Jennifer Crusie - Faking It

“Call first,” Davy said. “We may be busy.”

“You’re a ruthless son of a bitch.” Michael put the envelope in his jacket pocket. “You get that from your mother’s side of the family. Ministers. They’ll save you even if it kills you.”

“You and Dorcas can go back tonight,” Davy said.

“Dorcas is heading back now,” Michael said. “She says it’s been fun but she wants to paint. She should be missing me again by about Christmas. But I have to stay here tonight.” He held up his hand as Davy leaned down on him. “No, I do. Amy’s having us to dinner tomorrow, she’s all excited about it. Dillie has a Softball game tomorrow afternoon I promised I’d go to. I won’t do anything, Davy.” He patted his breast pocket. “I don’t have to now. Give me today and tomorrow.”

“If you so much as play Crazy Eights with Dillie-” Davy began.

“You have my word,” Michael said, and Davy stopped, surprised.

“Okay, then,” he said, just as Sophie came out on the back porch.

“That bed is wonderful ,” she said, and then she caught sight of Michael’s face. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Davy said, turning to smile at her. “I hear we’re going to a softball game tomorrow and then getting ptomaine at Amy’s.” Over her head, he saw Phin standing inside the screen door. “And then on Sunday, we’ve got to go,” he said, a little louder.

“That’s not long enough,” Sophie said. But she was looking at him, not Michael. “So how’s your landlady?”

“Her name’s Matilda,” Davy said. “Let me tell you all about her.”

UP IN the attic, Tilda looked at her six Scarlet paintings, all lined up in a row. They were a motley lot. The first one had a horrible cheap frame on it, and while the second and third ones were in good shape, the other three needed to be cleaned.

And the sixth one needed to be finished.

She sat down on the floor in front of it and touched the smeared heads of the dancers. She remembered the hurt, but she didn’t feel the pain anymore. Andrew was a good man. She loved him. But he wasn’t Davy.

You may be overreacting , she tried to tell herself. It wasn’t hard to convince yourself that you were in love with a guy who stole paintings for you, who resurrected your art gallery, who made you feel like a partner, who told you that you were magnificent and beautiful, who made love to you until you passed out, who told you he loved you with everything he had…

No, she really was in love with him.

She touched the painting again. Maybe it was time to do it right. Maybe it was time to be Scarlet again, only this time-

“Here you are,” somebody said from behind her, and she jerked around to see Clea Lewis, looking impossibly lovely in the middle of the attic.

“What are you doing here?” Tilda said, so shocked she forgot to be polite.

“And there they are,” Clea said, looking past her to the Scarlets. “Davy got all six of them for you, didn’t he?”

“Uh,” Tilda said, not sure how she was going to lie her way out of this one.

“I knew he would,” Clea said, coming closer. “He always gets what he wants.” She smiled down at Tilda, not unfriendly. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

“Just for a day or so,” Tilda said, lifting her chin.

“No,” Clea said. “When he goes, he’s gone. But he left you the paintings, that’s like him. He’s a very generous man.” She looked regretful for a moment. “It’s such a shame he’s not rich.”

“He’s coming back,” Tilda said firmly. “Now what are you doing in my bedroom?”

“I’ve come for the paintings, of course,” Clea said.

“And I would give them to you because…?” Tilda said, amazed by her gall.

“Because if you give them to me, I won’t tell the world you’re Scarlet,” Clea said. “And those people you conned out of the paintings, they won’t find out who you are. And you won’t go to jail. And since you’re pretty much supporting your entire family, they won’t starve. I think it’s a good trade.”

She sounded perfectly friendly but there was ice in her eyes, and Tilda thought, She knows about Gwennie and Mason .

“You think these paintings are going to get Mason back?” she said, and Clea’s face twisted.

“I think it’s none of your damn business,” she snapped.

Tilda nodded, trying to buy time to think it through. “They need to be cleaned. And I have to get the cheap frame off the first one. Mason would spit on that frame. And…” She turned back to the last painting, the dancers she’d smeared with her brush and thrown at her father when he’d told her she was born to paint, not to love. “I have to finish this one. I’ll bring them to you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Clea said, clearly suspicious.

“The paint will be dry by tomorrow,” Tilda said. “I’ll bring them to the house.” She looked up at Clea. “You can trust me.”

“I can’t trust anybody,” Clea said. “But I guess I have to here. Tomorrow morning then.”

“Yes,” Tilda said, looking at the last Scarlet. “Tomorrow you can have them.”

DOWNSTAIRS, the afternoon passed with a respectable number of customers, and when the last one left the gallery at five, and Gwen had sent Mason home, she locked the front door and turned to Nadine. “Do we have a number for Thomas the Caterer? His stuff is still here. Oh, and can you take the garbage out?”

“Sure,” Nadine said, patting her on the back. “I don’t know about Thomas, but we have to take Steve out anyway so we can do the garbage then. Wasn’t he a good gallery dog today?”

Gwen looked down at Steve, who lay down on the floor and sighed. “I know,” she told the dog. “Hell of a life.”

“He loves it,” Nadine insisted and held the office door open. “Come on, puppy, let’s go take the trash out and pee on the Dumpster. You like that.”

Steve trotted out after her and so did Ethan, and Gwen shook her head at her granddaughter’s mastery of her life. Nothing bothered Nadine.

Except a minute later, Nadine was back, shaking. “Call 911,” she said, and Gwen froze. “There’s a dead body behind the Dumpster.”

“ Davy ,” Gwen said, her heart clutching.

“No,” Nadine said. “Thomas the Caterer.”

AN HOUR EARLIER, upstairs in her new studio, Tilda had finished cleaning the paintings and taking the frame off the first one. Now she set the last unfinished one up on her drawing table, tilted the light to see it better, and studied it. She was going to have to match her style to her old way of painting. No careful sketches or underpainting, just free strokes. It was the worst kind of painting to forge because any hesitation would be caught in the paint, scream out “I’m a fake,” and ruin the painting.

She didn’t want to ruin the painting.

Practice , she thought, I need to practice who I used to be . She tried a few sample strokes on newsprint, but it wasn’t the same, they looked stupid, clumsy. She wasn’t Scarlet anymore. She wasn’t sure who she was.

Davy knows who I am , she thought. But he was in Temptation. She was on her own, faking again, out in the cold.

I can do this , she thought and looked around the all-white room. I just need to remember . She picked up her largest chunk of charcoal and drew the outlines of leaves in big slashes on her walls, channeling Scarlet, keeping her arm free and fluid. When she had walls full of outlines, she started to paint in the colors, making them round and full and warm, leaves you wanted to touch. That was what Scarlet had done, she’d made paintings you wanted to move into. She’d been young and happy and in love and she’d painted it all into…