A Storied Life

by Leigh Kramer

  “I let you have some time before barging in here. Maybe too much time. Liv, you can't shut me out right now. If you didn't just have your ass kicked by life, I'd be a little ticked you never told me you were still painting. But it's not about me. This is about you. And Reagan. And, oh yeah, the fact that you're still painting!”

  “I'm not trying to shut you out,” I said. Her eyebrows rose with her patented “don’t BS me” expression. “It's not you personally, it's everyone. I wanted some time and space to clear my head before I show my face at the gallery again. I made such an idiot of myself,” I moaned.

  “Don't be ridiculous. There was so much champagne flowing there, no one will remember. Zanne said there weren’t that many people there then anyway and Suzy smoothed everything over. Now be a good Livvie and spill the dirt.” Eternally brave Kristy knew no bounds when it came to me. As my oldest and best friend, I let her help me pick up the pieces.

  I haltingly shared my humiliation. The shock of the painting, my hysterics at the event, my parting words with Reagan. Even if she didn't understand why I'd quit painting publicly, she knew some things needed to remain private until I deemed them otherwise. I updated her on the presents and his visit two days ago.

  “Oh my gosh, that's so sweet of him,” she squealed. I shot her a dirty look. “What? It is. You can be pissed off at him. I get it, I do. He deserves our wrath. But you can't deny the cuteness of someone leaving you a gift on your doorstep every day.”

  “That's not the point, Kristy. He humiliated me. At my work. He broke my heart, like I knew he would,” I added, my face in my hands.

  “Stop it right there,” she admonished me. “I believe we've arrived at the root of the problem.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, relieved she saw it so clearly.

  “For too long you've had this self-fulfilling prophecy when it comes to relationships.”

  Wait. What? I gave her a side eye.

  “I'm not going to name the names in your dating graveyard, but this is your pattern. Everything's going fine and then you drop them.”

  “That's not true,” I retorted. Was it? “Were you not paying attention? Reagan hurt me. I am mortified people saw my name attached to that painting.”

  “Zanne texted me a picture of it and it's great. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  I groaned at the thought of more people seeing it.

  “Did you hear what I said?” she asked. I looked at Kristy and raised my eyebrows in question. “I said your painting is great. You're so consumed by this junk that you're overlooking the fact that not one person ridiculed your work and that, according to Zanne, it was praised by a local critic who was there early. At least until you tried to rip it off the wall.”

  Praised by a critic? That didn't make sense. I had spent hardly any time on the painting. Somewhere deep inside I hoped I was talented enough to belong with the artists and painters, but it wasn't my lot in life.

  Kristy was on a roll now. “And let's get one thing straight—Reagan made a mistake. He did not do this deliberately. Did he have bad timing? Absolutely. Was his heart in the right place? Definitely. I mean, he gave up some of his exhibit space for you, Liv.”

  I hadn't considered that last part. Reagan's income was dependent on how much of his work sold. He'd still made room for my painting, believing it would bring a measure of joy to me.

  “I've watched you go through this time and time again and I let you because those guys were just average guys. They didn’t really mean anything. But I can't do that this time. Reagan is a good man and he cares about you. You guys can get through this. Relationships take work and you will regret it if you don’t take a chance on him,” Kristy finished.

  “Are you done?”

  “For now.” She was already strategizing how to defend her points.

  “Thank you,” I said, throwing my arms around her for a hug. She'd given me much to think about. “I don't want to hear any of it and I don't think I can forgive Reagan but thank you for saying it anyway.”

  “Well, it's a start,” she said. “Now show me what you've been working on.”

  I took her on a tour of watercolors, acrylics, and oils. Color studies, landscapes, and memories. Almost every inch of the dining area was covered in artwork.

  “I can't believe you didn't show me anything sooner,” Kristy said, setting down my rendition of Gram in her wedding dress.

  “You know how screwed up I am so it shouldn't surprise you,” I said.

  “We're all screwed up, Liv. It's how we handle our mess that makes the difference.”

  I carried the morsel like a worry stone, something to be smoothed out and processed over time.

  “Gram wanted me to use this time to figure out what to do with my life but I don't know what that means. She said there wasn’t one right answer, but I wish there was.”

  “Take it one step at a time,” Kristy said. “For now, you'll go back to work and figure out if you actually like working at the gallery. If you don't, then you'll figure out what comes next. What did your grandma always say about decisions? Something about choosing whatever is the best story? That's what you do.”

  * * *

  Gram died. Gram was dead. She had passed on. I turned over verbs and tenses, trying to find the one that would make sense.

  She was sleeping with the fishes. For all her Southern gentility, she appreciated a good Mafia reference. It must have been the proximity to Chicago and Al Capone's crimes.

  What did her death mean to me?

  My detached behavior during the funeral and misplaced outburst at the exhibit embarrassed me. We knew Gram was going to die; her slow decline wouldn't let me forget. I didn't understand why I'd been caught off guard. I had to express my grief or it would consume me. Painting would only take me so far.

  Some days started out fine until I remembered. Some memory would sweep over and bring me to my knees. Kleenex accompanied me wherever I went. It was better to be prepared.

  I couldn't think about Gram's death without thinking about Elaine and Dad. When the trifecta occupied my mind, I'd want to call Reagan, only to face that loss as well. I was furious with him for abandoning me during this time, even if I was the one who broke up with him. It had been wonderful until the exhibit, or so the script went.

  That's the nature of grief, intersecting with every avenue of our lives. As I'd learned before, life went on. I returned to work. Friends took me out for drinks and good music and let me talk, or not. Some weeks I found solace in company and others I stayed home.

  Suzy and I had a long talk my first week back after Gram died, resulting in my loyal assistant preparing to become my partner in Madison Gallery. She'd flourished with the extra responsibility while I was on medical leave and I wanted some slack so I could decide my place there. The gallery was in my blood and I couldn't conceive of not being there.

  However, I needed to get to the bottom of my discontent, which was how I found myself returning a phone call to the bereavement coordinator at Sanctuary Hospice. I didn't want to repeat the same mistakes anymore.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sunshine and a crisp wind ushered in Thanksgiving Day. We gathered at Gram's house for our first holiday without her. Gram had stipulated in her will that her grandchildren had first dibs on the house. Marcus, as the executor of the estate, had sat us down to determine the interested parties. While we all had fond ties to the house, most had their own homes or no need for a house of this size.

  Except for my brother Ian, a strange yet fitting lord of the manor. Laura had announced she was pregnant, with twins no less, last month. With their dual-income and a strong sense a Frasier should keep the family home going, Ian and Laura decided to buy the house. It was a complicated procedure, since the original mortgage had been paid off years ago. For whatever reason, Ian and Laura would buy it so no one could later contest the wording of the will. I wasn't sure what that said about our family.

  My brother and sister-in-law hadn't yet f
inished the paperwork or moved in so this was still Gram's home. We took over the kitchen to prepare the usual holiday favorites. A gorgeous turkey, creamy mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and a plethora of desserts. Last year Gram had directed us on the cooking sequence. I'd assumed the responsibility would then fall to Elaine.

  Instead of naming a new Keeper of the Kitchen, we fell to our tasks seamlessly, helping each other out as needed. The little kids set the table in the dining room, as well as their own table set to the side. I remembered how important I'd felt when I was old enough to move to the grand oak table with the grown-ups. Ian and Laura would need to continue that tradition, I decided.

  As we sat down, the gaps were obvious. Oh, there wasn't any additional room at the table thanks to a few kids who had graduated ranks. We remained cramped and crowded but it didn't distract us from missing Gram and Elaine. We rallied through dinner. The conversation turned to sports, as always, current events, and the type of winter we might expect.

  I glowed looking around the table at my family. When Gram died, I wondered whether I'd want to spend time with my relatives but the weeks before and after her death brought us closer. It wasn't perfect by any means, but it was better.

  I felt a pang as I took in all the couples. While we were together, I'd thought Reagan would accompany me for the holidays this year and I keenly felt his absence. I shook off the melancholy.

  Before dessert was brought out, Uncle Dan tapped his water goblet and stood up. His chair scraped back, drawing our attention to him. He looked down at the glass in his hand and stayed silent a moment.

  “It is hard to be thankful after a year like the one we've seen,” he said. “We've faced more loss than any family should. There are a few people who should be joining us at the table who are not. We are grateful for their lives, sure, but we wish they were here.”

  Candlelight danced on my relatives' faces. We clutched our own glasses, uncertain where Dan was headed.

  “Thanksgiving compels us to remember the good in our lives, even when it's hard to see. I am grateful for this family and that we don't have to go through this alone. And I am grateful for what a sister like Elaine and a mom like Ella May brought to my life. To all of our lives.”

  “Mom would be so happy that we're together today. Ian and Laura, I hope you'll continue to let us take this house over at the holidays,” he directed toward them. We all laughed as Ian shrugged his shoulders in acceptance.

  “I don't really have anything else to say. I just wanted to take a moment to reflect.” He cleared his throat. “To Mom and Elaine.”

  We lifted our glasses and clinked, echoing his toast. The names of the dead had been mentioned. We had turned a page from the old order.

  As Dan sat down, Marcus' chair scraped back as he stood up. The chatter stopped as we all turned his way.

  “Thank you for that, Dan. That was a good word. I agree Mom would have been happy today.” He swirled the content of his glass before scanning the table and landing on me.

  “I would like to propose a toast to Olivia. Olivia, stand up, please.”

  My mouth dropped open. I didn't know where to look or what to do. Was this a joke?

  “Stand up, stand up,” everyone encouraged. I looked at Mom for reassurance. She smiled at me. “Go on, Olivia. Stand up.” I slowly stood up, ready to bolt at any moment.

  “Olivia, I owe you an apology,” Marcus said.

  I grasped the back of the chair for support. Truly, what was happening?

  “When Mom announced that she wanted you to be her POA, I did not handle it well. You and I have had our differences over the years and I was pretty sure you would not serve her well. But you proved me wrong. You gave of your time, money, energy, everything, to take care of her during her last few months. You were sleep-deprived but you didn't complain. You fought for what she needed. You even fought me,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. Everyone chuckled.

  “Mom died well because of you.”

  My eyes filled with tears. It had taken time but I'd finally accepted that Gram had protected me by dying while I slept. I hadn't failed her after all, though I would always be able to come up with ways I could have done better. I hadn't realized how much I needed to hear those words from him.

  “Your tenacity, compassion, and determination have done this family proud. Thank you, Olivia, from the bottom of my heart. To Olivia,” he directed, raising his glass high.

  “To Olivia,” everyone responded, as glasses clinked around the table.

  Tears slipped down my cheeks. I didn't know what to say. Marcus walked around the table until he reached me.

  “Can you forgive me?” he asked amid the clamor. I was in shock. He really meant it. He asked forgiveness for a lifetime of hurts. This was our chance to start fresh.

  “Yes,” I said, smiling through my tears, at peace. We would need time to see where this truce led us but I didn’t want to hold on to resentment anymore. I wanted to move forward. Everyone clapped as we hugged for the first time since my childhood.

  Which made me wonder—if I could forgive someone I'd deemed unforgivable, why couldn't I forgive Reagan?

  * * *

  The next morning Madison Gallery prepared for the onslaught of Black Friday. We didn't open any earlier; there was no point in competing with half-price laptops and TVs. However, we usually had a steady stream of shoppers and it was a good way to trim down our inventory, as well as sell art classes and other tie-ins.

  I combed through the back room for overlooked stock. I'd finally gotten around to organizing the mess so it was not as time-consuming a process as usual. The staff looked ready to handle whatever came their way, which meant it was time for me and Suzy to sit down.

  Things had changed since shifting responsibilities. My passion for the creative aspect of art was no longer a secret. I openly kept supplies in my office and at home for whenever the mood struck me. Anxiety built whenever someone asked to see my work but I didn't feel as exposed when sharing it anymore.

  I owed this freedom to taking on more of the workshops at the gallery. While I'd filled in as teacher for the occasional kids’ class, I broadened my scope. I enjoyed watching the children and teens learn as they improved their skills. I wanted to build their confidence too. No matter what they decided to do in life, I wanted them to know they could accomplish it.

  Seeing the possibilities through their eyes, I accepted how much pride I took in this work. I’d never envisioned myself as a businesswoman but it suited me, whether due to my Frasier roots or because that's just who I was. Owning the gallery gave me new insights about myself. I wasn't settling by working there and it was possible to feel fulfilled even if I didn't paint professionally.

  Almost three months had passed since Suzy and I mapped out responsibilities and discussed the future of Madison Gallery. We needed to talk through what worked and what still needed to change. It was time to make her an official co-owner as well.

  “It almost doesn't seem fair to leave the staff to defend themselves against the holiday shoppers,” I told Suzy as we sat on the couch in my office. “Almost.”

  Black Friday was a successful day for the gallery but it was not my favorite day to be open. We caught each other up on projects and discussed potential snags. When I told Suzy her trial period was over and I wanted her to come on board, she jumped off the couch and hugged me. I could barely understand her excited chatter so I smiled and nodded, certain she was saying good things.

  I laughed at her. “Let Mei know the good news and figure out how you’re going to celebrate. But for now, we still have lots to talk through. The next exhibit is just a few weeks away.”

  The December exhibit was combined with a holiday party for the neighborhood, which local shops participated in. While everyone enjoyed themselves, there was much more planning that needed to occur. Personally, I looked forward to replacing my memory of the last exhibit with something more festive and light.

  This sparked Suzy's
question. “Have you talked to Reagan at all?”

  I gave her a pointed look. “No. You're the one dealing with his pay out.” I tried to move the conversation back to neutral, professional ground.

  “He still asks about you, you know.” Butterflies flurried at the news. He still had an effect on me and I hated it. She looked at the mock up for the holiday newsletter, instead of me.

  “It's time we both moved on,” I said. “What do you think about the newsletter?”

  Suzy set it down and looked at me. “What I think is that you and Reagan had a bump in the road and you both need to get over yourselves and then kiss and make up. If you won't do it for yourselves, then do it for everyone around you.”

  I couldn't hide my shock. “What are you talking about?” Since when did Suzy address my personal life? Since I'd let her, I guessed. Stupid lack of boundaries.

  “I know you think you're doing better because everyone knows you're painting and you're teaching more here. In some ways you are definitely happier than you were last year at this time. But have you looked at yourself in the mirror? You can't admit you miss him or that you might have overreacted.”

  “Overreacted?” I sputtered.

  “Hey, I get it. If I'd been riding high on caffeine, grief, and little sleep, I would have taken out everyone in the whole room. He admitted he made a mistake, Olivia. Cut him some slack.”

  “He told you that?” I didn't know how I felt about them talking about me.

  “He won't quit talking about you. I call him to say another piece sold and he turns that into a question about how you’re doing,” she said, arching her eyebrow at me.

  “If he cares so much about me, then where has he been? I needed him,” I said petulantly.

  “He's leaving you alone. Just like you told him to. He might care but he's not stupid.”

  I looked down at the mock up in front of me. How had he not given up by now? My heart and head warred with each other. For as much as I'd moved on, I hadn't dated anyone else and I hadn't stopped thinking about him. It had been foolishness on my part to start dating him in the first place. Everyone knows grief and romance don't mix well together.