The Haunting of Josiah Kash

by Dana Pratola

  She pursed her lips. “Hmm. Hard to say exactly.”

  “I hope that isn’t an obtuse question. Almost as much as I hope you’re not going to tell me you were born an artist.”

  “I think I was born to be an artist. But it took a long time to become one.”

  “So, you believe in fate?”

  Haven took her time answering, touching a fingertip to her water glass. She didn’t usually have conversations about fate and the meaning of her art with people she barely knew, and she didn’t know how she felt about it.

  “It depends on your definition of the word, I suppose,” Haven said, finally. “I don’t believe we have no choice in who we are or what we do, but I do believe we have a purpose and are meant to fulfill it. It’s our choice whether we do or not.”

  “So what is your purpose?”

  She wondered whether he was toying with her, but decided to answer him in the simplest manner she could.

  “I think when you have a God-given talent you’re meant to put it to good use. I’m handy with a paint brush.”

  “Ah, yet there are more ways than one to use some talents. Who’s to say it isn’t God’s will for you to make a career of painting baseboards and banisters?”

  His voice had cooled and she picked up a faint note of disdain. For a second she worried he’d spoken to her father. She smiled anyway. “Call it a hunch.”

  “Well, whether God or fate brought you here, I’m thankful.”

  Haven was stumped by this strange man. He had more mood swings than Rae, and that was hard to beat.

  Quiet surrounded her for several minutes as she ate, before finally asking, “Is something wrong?”

  “Not a thing. Why do you ask?”

  “You’re not talking.”

  “Are you ready for dessert?”

  Haven rolled her eyes and pushed her plate away.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to skip dessert.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She rubbed a hand across her flat belly. “I don’t think I can eat anymore.” Though her decision was dictated more by nerves than a full stomach.

  “Then shall we get to business?” Jett asked. “One reason I wanted you to come here instead of talking on the phone, was to approve the spot my grandmother picked for your painting. If you’ll go into the hall and toward the stairs….”

  She pushed her chair in and walked through the corridor, satisfied when her heels clicked as she’d wished they had yesterday. She stopped at the base of the sweeping red staircase.

  “Up?” she asked, trusting he would hear.

  “Please.”

  This was really weird. His voice surrounded her here, too, though she still saw no evidence of speakers or cameras. She started up, the banister like satin under her palm. Haven knew intuitively how to translate this feeling to canvas, and wondered what form it would take.

  The answer came instantly and vividly to her mind’s eye. It appeared so real: A bride. The fingers of her right hand gripping, easing, pausing. Her left hand holding up yards of white skirt as she descended to meet her love. Haven glanced over her shoulder. She could almost see his face, framed in black, his light eyes burning for his bride. He would be waiting at the bottom of the stairs because to wait for her entrance, to wait just one more minute for her to come to him at the altar, would be excruciating.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Haven blinked and the scene faded. Her heart pounded with anticipation, her palms damp. “Nothing. Sorry. I was just thinking it would be great to paint here…this,” she said, gesturing to the staircase and foyer scene. “It would make a nice rendering. It’s lovely.”

  “Perhaps we can work something out.”

  Haven continued on, chalking the strange vision up to the strangeness of the moment. “I would like that, but I warn you I can be pretty intrusive when I work. I leave stuff everywhere.”

  “It’s a big house. I’m sure I’d be able to avoid you.”

  Yes, she was sure he would.

  The top of the stairs presented three directions. He steered her right, along a corridor of powder gray carpeting, and creamy white walls sprayed with tiny pink roses. Distinct from the eclectic mix downstairs, the few furnishings along the corridor remained true to classic wealth and taste. An antique iron bulldog stood dutifully under a drop leaf table that held only a simple blue glass vase brimming with pink, dewy roses. Hannah’s touch.

  “Here,” Jett said, when she reached an open door.

  Haven entered a nearly empty room, as large as the entire first floor of her house. The gray carpet continued here, but was littered with rolled up Persian rugs and crates of varying sizes. A fifteen-foot ceiling vaulted overhead, sloping to a mere ten feet in each of the connecting rooms on either end. She didn’t gasp, fearing it would echo back in the cavernous space. A few large pieces of furniture occupied the area, and pictures and mirrors stood facing the wall, but most of the contents huddled at the back of the room.

  “My grandmother will be coming back in March. She’s getting older and doesn’t travel like she used to, so when she arrives she settles for longer periods. That’s where you come in.”

  Haven shuffled her feet over the carpet. “Oh?”

  “Tuscany is my grandmother’s favorite place on earth. She wants to have some of it with her when she’s here.”

  She looked around the room. “I still don’t understand.”

  “My proposition is this, and don’t be afraid to tell me if you’re insulted.”

  “Why would—?”

  “Artistic temperament,” Jett replied, as if that explained it all. “Some artists would throw an easel at me if I made a special request. It might feel contrived.” He paused. “My grandmother wants a fresco of the Tuscan countryside. Right there across the entire west wall. Name your price.”

  Haven didn’t know what to say, and if she did, the words probably wouldn’t come. She couldn’t believe her ears. Name her price?

  “You’ll want to think it over. Go ahead, I won’t pressure you. In the meantime, what I wanted to show you….” Jett began.

  Name her price? What did that even mean?

  “Haven?”

  She blinked. “Yes?”

  “The painting leaning on the wall there to the left. Would you turn it around?”

  She located the four-foot wood frame, moving as gracefully as she could manage with her body and brain more or less numb. The frame was dark wood—teak, she realized. She turned it away from the wall, then let out an unsteady rush of air as she beheld Victorious.

  “You reframed it,” she said on a sigh.

  His snort was quick and unexpected. “I framed it,” he corrected. “That little stick border was hardly suitable.”

  Haven was too excited to dispute him. She ran her thumb over the rich wood. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yes. My grandmother plans to hang it facing the foot of her bed.”

  She took a few seconds to clear her head. Breathe in, breathe out. At least that was how she thought it went. When she found concentrating on breathing only made it more difficult, she tried to think of something else. Tuscany. How was she going to paint someplace she’d never seen, and for Jett Cestone, no less? Forget sending her career into orbit, this could bury it before it left the ground.

  “Are you alright?” Jett asked.

  “Honestly? I’m feeling a little lightheaded.”

  “You should sit.” Concern made his voice deeper, more intimate. “You do look pale. I’ll have someone bring you a glass of water.”

  She raised a hand to stop him and tried a smile. “No, I’m fine. I’m—it’s….” What was she supposed to say? That she was gripped with paralyzing fear when confronted with the opportunity of a lifetime?

  “I’ve never been to Tuscany,” she blurted. “Or anywhere, really.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “The farthest I’ve—”

  “I’m not asking you to recreate a specific place. You ha
ve complete artistic freedom. With the windows here you’ll want to incorporate the gardens into the scene. It’s too bad you can’t see them in bloom.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, absently.

  She wished it was that easy. He wasn’t listening to her. It wasn’t like making up a scene in her mind, one that couldn’t be compared to the real thing. It was his grandmother’s favorite place. Even a fabricated Tuscany had to resemble Tuscany!

  “I’ll pay you whether it’s good or not,” he said. “But if it’s good, I’d be interested in seeing what ideas you have for the lobby of one of my hotels. The Brilliance remodel is underway and I’d like something special for the unveiling in June.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it, as her world tipped sideways. She knew of The Brilliance, of course, who didn’t? The best five-star hotel in the northeast, according to…everyone, catering to the tastes and whims of the rich and famous. And she might have a chance…?

  Any minute. Any minute, she assured herself, the trembling would subside. Since Jett’s call, a combination of excitement and trepidation had coursed steadily through her, until it seemed every cell in her body, each nerve ending was suffused with tiny lightning bolts. If she was going to explode, she wished he wasn’t around to see it. But he was. Sort of. She should have been glad she couldn’t see his eyes, but that somehow made it worse.

  “Say something,” he said.

  “Why me?”

  “My grandmother requested you. She knows art, and is responsible for most of the acquisitions in this house.”

  Haven was certain she’d pass out if she didn’t get this breathing thing down.

  “As for the Brilliance, if you don’t do a good job here, you won’t have to worry about that. I have several other artists I want to look at,” he said, offhandedly. “Though I am curious why you doubt your ability. I didn’t think that was the case.”

  Haven tilted the painting back on the wall. The whole matter might be of little consequence to him, but this was her life they were talking about.

  “I don’t doubt my ability.” She had known from a young age that God had given her a talent most others didn’t have. So why did the denial sound lame? She pushed a hand into her hair and lifted it off her neck.

  “Your father belittles your skill and you question whether he’s right.”

  She let her hair drop and settle over her shoulders. Outraged, her eyes darted around the room. “Who are you to say that? You don’t know my father and you don’t know me.”

  “You aren’t sure you can do this job. Why?”

  “It’s not because I don’t think I’m good. If you must know, I’m scared. If you don’t like it, my career will be ditched.”

  “You mean lower than it is already, selling genius at thrift store prices?”

  She wanted to come back with a droll retort, but try as she might, she couldn't get past the word genius.

  “Ah, vanity and insecurity,” Jett said when she didn’t speak. “One of which I can tolerate. Can you guess which?”

  His mocking tone was getting annoying. “I don’t want to play games with you.” Haven strode to the door.

  “Are you going to run away? Again?”

  She stopped before crossing the threshold. She didn’t run from anything, and she wasn’t going to start now.

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Cestone, I’m not running. I’m going home to pray, and if God gives me the go ahead I’m going to do this for your grandmother, and when I’m done you’ll beg me to do the Brilliance.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Yes,” she answered defiantly. “If, I feel it’s what God wants me to do.”

  “Then it’s settled.”

  She heard that amusement again and had the sinking feeling she’d been wrangled, that he’d prodded her, knowing she would respond to the challenge. She sent a derisive smile to nowhere in particular and folded her arms.

  “Just out of curiosity, do you get everything you want by bullying?”

  “Not everything. Some I gain by wisdom, cunning, or sheer force of will.”

  “Or manipulation,” she muttered under her breath.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”

  But she had the feeling he’d heard her clearly. She could call it off. It was a promise made in anger because she’d let her temper get the better of her. They hadn’t signed a contract, after all, and even though it looked perfect on the surface, it might not be God’s will.

  “Rethinking your decision?”

  Haven resisted the urge to stomp her foot. How did he read her thoughts so plainly? Well she wasn’t going to let him push her buttons and act rashly. “No.”

  “That’s good. At twenty-four you should—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “—be ready to begin your life.”

  “How do you know how old I am?” He just spiked on the creepy scale. Goose bumps erupted on her arms.

  “Don’t tell me you’re sensitive about your age,” he asked.

  “Just about strangers knowing my age. But if I were sensitive, I would consider you rude for bringing it up.”

  “We’ve already decided I’m rude.”

  “Yes.” She cringed. She’d always been a little too hasty with her words, but to insult her host in his own home—again—was inexcusable. His ready shot of laughter threw her.

  “Your tongue is as sharp as your wit,” he said.

  She kicked at the carpet. “I think I should go.”

  “So soon? You haven’t had dessert and if I know women, you won’t want to pass up Dante’s chocolate truffle mousse.”

  “Dante?” She knew the name and the reputation even if she couldn’t afford to eat in one of his restaurants.

  “I had him send one over.”

  Chocolate truffle mousse. “I’m trying to cut back on desserts.” It wasn’t a lie.

  “Minding your weight?”

  There was no way to win with this guy. “Okay, I’ll have dessert.” Without waiting for him to tell her, she walked into the hall and started toward the staircase.

  “Mind if I ask how old you are?” she asked.

  “I don’t mind at all. But I won’t answer.”

  She quirked a brow. “Don’t tell me you’re sensitive about your age?”

  “Dreadfully. And I don’t want to get sidelined sulking when there are a number of other subjects I’d like to discuss with you.”

  She paused at the top of the stairs. “Such as?”

  “Politics, religion, family…the safe topics.”

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  The COVERING

  DESCENDED ~ JETT

  DESCENDED ~ SEBASTIAN

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  VOICE of TRUTH

  The MAYWEATHER CHRISTMAS QUEST

  K~I~S~S~I~N~G

  LIKE a COUNTRY SONG

  HIS HEART FOR CHRISTMAS (short story)

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