by Julia London
“I noticed. The whole thing looked a little angrier to me. The lake looked angry. The sky looked angry. The woman in the chaise longue staring at me looked absolutely furious. That wasn’t anyone we know, was it?”
She’d forgotten the hastily added self-portrait. His remarks were a revelation. “You know, you’re right. I hadn’t realized how pissed off that scene is.”
He laughed again at her surprise. “There is something familiar about that painting. Reminds me of a similar painting I saw at a bistro in town. My mother finally managed to drag me out one night. I noticed a painting there with a similar view of Lake Haven. It’s a little more cheerful, however.”
That damn painting. Warmth flooded Mia’s face. “The Lakeside Bistro,” she said.
“Right.”
“My parents own it.”
“Oh yeah?” he said, smiling with surprise. “I’m no expert, but I thought there were some similarities. I have to say, I liked the happy Lake Haven. It made me want to buy a boat.”
Mia had never explained to anyone what that painting meant to her, and especially not her parents. But she looked at Brennan and said, “Would you like to hear the God’s honest truth about that painting?”
He blinked. “Yeah.”
“It’s a view of Lake Haven I absolutely love—it’s the view from my grandmother’s porch, which is just below the bluff here,” she said, pointing to the lake. “I have always loved the lake at sunset. The water looks so pretty then, with the coral and gold of refracted sunlight turning to deep greens and browns in the shadows. And the hills in the background are always the perfect shade of blue.” She’d painted hazy forms of distant houses dotting the lake’s southern shore. And there was a ghostly form of a sailboat puttering back to dock.
“I agree. I thought it was beautiful.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “It was my senior oil-on-canvas project and it took me weeks to perfect. I thought it was some of the best work I’d ever done. I can honestly say I’ve never been prouder of another piece.”
“You should be. That’s pretty cool to have your painting hang in a local restaurant,” he said.
“Right.” She looked down at her lap.
Brennan touched her hand. “So what’s wrong?”
Mia looked at Brennan. “It’s my parents’ restaurant.”
“Still—”
“No, you don’t get it.”
“Then tell me,” he said. He looked interested. He was listening.
“That painting was good enough to be included in the student auction at Benjamin Autry Art Gallery during my senior year. That’s a juried show, and it’s a huge honor to be selected. But the best news was that it sold at auction for eight hundred dollars to an anonymous art patron. Eight hundred dollars!”
“That’s fantastic,” he agreed.
“Actually, it was unheard of. My professor was floored. And I thought, yes, I really do have talent. The thing is, my professors were never as effusive in their praise for my work as they were for others, and one of them had even suggested that maybe painting was not the right path for me. But when that painting sold, it said to me I could really be an artist.” She suddenly laughed. “I had this image of my work showing up on the walls of all these fancy Manhattan apartments, and people would see them on some real estate show.”
“If it sold, how did it end up in your parents’ restaurant?” he asked.
“The anonymous art patron? Turned out, he was my dad. Only I didn’t know it. It was a surprise. Dad even drove up the bidding just so that it would be a splashy sale. And I didn’t know any of that until Christmas, when he surprised me with an unveiling at the bistro.”
“Ah.” Brennan winced. He understood.
Mia didn’t tell him that she’d been so stunned to see her best work hanging in the bistro that she’d been incapable of speech, her thoughts and her tongue tangling in confusion. Or that knee-buckling realization that the buyer wasn’t a curator of fine art who would set off her career at all, but her father.
“So what’d you say?”
She shrugged. “Nothing. I was shocked. And hurt. And bewildered,” she admitted. “But Dad? He was so damn proud, so excited. Champagne toasts were on the house,” she said, sweeping her arm as she remembered him that night. “And then he took me around to introduce me to the diners as his daughter, The Artist.”
Brennan smiled sympathetically.
Mia shifted her gaze to the lake. Time had dulled that particular ache, but the reality of her situation had brought the whole incident into sharp focus. That’s the sort of thing that happened to wannabes.
Brennan said nothing, just quietly let her think about it. “You know, I’ve never told anyone that before,” she said softly. “I mean, I would rather die than have my dad know how disappointing the whole thing had been. I don’t think he’s ever really even thought about how expensive that painting is. Way more than eight hundred dollars.”
“How so?”
“It’s the only thing to have come out of my pricey art degree from Pratt Institute. Oh, the irony!” She laughed ruefully, then looked at Brennan a long moment. What had possessed her to tell him? What had made her open up the vault of deep, dark secrets and give him one? “It’s weird—I’ve never told anyone the truth, and yet I just told you. Why is that?”
“You must feel pretty confident. It’s hard to top stink,” he said.
Mia laughed.
Brennan grinned and casually twined his fingers with hers. His touch reverberated up her arm, tingling in its wake. They were holding hands. Everything in her brain screamed no, but Mia liked it.
“You know what you said about your success not matching your potential?” she asked. “I think mine has gone the other way. My success has surpassed my potential.”
“Hey, you’re only starting out. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“I don’t think I am. I’ve been trying to break in for years, and I have a painting in my parent’s bistro and a fascinating career in asking workers to pick up their trash. I didn’t get here by chance.”
“Come on,” he said, tugging at her hand.
“No, really,” she said. “You know how it is when you go out with someone for a long time, and you think you’re so in love, and then you break up—sorry,” she added apologetically.
He waved her off. “And?”
“And you break up, and then some time goes by, and you see that person on the street, and you’re like, how did I ever think he was the one? I’m starting to wonder that about painting and art. I was in love with it for so long, but it hasn’t worked out and now I am wondering—how did I think that was it?”
He said nothing, just quietly watched her.
“I think I’m being practical. I have a degree in fine arts and I can’t find work. I can’t find anyone who is interested in my work. And you know what else? August Brockway said I suck.”
Brennan’s expression didn’t change. “Who is August Brockway?”
“Just one of the most important American artists today. I studied him in school.” She laughed bitterly. “I emulated him. There’s some irony for you.”
“Art is in the eye of the beholder,” Brennan offered.
“No offense, but I wish I had a buck for every time someone said that to me.”
“Yeah, okay, so the only thing I have is clichés.” He smiled a little. “But I hear what you’re saying.”
“No you don’t. You’re being nice to me. I’m just babbling.”
“You’re not babbling.”
“Most people believe that if I can paint Lake Haven like I did, that I should be able to do that all the time, and people will buy my paintings. But it’s nothing like that. Art has to find its audience. Probably music, too, right?”
“Right,” he said quietly. He tugged on her fingers. “And August whoever is one audience. He has one opinion. You have to believe in yourself. Sometimes when no one else does, you have to believe harder than ever.”
Mia appreciated his effort, she did. But she never understood why people had such a difficult time accepting the truth about themselves. She could accept it. She didn’t like the truth about herself, but she could accept it. She smiled at him.
“Uh-uh,” he said, and lowered his head with a dark look of exasperation. “That is a patronizing look.”
“No it’s not!” she insisted, but her cheeks were blooming with her lie. “How’d you get so wise, anyway?”
“I’ve had my share of hard knocks.” He casually stroked her face. “Look, Mia, there will always be all kinds of critics if you’re going to travel an artistic path. If you buy into their shit, you will lose yourself in it. Don’t make that mistake.”
He caressed her cheek again. It was surprisingly soothing. Mia’s heart swelled with appreciation for his effort. Her veins swelled with a rush of blood. She wanted to lean into his caress, put her head on his shoulder and feel his arms around her.
“I have a far more serious question for you,” he said gravely.
She’d already said too much. “What?”
“What else is in your lunch bag?”
Mia laughed. She leaned over the bag, stuffed her hand inside, and pulled out a little baggie full of Oreo cookies. “I thought it might be a long day,” she said.
Thirteen
Funny how things worked out when he wasn’t paying attention.
Brennan hadn’t planned to walk down to the bluff. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about Mia since running into her at the hardware store; he had. But he’d been too caught up in developing the music for a feature film to seek her out.
The work he was doing was hard, much harder than anything he’d done in a long time. For days he’d been working to find the right rhythm, the right chord progressions, the right tone. He was growing his seed of an idea, working it around and over itself, erasing and rewriting, erasing and rewriting, for days and all night. The music was what consumed his thoughts.
But something was missing from the work he’d done this week. A spark, an illumination that Brennan couldn’t figure out. This was generally the point in song creation where he and Chance would bat ideas around and try different things. Brennan even thought of calling Chance—in spite of their differences, he knew that Chance, the artist, would be more interested in the song than in being angry.
Only this work felt different. It felt solo. As much as he hated to admit it, solo was not something Brennan did very well. The process was arduous—he felt rusty and ungainly, like a colt trying to learn to run with its young body. But because the work was solo, he didn’t feel comfortable calling Chance.
He didn’t want to drink, either, as had become his habit of late. So Brennan decided that day he’d take a drive and listen to some music. Fill the creative well, so to speak. Maybe find some inspiration in someone else’s work.
The day was perfect, the weather mild and bright . . . and as he’d walked to his car, he’d seen Mia walking down to the bluff. She was wearing a strangely angular plaid dress, and a funky hat with real flowers, and military-style boots with fishnet stockings. Brennan had paused, watching her. In the end, he couldn’t resist that magnetic blend and he’d followed her down to the bluff.
And on the bluff, sitting on the rotting bench, eating sandwiches, he’d had a surprisingly insightful conversation with her. It had been the only real conversation he’d had in weeks in which someone wasn’t yelling at him or demanding he do this or that.
There was something about Mia that really spoke to Brennan. She was very different from the women he generally met. He’d been famous for so long that he’d forgotten what it was like to meet a pretty, single woman who wasn’t hopeful she’d get something out of knowing him.
And yet, it was more than that. For the first time in years, he felt someone was seeing the real him. Not Everett—Brennan. The guy underneath the fame. If there was anyone he knew right here, right now, who would understand why he didn’t want to keep on the path Tuesday’s End had started down, Brennan believed it could be Mia.
The only other person who would have understood was Trey.
God, but Brennan missed Trey. He thought about his old friend a lot. He thought about how lonely his death was with that needle in his arm. He missed talking to Trey—whereas he and Chance had always been about the music, Trey and Brennan talked. About everything. About life, about women, about music, about dreams and desires. Trey was the only one to whom Brennan had ever confided his feelings about his father. He’d told Trey about the absence he felt in his life, the confusing mix of rejection and anger. Trey got that.
In a lot of ways, Trey and Brennan’s dad were a lot alike. Brennan’s dad had chosen another life over his son and Trey had chosen heroin over his friend. It was a weird thing to acknowledge, but in some respects, Brennan felt just as betrayed by the heroin addiction as he had by his father’s abandonment a long time ago.
Mia reminded Brennan of Trey. He liked how she talked about her art. She’d clearly thought about it, which he could relate to, because he thought about music in a very similar way.
Frankly, he could have remained all day on that bench with her, enjoying a beautiful spring day, talking about life. It was Mia who’d ended their impromptu lunch. She’d glanced at her watch and gasped, “I’m late!” She’d quickly gathered her things, stuffed the hat on her head lopsidedly, and had smiled at him. A beautiful, warm smile. Genuine.
“I have to go,” she’d said. “Aunt Bev would kill me if she thought people were stripping wall paper without a chaperone.” And she was off, leaving him on the bench.
After that half hour with Mia, Brennan was feeling a different kind of energy. He felt ready to try again and instead of taking that drive, he’d gone back to his guitar and his work.
It was seven o’clock when Brennan heard the roar of a truck’s motor and the unmistakable sound of it driving away from the house. He glanced up. The sun was sliding down behind the trees. His belly rumbled; he hadn’t had anything to eat since the sandwich.
Brennan found a pair of boat shoes and slipped them on, picked up a leather jacket and a hat that he could pull low over his eyes and some aviator glasses Jenna had given him on his birthday. He opened a bedside table and rummaged around until he found a wad of hundred dollar bills. He shoved them into his pocket and went downstairs.
The dogs trotted out from the kitchen to greet Brennan, then followed him down the north hall when he went to see if Mia was there.
She was. She had her messenger bag slung over her shoulder, her lunch bag in her hand. Her back was to him as she studied the wall she’d painted. Something was different about the wall, but it took Brennan a moment to see what. The boat was gone.
Mia heard him walk into the room and glanced at him over her shoulder before returning her attention to the wall again.
“What happened to my boat?” he asked.
“I sank it.”
“You sank it? Was it a storm?”
“Nope. That would be too easy. It was a submarine attack.” She gave him a sideways smile. “That’s what you get for partying on your boat and not paying attention. I submarine attacked you.”
“That’s impossible,” he pointed out. “The lake is too small for a submarine. Not to mention the mechanics of getting it in the lake.”
“It was a mini. I had it trucked in.”
He smiled. “So now you have a story.”
“Not really. The boat had to go because the proportions were all wrong.”
“That’s amusing coming from a woman wearing a dress with some interesting proportions.”
Mia glanced down. “But that’s so different! The dress is supposed to be asymmetrical. The sailboat is not, hello.”
His smile deepened and he ceremoniously bowed his head. “I stand corrected.” He looked at the mural again. “The lake still seems angry.”
“You’re absolutely right,” she readily agreed. “I’m having trouble finding inspiratio
n for a non-angry lake.”
“What would inspire you?”
She cocked her head to one side and studied the wall. “Something happy,” she said.
“Happy, huh? I might have just the thing. Wanna see?”
She laughed. “I don’t know. Do I?”
“Come on, you have to see it. But we have to hurry.”
“Hurry?”
He reached for her hand. “Trust me on this.”
“Dude, I don’t trust you at all.” But her fingers closed around his.
“Good,” he said, and pulled her closer. “Then it will be an even better surprise.”
He led her outside and down the path to the bluff, ignoring her complaints about how fast he was moving. He silenced her remark about the temperature dropping by pulling her into his side and putting his arm around her shoulders.
“Where are we going?” she demanded when he turned in the opposite direction of the bluff and started down the rocky path to the beach.
“You’ll see. Now be quiet,” he said with a squeeze of her shoulders. He helped her pick her way down the path, and about halfway down, he stopped. He let go of Mia, made a leap up onto a flat rock, then leaned over and looked down.
“Are you crazy?” she said, her voice full of alarm.
“Come here,” he said, and held out his hand to her.
Mia looked at his hand warily. “What is it, naked people on a boat? Trust me, I’ve seen plenty.”
“You have?” he asked, surprised. “Nobody is naked. Come look.”
Mia groaned as if he were being unreasonable, but allowed him to pull her up onto the rock with him. He stretched out on his belly. So did Mia, lying next to him. Brennan pointed.
Mia looked in the direction he pointed—and gasped with delight. Just down the bluff, nestled in a crag, was a nest with three baby owls in it. Three fluffy little heads swiveled around, their big eyes blinking up at Mia and Brennan.
