Intaglio: The Snake and the Coins (37 page)

The ones where
she was
most
like Shay Brooks.

“You all
finished?” her father prompted.

Ava shivered,
walking away from the paint-smeared wall to the snowy window.  From this
height she could see rooftops wearing a heavy white hat of newly fallen
snow.  In the distance, the frost-shrouded trees marked the horizon like
sentinels.  Everything bright and new.

“Maybe,” she
muttered.  “I suppose it’s as done as it’s gonna get.”

She turned back,
facing the wall.  From this angle, the blobs of hue and bright pigment
became something else.  Up close, the background appeared indistinct and
hazy, but from this perspective, she could make out a larger scene in the
layered words and splashes of colour. 

Ava blinked in
surprise.  She didn’t remember painting
that.

Light and dark
bands hinted at buildings and trees.  It was an exterior space, she
realized, but stranger than that was that things were happening behind the
woman in cloak:
two figures tangled together.  People staring. 
Inquisitive eyes.  Hateful glares
.  A shiver of fear ran up her
spine.  Much as she’d intended the woman to be the central point, there
were other things going on in this painting.  It wasn’t entirely clear,
but there was definitely a narrative underneath.  She took a step closer
and froze. 

There were two
men caught mid-fight in the background, blood smearing their faces, knuckles
torn to shreds.

‘That’s Cole and
Kip!’

“So um… Dad,”
she said warily, “d’you want to come up and see the painting?  I want to
talk to you about something in it.”  

She wanted him to
see this, needed his advice.  There was a pause before he answered.

“Not right
now...” he said lightly.  “Let’s eat first – I bet you’re pretty hungry by
now.”

Ava groaned.

“You do realize
I was out partying for New Year’s right?  Has it been
that long
since
you were young?”

“Yeah, well, I
never overindulged back in my day,” her father answered, laughing.  “But
you can always have coffee.”  His voice changed, humour blending into
parental concern.  “Your stomach doing okay, Kiddo?”

Ava ran her free
hand over her abdomen.  She was queasy, but it was nothing that a few cups
of coffee couldn’t manage.

“It’s fine
actually.  I grabbed a couple of water bottles from Chim’s fridge last
night and drank as I painted.  I’m not feeling great, but I’m okay.”

“Smart girl,” he
said fondly and Ava smiled at the absent praise.  “So you coming on down
or do I have to come drag you out here?”

She took one
last glance at the makeshift canvas on the wall. 
‘Don’t like this
one.’
  But her reaction paintings were never about
‘
pretty,’
they were about the expression of anger... and this one was no different. 
Shrugging on her leather coat, Ava padded downstairs to unlock the door,
stepping into the snow-reflected sunshine.  Her father was there next to
the brick wall. He dropped a cigarette, crushing it out under his heel as he
moved in to hug her.  She stumbled to a stop in his arms.

Cole stood
beside him, hands in pockets, eyes downcast.

: : : : : : : :
: :

They were at the
coffee shop where Ava and her father went once or twice a week during the
months he was back at home.  It had been their tradition as far back as
she could remember... starting around the time that her parents had
divorced.  Ava and Ollie were regulars here, and Pete, the owner,
immediately sat them in a sun-drenched booth overlooking the street.  He
chattered to Oliver about his son who was in an audio technician program at the
local college,  getting opinions on which audio software and digital mixer
to buy.

Ava noticed
that, except for the Christmas decorations, pretty much everything was the same
as the summer before, when her father had left on tour.  That was the last
time she’d been in. It was an old 1950’s diner: red vinyl benches and melamine
tabletops with chrome edges.  Bright and happy. 
Comforting. 
Pete wandered away, scribbling notes on the backside of an order pad, just
as Oliver took his side of the booth.  He reached out for Cole and Ava’s
coats. 

“I’ll take
those,” he said with a grin, “lots of room here on my side.”

He nodded toward
the bench seat across from him, leaving Ava scowling.  She didn’t want to
play his game.

“I’m fine,” she
snarled, “I’ll just keep mine.”

Beside her, Cole
tugged off his wool jacket and passed it over.  His knuckles were red and
swollen, though not torn up like the other time he’d fought.  He wore the
same clothes as last night.  Coat off, he stepped back, waiting for her to
take her place inside the booth, close but not touching her.  Ava sighed
and slid across the plastic seat, sitting in sullen silence, letting her eyes
close under the warm sunshine

 The bench
dipped slightly as Cole shifted, and she peeked at him beneath narrowed
lids.  He was sitting as far away from her as he possibly could.  (
‘One
butt-cheek’s got to be off that seat…
’ her mind announced in dark
humour.)  Ava looked up and caught her father’s eyes, an amused smile on
his lips.  She frowned, turning back to the window. 

‘Not fucking
funny!
’ 
her mind hissed. 
‘If you’re so damned good at reading people, read
THAT.’

“Here, Cole,”
Oliver said in a falsely bright voice, handing out the menus, “the omelets are
really good, if you like eggs.  Pancakes are the way to go otherwise.”

“Thanks,” Cole
said quietly, his gaze dropping to the menu. 

“Ava?” her
father asked, pushing the menu toward her.

 She glared
at him as she took it from his hands.  Oliver didn’t let go for a
half-second and she held his eyes.  Her father wasn’t upset, but the light
good-humour was gone.  He was trying to tell her something, but she
couldn’t tell what it was.  She was too angry to figure it out.  She
tugged the menu away, slouching lower, her foul mood rising once more.

This wasn’t the
first time her father had dragged someone along to breakfast against Ava’s
will.  She and Chim had been best friends in high school, and they’d had
their fair share of fights. Ava hadn't had a good reign on her own anger yet
and they’d clashed on a regular basis.  At the time, she’d assumed it was
because
it was Chim...
not because her father just did that sort of thing. 

Turned out she’d
been wrong. 

She wondered how
much her father knew about last night's events, because Ava wasn’t completely
innocent.  With a sigh, she scanned the menu and then closed it up,
dropping it on the table.  She crossed her arms, waiting.

“You know I
think they’ve changed the breakfast special...” her father murmured. 
“Used to just have two eggs and two strips of bacon.  Now they’ve added a
choice of ham or sausage.”

Ava huffed in
annoyance.

“It’s
always
been like that.”

Her father
looked up, beaming.

“You sure,
Ava?  You looked?”

She gritted her
teeth.

“Yes.”

“Really,” he
said with a chuckle, “ ‘cause I thought that it’d changed since the summer...”

She shook her
head in exasperation.  She flipped her menu open and spun it around to
him.

“Look,” she
demanded.  “I’m pretty sure this menu’s the
exact same one
they had
when we first came here, like, fifteen years ago.”

Her father
leaned in, as if just now noticing the faded colours of the menu and the
whited-out numbers, reflecting the passage of time.

“Ah... so it is,
so it is...” he said, nodding sagely.

In this fashion,
breakfast continued. 

Oliver made
random small talk, forcing Cole and Ava to participate, however minimally they
seemed capable or willing.  By everyone's fourth cup of coffee, the
tension started to dissolve under his persistence.  Ava glanced at Cole
and caught him looking at her... longing in his eyes.  She dropped his
gaze, turning back to the window. Her father started in about the weather,
seeming content to discuss the snow for hours.  But Ava was
distracted...  that spark with Cole was there, and now the slight distance
between them felt like more than it should.  His thigh was just inches
from her own, the space impossibly far.

She was torn,
unsure how to breach the gap.  She felt guilty for her part in the
fight.  (Guilt was always the second course to Ava’s anger.)  Problem
was, she wasn’t sure how to say sorry.  Before she could do anything, the
waitress came by with the receipt, and Oliver took it before anyone else could
offer.  He grinned as he stood up, pulling on his jacket, bill in
hand.  Beside Ava, Cole scrambled for his wallet.

“Please, Oliver,
let me pay half...” he insisted.

“Nah,” he
answered with a wink, “keep it so you two can grab a cab.  I want to talk
to Pete here about some tech work that I need done for the new album.  His
son might be able to help me out.” 

Ava sighed,
fighting the annoyance that she got whenever her father spun a situation the
way he wanted to... and the small jump of excitement she got when there was a
chance of spending time with Cole.  She looked up to discover her father
watching her, face unreadable.

“You okay,
Kiddo?” 

His voice was
quiet, but he wasn’t joking any longer.  He’d stay if she wanted him
to.  And with that, she
was. 
Ava gave him a wan smile.

“Better and
better.”

Her father’s
good humour returned like a beam of sunlight.  He buttoned his jacket up
to his throat, nodding toward Cole.

“You might want
to take Cole over to your studio.  Show him what you were working on last
night.” Oliver peered at him.  “Show him how you get those emotions out
when they get too strong to handle.”

Ava swallowed
hard, not sure she wanted to share this painting with anyone else...
least
of all, Cole.

“I’d love to see
it,” he said, turning to look at her.  His face, bruised and bleary-eyed,
was earnest, and the last bit of Ava’s indignation buckled under his
gaze.  She took a shaky breath.

“It’s messed-up…
dark
.  You’re not gonna like it, Cole.”

He shrugged.

“I don’t have
much use for pretty artwork.”  He winked.  “Donatello’s David and all
that.”

Ava giggled
despite herself.  For a moment she remembered the day in the hallway, the
first time he’d touched her hand and all of
this
had begun.  So much
had passed since.

“Yeah... me
too,” she muttered, a smirk tugging at her mouth.  “Pretty’s overrated, if
you ask me.” 

Cole nodded.

“Exactly. 
Real
is better.”  His face was sincere, the words warming her.

Ava
smiled.  She reached out and lay her hand next to his on the bench, the
edge of her fingers brushing his jeans.  It was a small gesture but a step
halfway to him.

After the
briefest hesitation, his hand settled overtop of hers.

“I’d like to see
it, Ava, no matter how dark... how angry.” The groove between his eyebrows
deepened and he measured his words, the pain visible. 
“I get that,
you
know?”

“I know you do,”
she whispered, throat thick.

She turned,
wanting to say goodbye to her father, but she discovered he’d already
gone.  Sometime in the last few minutes, Ollie had wandered to the
till.  He was chatting happily with the owner, leaving the two of them
alone.

Cole followed
Ava as she unlocked the studio door, pulling it closed behind her, and locking
it again.  It had become her habit in the last few days of painting him
nude; Cole was glad she’d done it today, if only by routine.  He didn’t
know how he’d handle Chambers wandering in off the street this morning, wanting
to talk to her.  Things might get
really
bad.

Ava was quiet
and pensive as they walked up the narrow stairs to her studio.  Cole
followed the curve of her hips, fighting the urge to touch her as they
ascended.  He shoved his fingers deep in his pockets, dropping his eyes to
the dusty floor, forcing his rebellious body to comply.   Ava pushed
open the door to her studio, stepping out of the way and letting him in.

Cole went
motionless.

On the wall was
a portrait of Ava… so full of anger, it unnerved him.  Her face was etched
in a series of slashes, white against livid purple shadows.  There was a
smear of blood-red lips, blue shadows seeping into the undertones of her
skin.  Her expression was furious.  Cole stumbled closer, panting as
the rest of the image came into focus.

She wore a grey
cloak that swirled as she barrelled forward, confronting the viewer.  The
cloth rippled in broad, rough swaths of colour – barely rendered – but they
clashed with violence.  It reminded Cole of being on the ocean during a
storm, the death grip a wave could give a boat, tearing it out of control,
destroying it in a whim.  The female figure was cloaked in this
destruction – waves of homespun fabric swirling around her face, white caps
lining the threadbare hem, deep hollows of inky shadows and crested peaks
forming the shape of her body.  Her face, in the cowl, was seconds from
disappearing under the water.