Jennifer Crusie - Faking It

Tiny sharp white teeth.

“O H, GOD,” TILDA SAID, and sat down on the floor. It couldn’t be. It was a coincidence. Maybe Gwennie had gotten the idea for the teeth from Homer. Except that Gwennie had been embroidering teeth long before Homer showed up. Now we’re going to have to steal back all the Homers , she thought and then realized the impossibility of it. Homer had painted dozens and dozens of paintings. No, Gwennie had painted dozens and dozens. Some were in museums. There was no way she could get them all back.

Gwennie was Homer. That was enough of a mind-bender right there, even without the museums. Tilda shoved herself up off the floor and rewrapped the painting to take it with her. One floor down, she found Davy waiting for her. “I couldn’t find-” she began and then she saw what he was holding, a package about twenty inches square.

“This it?” he whispered, handing it to her. “Believe it or not, it was actually in her closet this time.”

She pulled the painting out of the frame-store package by its cheap new frame and saw the Goodnight building. “This is it,” she said, sadness seeping into her bones. The first Scarlet, the start of the whole mess. Except not, because there was Gwennie.

“Are you okay?” Davy whispered.

She stuffed the painting back into the box before Davy noticed that Scarlet had painted the gallery building. “Boy, what a relief,” she whispered, trying to fake happiness. “I can’t thank you enough. And now you’ve got your money and you can go.” When he didn’t say anything, she said, “You did get your money, didn’t you?”

He looked down at her, his face hard to read in the dark hall. “No. I’ll have to think of something else.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. “I’ll help you. Whatever it takes.”

“Good,” Davy said. “What’s in the other package?”

“A souvenir for Gwennie,” Tilda said. “Let’s go home.”

WHEN THEY got back to the gallery, Davy carried the wrapped Scarlet into the office behind Tilda. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with her, but something had happened, and it wasn’t good. It had to be the painting she was carrying, another wrapped square, so maybe she’d found a seventh Scarlet, maybe there were more to steal. Maybe it wasn’t time for him to go yet.

That was not as annoying as it should have been.

Tilda went out to Gwennie, and across the room, Nadine saw Davy and waved. He motioned her over.

“Did you get the painting?” she said when she came in. “Is that it?”

“Yes,” Davy said, watching Tilda. “I need your laptop.”

“Okay.” Nadine ran upstairs and came back with her computer.

“Get me online,” Davy said.

Nadine plugged in the phone line and tapped a few keys. “Anything else?”

“Nope,” Davy said, sitting down. “How’s it going out there?”

“Your dad is amazing,” Nadine said. “Mason is a horse’s ass.”

“I’ll help tomorrow night,” Davy said. “I lied, there is one more thing. Where does Gwennie keep the bankbooks?”

“What are you doing?”

“Embezzling your college fund.”

“Right,” Nadine said. “Like I have one. They’re in the top left-hand drawer.”

“Thank you. Go play.” When the door closed behind her, Davy logged on to his account and looked at the balance. Two point five million, a nice round number. There had been a little more in Clea’s account but he liked round numbers.

For some reason, this one wasn’t much fun. Not as much fun as being without had been. Some people aren’t meant to be rich , he thought. Some people need the edge .

And some people need college funds.

He grinned to himself and began to move money.

“HOW’S IT going?” Tilda said to Gwen when she’d finished selling a chair covered in ducks to a woman who seemed thrilled with it.

“Except for Mason, pretty well,” Gwen said. “We’re not mobbed but…” Her voice trailed off as she saw the painting Tilda held up. “Where’d you get that?”

“Mason’s storeroom,” Tilda said. “Look familiar?”

“Of course,” Gwen said. “It’s a Homer Hodge.”

“No, it’s a Gwen Goodnight,” Tilda said.

“No,” Gwen said. “I painted the kits. Homer painted those.”

“Gwennie, I know…” Tilda said and then stopped as light dawned. “Oh, hell, Homer was your Louise.”

“Not really, dear,” Gwen said. “Homer never had sex.”

“Davy was right,” Tilda said. “Group therapy. Now.”

“He was like the Double-Crostics,” Gwen said. “A different place to go, away from reality. And then I got tired of him, and I quit.”

“Dad must have been upset.”

“Yes,” Gwen said, smiling.

“You didn’t tell me,” Tilda said. “You let me move out thinking Homer was real.”

“I wasn’t too proud of him,” Gwen said. “It was those damn paint-by-numbers. Once I started to mess with them, Tony decided I was a great primitive painter, but that wasn’t enough, he had to be Brigido Lara and create his own art dynasty. He kept saying it would be Grandpa Moses and he’d have exclusive rights.” She sighed. “He wouldn’t even let Homer be female, damn him.”

“What happened?” Tilda said. “He told me that he and Homer had a fight.”

“They did,” Gwen said. “He came up with the child-of-Homer idea, and I could see him roping you into the fraud, too, and he was already making your life miserable with that damn Goodnight legacy. I kept saying, ‘Why can’t we just tell people the truth?’ and he’d say, ‘Because the truth won’t make us rich, Gwennie.’ He was getting damn good money for those Homers, but it wasn’t enough. He had to have Scarlets, too.”

“So you stopped and I started,” Tilda said. “That’s why he told me not to tell you.”

“I didn’t know until you left,” Gwen said. “I didn’t know until I went downstairs and saw that last smeared painting. He signed that one for you, you know. He sold it anyway.”

“I can’t believe you never told me you were Homer. You sent me money so I didn’t have to come back home, but you never told me you were Homer.”

“I wasn’t,” Gwen said. “He was just a mask. Bad drag, as Andrew would say. He didn’t fit very well. I’m just not male.”

“Yeah, but that’s not why you didn’t tell me. You knew I’d stay if I knew. I’d have gone on painting the Scarlets if I’d known you’d painted the Homers.”

“Don’t give me more credit than I deserve,” Gwen said. “I didn’t protect you. You painted those beautiful paintings and he made you put somebody else’s name on them and I didn’t see it, I didn’t stop him. Just another part of the Goodnight nightmare.”

“It’s not all a nightmare,” Tilda said.

Gwen lifted her chin. “Are you going to teach your children to paint?”

“Yes,” Tilda said. “But I’m not going to teach them to forge. That’s done. That ended with me.”

“So you’re leaving again,” Gwen said.

“No,” Tilda said. “I’m staying. That’s one of the many things Davy has done for me. He gave me back the gallery. We can do some good things here. And I want to start painting again, my paintings. I’m going to try to get more mural commissions close to home. I want to stay home.”

“I don’t,” Gwen said. “I want to leave.”

“Oh,” Tilda said. “Okay.”

“I’ve been here for thirty-five years,” Gwen said.

“Definitely time to leave.”

“I’ll come back.”

“It’s okay, Mama,” Tilda said. “It really is.”

“I don’t know where I’m going, of course,” Gwen said.