She Has Your Eyes (6 page)

“Not what?”

“Easy. Or even enjoyable, sometimes. Just like writing.”

I frowned. “Still, I think I’d like to learn.”

“What kind of painting would you want to do? Still life? Landscapes? Portraits? Abstract? Cubist? Impressionist? Do you wanna use oils? Acrylics? Watercolor?”

“I’ll concede to your best judgment,” I said, practically bowing to him, disciple to master.

He looked at the easel, then at me, as if he were deep in thought—arms crossed again. “Hmmmm…”

I rolled my eyes.

“We’ll start you on acrylics and still lifes,” he said. “But I want a full commitment from you. No cacking out after two lessons.”

“When have I ever not given you a full commitment?” I wanted to retract the words just as quickly as they rolled out of my mouth. He cocked an eyebrow. “Fine, Rembrandt,” I said. “Shall we draw up a contract?”

He glared at me, and I feared I’d just crossed a line. David and I almost never talked about our original arrangement, the one that had brought us together aeons ago, prior to my meeting Sam—lessons for writing in exchange for lessons in sex. Partly because it was another lifetime, and partly because we
had evolved so much since those days—he no longer the suave escort, I no longer the sexually inhibited professor. But with all that had been happening—Wylie’s arrival, the story of how David and Janine met, and memories of Devin and his alluring presence—it was hard
not
to think about it. The contract, however, had always been a sticky matter. We had violated its terms before the ink was even dry, metaphorically speaking, and it had caused all sorts of problems then that seemed insignificant now, given our outcome. And yet, who’s to say what would’ve happened had we followed it to the letter? Would he have asked me out after the seven weeks were up? Or would we have parted ways once and for all? Would he have eventually given up being an escort regardless? If Sam’s death taught me anything, it was not to get caught in the hamster wheel of hypotheticals.

Nevertheless, if I had just offended him, he either brushed it aside or pretended otherwise.

“Fine by me,” he said, “but you have to teach me something. No sense in bucking tradition.” His tone was playful again. Charming, even. Just like Devin the Escort all those years ago. And it occurred to me yet again that I had never really gotten over
him
. He was like a crush that occasionally came out to taunt and seduce me.

“What more can I possibly teach you?” I asked. “You write very well, you know every Beatles song. You even got the hang of two-part harmony.”

“I want your grandmother’s fried-dough pizza recipe.”

He’d taken out the big guns. When Sam and I married, my mom presented me with a box of family recipes. My paternal grandmother used to make almost everything from scratch—bread, pasta, sauce, you name it. She kept a garden of herbs and tomatoes in her backyard, and bought meats and cheeses
at the Italian deli around the corner from her house in Queens. She passed away two years before my father did (just as well, because his death probably would’ve killed her). To this day I remember the smell of her kitchen, and the way our names used to roll off her tongue in her thick Italian accent. She called my brothers
Giuseppe
and
Antonio
(the only one who was allowed to), and placed the emphasis on the second part of my name:
On-dray-a
.

Nothing
matched her fried-dough pizza. I’d never actually seen her
make
them—they were always warm and ready and waiting for me when I got home from school and on the days she took care of me. The dough was browned and glossy and robust—never flat—fried in batches before topped with her sauce that she always called “gravy” and four perfect square slices of mozzarella cheese on each one.

At the time I was unappreciative of the recipe box, especially since Mom had paid me a backhanded compliment along the lines of my now having to cook for my husband since I never cooked for myself. I didn’t even appreciate that she had picked out the box and each recipe herself, and organized it all for me. Sam and I had made many of the recipes together, trying at least one per week when we were first married. The coveted fried-dough pizza turned out to be the hardest to master—forget
master
; we were aiming for
acceptable
. Getting the dough to the proper size and consistency, not to mention replicating the frying process, was key, and many a batch sacrificed themselves in our attempts.

The first time I made the pizzas by and for myself, sometime after Sam’s death (during what I call my “recovery year”), I broke into tears—not because I missed Sam, but because it was the closest I’d ever come to getting them to taste like my
grandmother’s. And I missed
her
. I missed the simplicity of childhood, wondering if I’d ever really experienced it.

As Sam and I used to, David and I usually alternated cooking duties and occasionally cooked together. And while the experience was never as communal as it had been with Sam, I enjoyed it just as much, albeit it for different reasons. By far, David’s favorite dish of mine was fried-dough pizzas—I only made them on special occasions, and I never showed him the recipe, much less let him help me make them. It had become something of a game between us—his attempted bribery and coaxing me to reveal the recipe, even let him watch me on the off chance that he might pick up the procedure. Much like the way I hounded him about the secret ingredient in the hot chocolate he made for me from scratch.

I sighed. “Fine. You win. Just don’t tell my brothers. I think they’d hang me for treason.”

“Deal,” he said, speaking and shaking hands in a professional manner before pulling me into a kiss. “We’ll start next week.”

I smiled. “Great,” I said, and exited the room. I was halfway down the hall when I stopped in my tracks. I had entered the room to have an entirely different conversation, the one we’d been avoiding for days. How did I let him steer it so far in the opposite direction?

Right, blame it all on David.
Like I didn’t initiate it.

I turned around and poked my head back into the study. He was back to reading his book. “Dev?”

“Yes?” He didn’t look up.

I stepped inside. “When are we going to talk about it?”

He stopped reading again and looked at me. “Talk about what?”

I gave him a look that said
You know damn well about what
.

He closed the book and huffed. “Andi…” he started in protest.

“It’s not gonna go away.”

“Andi…”

“You’re gonna just let it hang there, let
her
hang there?”

“Andi!”
He pounded his fist on the arm of the chair and stood up. “Enough!”

The word dropped in front of me like a thud.

“No.”

I didn’t raise my voice when I said it, but the way I said it stunned him. It was as if my claws had come out, and I dug in.

“Enough of
this
,” I said. “It’s been three days. Now you do something about it. But we’re not going to pretend for one more second that nothing happened. We’re not going to insult each other like that. And we’re not going to insult Wylie by depriving her of knowledge about her biological father.”

“You keep speaking as if you know for sure it’s me,” he said. “Just because she has the same eye color as me.”

“
David
,” I implored. “She doesn’t have the same eye color.
She has your eyes
.”

A wave of terror washed over him, as if the truth finally came to light. His breathing quickened.

“Andi?” He called my name like a child seized with panic. I rushed to him, wrapped my arms around him, and held him tight; he clung to me until his panic subsided.

“I’ve got you,” I assured him.

In that instant, I heard Margot Kidder as Lois Lane say with bewilderment to Christopher Reeve as Superman,
You’ve got me, but who’s got you?

chapter eight

“No. Way.” My best friend Maggie sat frozen in a purple upholstered chair with colorful squiggly prints at Perch after I finished telling her about Wylie. A jumbo blueberry muffin sat between us, untouched.

I nodded my head slowly, letting the news sink in for her.

“She showed up, just like that?” she asked.

“Pretty much,” I said. “It’s scary to know how easy it is to find someone these days. It’s getting so that your average Joe needs a Secret Service detail.”

“Pretty gutsy of her, if you ask me.”

“I’d say she takes after her mom in that regard. Thing is, there’s a chance that David really is her father.”

“You really think so?”

I nodded again. “You didn’t see her, Mags. She totally has his eyes. Same exact shape and color and expression. I mean, what are the odds that some other guy has those sienna eyes?”

“What color are her mom’s eyes?”

“Blue, I think. Not that that’s all it takes to claim paternity. But I just have this feeling.…” I sipped my vanilla chai. “David’s pretty freaked out about it.”

“Ya think?” said Maggie, as if I’d downplayed it. After a beat she added, “I can’t believe
you
’re so calm about it.”

“That’s what he said.”

“I mean really, Andi. You waited four days to tell me. And you’re sitting here over muffins and whatnot. How are you not going apeshit over this?”

“Apeshit” had been one of Sam’s favorite words.

“I honestly don’t know,” I replied. “I can’t explain it. Believe me, I’m just as in shock as you and David. And scared too. But… I can’t put my finger on it. It’s like a long-lost puzzle piece that’s been found or something. Crazy, I know.”

“Wow. You’ve mellowed out,” said Maggie. “So what happens now?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “David has to make a decision about whether he’s going to get tested. I advised him to talk to a lawyer.”

“What if he does—get tested, I mean—and it turns out to be positive?”

A knot tightened in my stomach. “I have no idea.”

Later that afternoon in the den, I was leaning my back against the arm of the sofa, my legs stretched out before me, with my laptop open when I decided to Google “Wylie Baker.” Not much came up other than her Facebook page (her profile photo consisted of her dressed in a hot pink tank top and retro Ray-Bans as she flashed the heavy metal devil sign with her right thumb and pinkie. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, grateful that there’d been no such thing as Facebook, or the Internet, for that matter, during the eighties. There was also a report
about a regional swim meet (Wylie placed second) and a student art exhibit in what I guessed to be her school district.

She paints!

I sucked in a breath, and perhaps for the first time felt a wave of honest-to-god panic wash over me.

I heard the front door open and close, followed by David calling my name.

“In here!” I called back, closing the Google window and opening the NU online course management site. He followed the sound of my voice and entered the den, looking slightly frazzled.

“Hey,” he said, and leaned down to kiss the top of my head.

“Hey,” I echoed, comforted by his presence.

“What’re you up to?”

“Just some lesson planning,” I lied, closing my laptop and placing it on the end table. “What would you like for dinner?”

He removed his messenger bag from across his shoulder and dropped it by the side of the sofa. He then lifted my legs and sat, pulling them back across his lap.

“You OK?” I asked.

“Talked to my attorney today.”

My entire body stiffened. “And?”

“And I’m going to get tested. You’re right. It’s important that we know for sure. For our sake and Wylie’s.”

I repositioned myself so that I was sitting next to him and offered my hand. He took it into his own.

“And if it turns out…,” I started, the rest of the words stuck in my throat.

“Then we have a lot to talk about. All of us.”

We sat in silence for several minutes.

“Dev?”

“Yeah?”

“Gut feeling: Do you think she’s your daughter?”

He took at least ten seconds to respond. Stared straight ahead, his eyes dark and distant, gone to an undisclosed location in the recesses of his mind and memory.