I couldn’t control it. I couldn’t control the panic welling inside. Nausea crept over me. I clutched my stomach and bent over. Oh God, was I going to throw up? Reagan reached out to touch me but I straightened back up and took a step backward.

  “I didn't go behind your back,” Reagan said before catching the scorn on my face. “Yes, I convinced Suzy that it should part of my display. And no, I didn't ask your permission to do this. But I knew you'd say no. You've been stuck and I wanted to do something good for you.”

  “Good for me? What part of this is good for me? You know why I don't show my work. My family barely knows I still paint. Gram just died, for fuck’s sake. Publicly humiliating me is going to make me feel better?”

  Zanne, Patrick, and Suzy were drawn in by my raised voice. As were many of the early arrivals, though most guests remained a respectful distance away.

  “What's going on?” Zanne asked.

  I pointed at the painting. “That. That is what's going on. Reagan decided to take what isn't his and put it up for display. Just like men always do.”

  “That's not fair, Olivia,” Reagan said in a quiet tone. “I was trying to do something nice for you.”

  “You son of a—” I stopped, searching for a suitable put down. Weren't there any male slurs that didn't also insult women? “Fuck you, Reagan. You know this was wrong. You keep pushing me for something I’ve told you I don’t want.” I couldn’t believe this was happening.

  “I don't understand,” Zanne interjected. “What's wrong with the painting? Oh my gosh. Olivia, that's your name under that. You painted that?” She moved closer to look.

  Weariness overcame me. My secret stripped of its sacredness. “Yes, I did. But it wasn't his to put up here.” Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. Not now. If I hadn't cried at Gram's funeral, I would not cry here. He didn't deserve it. I had to keep it together. I had to get out of here. I looked wildly around the room but there was no escape.

  All my pent-up sadness and frustration came streaming down my face. I struggled to breathe. I couldn't remember what my therapist had told me about times such as these. It was too late to stave off the damage. I understood now why everyone had worried about me—I had broken in two.

  A sob escaped me. Zanne turned around at the sound of my plight. No one knew what to do. They exchanged glances at each other in my peripheral vision. Their uncertainty shoved me toward action. It had to come down.

  I charged toward the canvas, nearly elbowing Zanne out of the way. I tried lifting it off its brace but the backing held. I started to claw at the wall for leverage.

  “Get it off. Get it off of here! Why did you do this to me?” I screamed at Reagan. Panic consumed me. I yanked at the canvas but it wouldn't budge. “This has to come down
!”

  Zanne and Patrick moved in to restrain me but I fought their arms. My tear-streaked face met theirs.

  “You have to help me,” I begged them in between sobs. “Take it down.”

  “We will, I promise,” Zanne soothed, rubbing my hand. “Patrick, take care of it.” She barked at him as Suzy came flying over.

  “Take her to her office,” Suzy directed. “I'll get the painting down. Olivia, I'm sorry. I didn't know you didn't know.” Her expression turned anguished. I couldn't respond to her apology. Nothing mattered except getting the painting down and going home.

  I didn't see anything as I let my friends escort me away. More guests were arriving for the evening. None of it mattered now. Reagan jogged over to us before I could escape to the back room; he reached over Patrick to grab my shoulder. I flinched at his touch.

  “Leave me alone, Reagan,” I said in a wooden tone. He had broken my heart, just not in the way I'd anticipated.

  “No, Olivia. We need to talk this through.” His hands cupped my face and he forced me to look at him while Patrick and Zanne stood to the side, ready to intervene. His remorse rang through loud and clear, complete with a stricken expression.

  “You're right,” I responded, suddenly calm. “Let's talk about how you betrayed me.”

  He looked taken aback. “Betrayed you? That's what you think? I was trying to inspire you to move forward. To practice what you preach.”

  “Ah, yes. And this was clearly the best time to do it. Surprise your grieving girlfriend with her worst fear.” I wiped the tears from my eyes. Each angry word empowered me. I would not let him win.

  “That's, that's not what I meant to do and you know it,” Reagan said, exasperated. “You're not thinking clearly right now. You need to go home and sleep and then we'll talk.”

  “No, I think we're done talking now. In fact, we're done. Period. I don't want to see you again. Suzy can handle anything you need in regard to the gallery. But we're through.” I stared him down, flinty in my resolve. I may not have fought back against Arturo but I'd be damned if a man railroaded me again.

  “What?” Reagan looked shocked, his eyes filled with torment. “You don't mean that. We can talk this through. You can't throw our whole relationship away over one mistake.”

  “I'm not the one who threw it away, Reagan. You did.” The tears returned but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing my weakness.

  With that, I marched past Patrick and Zanne and into the back room. As the door closed behind me, I collapsed.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I woke up Saturday determined to put this behind me. I left my phone on silent, ignoring the accumulating calls and messages. Sunglasses on, I made a quick trip to the local art supply store and loaded up on materials. I should have done it years ago. I overlooked the total on the receipt and immersed myself in an artist colony for one.

  Sunday the first gift appeared, a bouquet of orange and pink gerbera daisies. The next few days saw the latest CD from one of my favorite artists, a book I’d mentioned wanting to read months ago, and a peanut butter-filled confection from Molly's Cupcakes. A brief note accompanied each token, black ink highlighting Reagan's strong block letters.

  The gifts showed how well Reagan knew me. I died a little more inside each morning after the knock came and I was left with the latest symbol of his affection. A week ago, it would have meant everything. A week ago, I would have plotted how to return the favor of drive-by gifting.

  Five days had passed since my meltdown at the gallery. The knock resounded. I grimly noted I'd been waiting for it. I squinted through the peephole. Delivery time, as usual. I lifted myself on tiptoes to see out the door from all angles. I would not open the door until I was sure the delivery man had left. There, at the edge of the doormat, sat a paper coffee cup from Teapot.

  He was good. I would admit that much.

  I edged the door open and moved toward the cup.

  “I thought that would lure you out.” I jumped as his voice came from around the corner. He came forward until we were a few feet apart from each other. I picked up the cup and smelled its contents. Irish Breakfast tea. The jerk.

  “What do you want, Reagan?” The will to fight drained out of me. This would be like ripping off a Band-Aid.

  “I'm sorry about Friday night. You have to believe me,” he said. His hair was mussed up in all directions. He looked terrible. Serves him right.

  I wanted to believe him. With all of my being, I wanted to forget the debacle and ask Reagan how the crowd responded to his paintings, whether there were any sales, if he regretted moving to Chicago, if he regretted meeting me. Then I remembered my canvas hanging there and the fear and humiliation washed over me again. I couldn't forget.

  I leaned against the edge of the doorframe, watching as he shifted on his feet. His discomfort made me feel more comfortable. I was not overreacting.

  “Why did you do it?” My voice stayed steady. I didn't want to cry my way through another conversation.

  Reagan sighed and rubbed his eyes with his hand. “It was a mistake. I get it now. I didn't think it would remind you of what happened in Paris. I didn't think I would be the asshole in this situation.” He looked up at the hallway ceiling for guidance. “I wanted to do something good for you. You deserve to be happy. I wanted returning to the gallery to be something hopeful and exciting for you, a new direction.”

  He thought he knew best. He pushed me in a direction I wasn't ready for, the same as Benoit. Not exactly the same as Benoit, I amended, but this hurt more.

  “Gram's dead, Reagan. What makes you think any of this matters now?” I gestured blindly, conjuring up images of the gallery and oil paints. “This is who I am. You can't force me to be different.” I accepted my fate.

  “You are so much more than you give yourself credit for.” He tried to hold my gaze. His hands stayed awkward at his side. We were so used to affection with one another, it was foreign to converse apart from it. The thought of his touch made me squirm.

  I gave myself credit for this though. I refused to let another man define me, not even one who stubbornly only saw my good qualities. He couldn't put me on a pedestal. It hit me why he had.

  “I've been going over this in my mind, trying to figure out how you could possibly justify what you did. You can't fix me, Reagan. I'm not Katie. This is not some second chance to make things right,” I said, my words low and harsh. Shock reflected across his face. “I am not perfect and generous and compassionate. I have flaws and you don't get to choose how I deal with them. That doesn't mean I won't try to be a better person along the way. But you either accept me as I am or you don't.”

  His eyes were wide and incredulous. “You think that's what this is about? I know you're not Katie and I'm not trying to fix you. I love you, Olivia.”

  He loved me. He loved me? I tripped over the words. This admission changed everything and nothing. I didn't want this kind of love.

  I fiddled with the door handle with my free hand. A smile played at the corner of my mouth, a self-betrayal. He hurt you, I reminded myself. I wrapped my fingers around the hurt and held it close. It was the only way to get through this.

  “You don't love me. Love doesn't do that.”

  “You're wrong about that, Olivia. People make mistakes. You can't choose how a relationship will unfold. We're both going to screw up and argue. There are going to be bad days but that doesn't mean the good isn't there. We're good together,” he said. He drew strength from the certainty he was right. He would talk this out until I came to the same conclusion, but I wasn't convinced.

  “I love that you are a mess of contradictions,” he said to fill the silence. “You love baseball as much as you love art museums. You have tattoos and you volunteer at a nursing home. You wear these vibrant bold colors but you don't avoid the darker elements of life. You bicker with your family but you'd defend them to the core if anyone messed with them. You love fiercely but I’m learning you expect that lo
ve won't last. There will never be a day that you won't intrigue me.”

  We had been good together, but it wasn't enough. I couldn't forgive him for this. He might not understand the root of his actions but I did. History would repeat itself. I couldn’t take another risk.

  “I expect it won't last because it never has,” I finally said. My champions left me sooner or later. I'd been lucky to keep Elaine and Gram for as long as I had. “Point proven. Please don't come back anymore.”

  “Don’t do this, Liv. You promised me you wouldn’t shut me out the next time there was a problem. We need to talk this through.” Reagan took a step toward me but I backed away. Too little, too late. “You honestly won't forgive me for this?”

  I stared into his eyes and tried to find the man I thought knew me better than anyone else but all I could see was his betrayal. All I could see was pain.

  “I can't.” I looked at the cup in my hand before setting it back on the doormat. Then I shut the door.

  * * *

  “Knock, knock,” Kristy yelled, letting herself in with a key I'd foolishly given her years ago. I scrunched my eyes closed. The point of not answering the phone was for everyone to leave me alone.

  She sidestepped the canvases and papers strewn about the room and made her way to me. Kristy hovered over my head, sniffing the air. I poked her in the side. “Just because I'm a hermit doesn't mean I haven't showered. I have some standards.”

  “Just checking,” she said. “You don't call, you don't write. It's been a week since I heard from you. I'm worried.”

  She sat down next to me on the couch. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a loose braid and she wore her usual uniform of a basic navy T-shirt paired with bootcut jeans. “Zanne filled me in about the exhibit.”

  “Of course she did,” I said, staring straight ahead.