A Beautiful Sin (13 page)

As I rode the L back downtown, I thought about a lot of things, but mostly I thought about Canaan. One thing that kept bouncing around in my head was he seemed different than the picture I had painted of him in my head. He was pleasant and easy to be around. And then it hit me and I almost laughed out loud. Of course he was easy to be around. He was a fucking priest, for Christ’s sake, no pun intended. He wasn’t a threat. He didn’t want anything from me. He wasn’t trying to get in my pants. I didn’t have to worry about him beating me. Safe. That’s what he was. There was a cone of safety around him and with that came comfort.

And unfortunately, that triggered a memory. I dug my hand into my pocket and pulled out a card. Staring at it for a long moment, I read his credentials. They were impressive. I was surprised they could all fit on that tiny white card. Wilson A. Wallace, M.D. He said he wanted to visit the gallery and see my paintings, but my intuitions indicated there was more behind his intentions. We’d see. The way he was talking, I wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up in the next day or so.

By the time I got off the train, it was nearly noon and I was starving. Stopping at a deli, I grabbed a take-out lunch and went straight into work. Jonathon stopped me before I could make it to my studio.

“Where’ve you been? I’ve been texting you all morning.”

“Sorry. I was at the hospital. My aunt. She’s pretty sick.”

His demeanor instantly changed. “Is she okay?”

“Better. She has lupus.” I gave him the details on her condition.

“Haven, I’m sorry. Are you close?”

“Sort of.” I didn’t want to talk about her with him. So I didn’t offer any more information.

“Do they expect her to be in the hospital for long?”

“Hopefully not too much longer. They’re trying her out on some new medications and she seems to be responding.”

“That’s good news then. Well, I have some more good news for you. Your large painting sold.”

“My large painting?”

“Yes, the one you recently completed. The really huge one.”

“Oh.” My brain spun with this news.

“Aren’t you going to ask me?” he asked.

“Ask you what?”

He laughed. “You do have your mind on other things. I’m getting ready to change that. Ask me the sale price.”

“Okay, how much?”

“You ready for this?”

He gave me the price.

I scratched the side of my head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Jonathon cocked his head. “That’s not quite the reaction I expected to see from someone who just sold a painting for that much.”

My brows shot up and I was pretty damned sure they almost hit my hairline. “Did you say what I think you said?”

He chuckled. “You bet your sweet ass I did.”

A couple of long moments later, Jonathon’s finger was pushing on my bottom jaw. “You’d better close your mouth Haven, or you may be catching some bugs.”

I snapped my jaws together. Then I frowned. “Who the hell would spend that kind of money on one of my paintings?”

“A very wealthy family, that’s who. Apparently the wife was in here yesterday and must’ve gone home and told her husband she wanted it. So this morning, right after the gallery opened, he called and asked if anyone else had made an offer on it. When I said that there had been a lot of inquiries on it, he offered me top dollar right on the spot and was here an hour later. Don’t forget, that’s a huge piece of art, not to mention the other one sold for not too much less. In a year or so, something like that of yours will sell for double.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“My sentiments exactly. And Haven, they are leaving it here for the duration of your stay. They also want to meet you.”

“Oh, absolutely. I want to shake the hands of the people who believe in me that much.”

Jonathon added, “Didn’t I tell you that article was going to work magic? And one other thing. Your inventory is extremely low so you need to get in your studio and paint.”

“That’s the plan.” Wrapping my mind around something this major took more effort than I possessed. I choked down my lunch, which now tasted like sawdust, and I thought about what a fucknut of a day it had been so far.

Pulling out my phone, I called Macie.

“Hey, chica. What up?”

“You know that huge painting I recently completed? The one I showed you? The picture?”

“Oh yeah.”

“It sold.”

“Woohoo! We’ll have to celebrate this weekend. I see a martini or five in our futures.”

“Cool. But guess for how much.”

“Haven, you know I suck at this.”

I filled my lungs with a cleansing breath and felt my control returning. Then I collected myself and whispered the amount.

“Wait. What? Repeat that.” Macie was clearly as shocked as I had been.

So I told her again.

“Jesus criminy jickets. Holy shit on a shingle.” Then she laughed. “You mean, like, with that many zeroes.”

“Yep, that’s what I mean.” And I started laughing again. And Macie joined in.

“Oh my God, Haven, I knew it. I just knew you had it in you. You’re famous. You’re going to be like Picasso.”

“Hardly, but I will make a decent living, I think.”

“And if anyone deserves it, it’s you.”

“I wish I could hug you right now, because if it hadn’t been for you and your mom, I never would’ve kept drawing.” And that was the honest to God’s truth.

Then Macie shouted, “This weekend. Martunis!” That’s what she called them sometimes. And it hit me what my next painting would be. Macie—my girl who had helped me in too many ways to count.

The door to my visionary side unlocked and my brain became a Ninja blender, swirling with ideas. People asked me all the time where my inspiration came from and my answer was always the same. They usually popped into my head from something I had been thinking about. I ran to the closet and pulled out the painting clothes I kept in there. They were nothing but an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I threw on an apron I wore because I used it for the pockets in the front. They were perfect for stashing my brushes.

My excitement over this painting grew, but I couldn’t start until I had the canvas. I scanned my studio, but nothing I had was the perfect size. Before I knew it, I was running down the hall, calling for Jonathon’s assistance. Knowing how much he wanted me to produce, it wasn’t long before I was set up and working.

My palette in hand and oils mixed, I had pulled and printed some images of Macie off my phone to use. This would be a puzzle of a collage, coming together in the main focus of a central portrait of her. It was a replica of a picture I had taken when she’d visited me in Manhattan. She was standing in front of Tiffany’s with a sublime smile on her beautiful face. The other faces would represent different moods—sad, angry, introspective, and I would even add one of her sleeping. I decided I would create each face in the center of a puzzle piece and fit it into the main one, but slightly blur the edges. Some pieces would be darker than the others, giving the painting a diverse border to it.

Working all afternoon and into the evening nonstop, I was getting close to having the background established in a rudimentary fashion. Jonathon had orders not to interrupt me, so when he stuck his head in, I was surprised.

“How goes it?” he asked.

“It goes.”

“Ah, she smiles. It must be good.”

“I can only hope. What’s up?”

“One, it’s going on eight.”

“Shit!”

“Thought you’d want to know. And two, that priest who was here the other day is back. He’s asked for you.” Jonathon had that questioning look about him.

“Canaan?” What does he want? I know it can’t be my aunt because the hospital would’ve called since she added me to the list.

“Didn’t give a name. Just asked for you.”

“Send him back.”

“Haven, are you sure?”

“Yeah. It’s fine.”

He shrugged and left. A moment later Canaan walked through the door.

“Am I interrupting?”

“No. Time to wrap it up anyway. I’ve been at it since I got back from the hospital.”

“Do you mind if I take a look?” he asked.

“Suit yourself.” My frosty tone didn’t deter him in the slightest.

He walked around the canvas and stood next to me. “How do you figure this stuff out?”

“Figure what out?” I asked as I cleaned my brushes.

“Where to put everything?”

Was he serious? “I’m an artist. It’s what I do. How do you figure your church stuff out? It’s your thing. This is mine,” I snapped.

“You’re very talented. It’s a blessing from God.”

“Back to God, huh? Thought I already told you I don’t buy into your God crap and all that Catholic nonsense. Those things I learned in school.”

“I’m not here to argue the merits of God and Catholicism, although I am first a priest and a theologian, so it’s difficult for me not to weigh in on this. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion. But I have to say this—God sometimes gives us things—certain talents, and He blessed you with your ability to paint wondrous things.”

“Hmm. Well, you can tell your God ‘Thanks.’ He did help me. Because I sketched to escape the fucking Hell I lived in, if the truth be told,” I said in the most scathing manner I could muster. “It was the only thing that kept me sane, only I had to hide it from Uncle Kreep.” I couldn’t even imagine the sneer that was plastered on my face.

He held up his hands like he was under arrest. “Please, let’s not argue. I didn’t come here for that. You were upset when we left the hospital.”

I waved him away. “Kent’s a goddamn asshole. There’s nothing new there. Why are you here? What did you have to tell me?”

“I went back to visit your aunt late this afternoon and she looked much better. Her color had improved. Her cheeks were actually a bit pink. It’s amazing what oxygen, or maybe the lack of, will do to you.”

I drooped with relief and words spilled out of me. “I was so worried. That makes me feel much better.” Without a thought, I put my hand on his arm and I could’ve sworn he jerked. He held his arm still, but I could feel his muscles tense beneath my touch.

“There’s something else.”

“What?” And then it happened. I gawked at the priest. Maybe it was because I was relieved that my aunt was doing better. That simple fact had diffused my anger enough for me to look at him—really look at him. And damn if the man wasn’t more beautiful than people claim Michelangelo’s David to be.

“Is everything okay?”

Quickly, I averted my gaze, realizing I had been gaping at him. No doubt I wasn’t the first.

“No, I’m hungry. I’ve been painting all day and didn’t stop to eat.”

“I haven’t either. I have something else to talk to you about, but since you’ve worked late, and so have I, maybe you would you like to grab something to eat and drink with me? We could talk then.”

For a second I deliberated. This was my nemesis standing before me, but now he was asking me to break bread. My stomach could definitely do with some fuel since I hadn’t eaten. He dangled that damn carrot and before I could put any more thought into it, I blurted, “Okay. Give me a minute to change out of my work clothes.”

He nodded. “I’ll wait out front.”

A short time later, I joined him wearing the same clothes I wore to the hospital. I was glad he was a priest and that I didn’t have to worry about impressing him. We left after I told Jonathon I’d see him the next day.

“Do you mind sitting at the bar?” I asked, ending up a few blocks away at a place that had good food.

“No, that’s fine.”

We snagged two stools in the back and asked for a couple of menus. I recommended the burgers and the fish and chips. We ordered our food and beers. The beers arrived and we clinked bottles.

“Tell me what was so important that you came all the way downtown to talk to me.”

What he told me shocked the shit out of me.

“I had a talk with your uncle. I expressed my concern over the way he spoke to you.”

“You did what?”

I pressed my hands to my burning cheeks. It always dumbfounded me as to how my face could go from normal to a thousand degrees in half a second. My chin hit my chest so he wouldn’t notice my humiliation, but I was sure I was too late.

“Haven, he was so far out of line when he said those terrible things to you and insulted your mother as well. I told him it was a grave sin to do so. He wasn’t pleased, as you can imagine, and he told me to keep my nose out of his business. We went back and forth, but in the end, I told him if he couldn’t say anything positive about you, then he should keep his sinful words to himself.”

For the longest time, I could only stare at Canaan. Any time I tried to speak, the words became locked up tightly in my larynx, as though someone was fisting it and not allowing them to pass through. Never in my life had anyone ever defended me. Aunt Kathy, in her own way, had tried, but her terror had prevented her from standing up and speaking out. This was entirely different. It was the same as Canaan saying he went to war for me. Me, Haven Richardson. Once again my face heated, but this time it wasn’t with shame. It was with gratitude. My palm stretched over my heart as I said brokenly, “Thank you for doing that. No one’s ever…” My voice cracked as I swallowed the burgeoning thickness in my throat. “No one’s ever done anything like that for me before. The day my mom died, I came home from school and was immediately forced to pack all my things. My life with him began then, and until this moment, I’ve never had anyone stand up for me.” I offered him a weak smile.

“After this morning, it didn’t sit well with me, so I had to have that discussion with him. Haven, it probably won’t do any good, but at least I let him know that type of behavior is not acceptable and is sinful.”

I nodded, agreeing. “I still thank you. At least you tried. I wish I could punch him.”

“Believe me, I had a moment of wishing for the same thing.”

“For real?”

“For real. I’m a priest, but I’m still human. And that guy pushed my buttons.”

“And he shows he’s like the rest of us.” The best I could offer was a watery smile. My eyes, though teary, were filled with gratitude, not sorrow.

“Priests aren’t immune to real life problems.”