Pieces of You (7 page)

“And not the ordinary off the street kind of people, either.”

That made her smile. “No, definitely not.”

They fell silent as night sounds smothered the gaps of quiet. For the first time tonight, Quinn relaxed.

“I want to thank you for what you’ve done for me.” Danielle’s voice was soft, hesitant. “I know you didn’t really want to, but I appreciate it.”

Now he felt like a jerk. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to do it, it’s just that it’s not my specialty.” When she didn’t respond, he shrugged and admitted, “Okay, I didn’t want to do it, but it’s over now, right? You’re free. Nobody’s going to come after you, okay?”

“Right. It’s over.”

“You don’t sound very convinced. Your husband’s dead. And the rest of them, well, they’re just chalking your absence up to instability.”

“They think I’m crazy.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“There’s a small piece of me that misses my niece and wants to go back and hold her in my arms, let her know I’m okay. But if I go back, even as a widow, I’ll still be considered Alexander’s wife.” She fingered a red rose, traced its petals. “I can’t do that. It’s horrible to have to pretend to be someone you aren’t, especially when everyone is in love with that person. How do you explain that you’re breathing inside a hollowed-out shell, that you don’t belong there? They can’t understand it.”

The words were Danielle’s but they were Evie Burnes’s, too.

“Alexander’s family said jewelry designers were nothing more than low-end retailers. They wanted an artist, so they told me to paint. Oils.” Her fingers glided along the rose, paused over a thorn. “I hated it. They loved it.”

“You should have told them to go to hell.” His mother should have done the same and given them a chance to get used to the real Evie Burnes.

Danielle poked the pad of her middle finger against a thorn, pulled back when she drew blood. “You don’t tell the Maldonando’s something like that. They tell you what to do.”

“They can’t tell you anymore. It’s over.”

“Yes.” The blood trickled along her finger and spilled to the ground. “It’s over.”

***

Danielle retreated indoors a few minutes later, leaving Quinn to wonder if she’d revealed more than she’d intended, wondering too, if he’d done the same. He was still thinking about this when Michael found him.

“I’ve been looking for you for the past half hour.”

“I needed a break.”

“Tell me about it.” Michael fished inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette. “Dr. Wintkowski’s a great guy, but damn he’s boring. Kind of makes you wonder about the wife, doesn’t it?”

“The painter?” Quinn tapped his empty water bottle against his hand, and said, “It takes all kinds, I guess. Does Annie know you’re smoking again?”

“No, and for God’s sake, don’t tell her.” He sat down on the steps beside Quinn. “It’s only temporary, until the pressure settles down.”

“Why is it doctors can’t follow their own instructions?”

“We think the rules don’t apply to us, only our patients, didn’t you know that?” He closed his eyes and took a long drag.

“Tell that to Annie, see what she says.”

“I only bought three packs. When they’re done, I’m done.”

Quinn laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“Swear to God. I bought these yesterday.” He pulled a pack from his pocket and held it up. “Look, I only smoked five.”

“Give the man a gold star. You better not let my sister see or you’ll be dead meat.”

“That’s why I keep them locked in the glove compartment and why this pack is hidden
inside
my jacket pocket.”

“Don’t lie to her, Michael.”

“They’re cigarettes, Quinn, not used condoms.”

“I know my sister, a lie’s a lie.” Annie liked it all out in the open, no ‘I thought I was protecting you,’ kind of crap. To her, even small lies created doubt that festered like poison and before you knew it, the whole lining of the relationship had a hole in it. He’d seen it with her other boyfriends, watched the casual lies destroy their chances. Quinn was part of the ‘I lied to protect you,’ category but his lie was different because the truth would kill her.

Michael sighed, threw the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and stomped it out with the heel of his shoe. “There. Okay?”

“I wasn’t the one who felt guilty, was I?”

“You’re a jerk, you know that?”

Quinn laughed.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Shoot.”

Michael rubbed his jaw, adjusted his glasses and ran a hand through his curly hair. “I’m worried about her, Quinn. Something happened at work yesterday that sent her into panic mode again.”

“What? She seemed fine tonight.”

“Yeah, that’s what 2 mg. of valium will do for you.”

“Don’t push that stuff on her.”

Michael raised a hand. “She really wanted to come tonight and I wouldn’t have been able to park the car without her flipping out. It took forty-five minutes to convince her to take the valium. Something’s wrong. I want her to see Dr. Blessar.”

“She’s not going to see a psychiatrist again and forget pushing drugs on her.”

“She’s having panic attacks. I went to the corner to get a Starbucks and she called my cell phone five times because I stopped to grab a paper. You think that’s normal? I can work an all nighter and she doesn’t flinch and then I’m two minutes late picking up my dry cleaning and she flips on me.”

“What happened?”

“A little girl came into the center yesterday morning. Ten years old. Said her mother went to the store to pick up a pack of Chips Ahoy cookies and never came back. So, the kid sits by the window, waits three days, and finally tells the landlady. Meanwhile, the cops pick up the mother three states over with some guy she hooked up with along the way.”

He wanted to ask Michael what he would do if his mother went to the grocery store one day and never came back. Every situation where a parent disappears would remind Annie of her own mother. Why couldn’t his sister have been an engineer? Or a librarian? Anything that didn’t deal with emotions.

Michael sighed. “I know she loves those kids, but you’d think this was happening to her. She’s got to learn to walk away, leave it behind a few hours a day.”

“Abandoned kids are tough for her.”

“But she’s transferring those feelings onto herself, where she’s the victim.” He pulled out another cigarette and lit it. “Christ, Quinn, I wasn’t at that coffee shop two minutes when she called me. It’s not normal.”

“What did she say?”

“That she’s working on it. Remember last year, when that little boy’s mother disappeared at the park? I thought Annie was going to have a nervous breakdown or give me one for as many times as she checked up on me.”

“But eventually, she worked her way out of it.”

“Eventually, but why is this happening?”

Because there’s still a scared ten year old inside her who’s afraid someone she loves will disappear.
Quinn shrugged. “Let me talk to her.”

“She doesn’t want you to know.”

“Why?”

“She knows how much you worried when it happened last year and she wants to deal with it herself.”

“I’m her brother, she should be telling me.”

Michael took a long drag on his cigarette and looked at Quinn. “I’m her fiancé, she should be telling me things, too. This is about more than just losing her mother when she was a child. She’s keeping something from me, I know it, and I intend to find out what it is.”

Chapter 8

He was more handsome than she could have imagined. But wounded. Untouchable.
She’d
done this to him. Remorse filled her soul, but not regret, the two were separate, like apologies and forgiveness. He didn’t understand this,
would
not understand it, just as he would not understand that she loved him, had always loved him, and that was why she left.  She saw the hatred in his eyes yesterday when she removed her glasses to reveal herself. And now, he hated her more, for what she’d promised to do if he refused to help her. Evie sipped her tea, glanced at the clock on the nightstand and rewound the years. She rarely did this, what was the point? But this morning, it seemed appropriate. This morning, it seemed almost necessary.

The first weeks and months away from Corville remained a collective blur, whether dulled by the passage of time, a protective conscience, or the Percocet Peggy insisted she take to,
get you through this
, it was hard to say. The details, even a loose timeline of events and individuals slipped out of focus. Evie accepted this because there really was no other choice.

Peggy Smolsterski stood at the center of the early days. Friend, guide, confidant. She drove truck and transported copper and brass rods cross country. Peggy found Evie on Route 219 and offered her a lift which turned into an adventure. The first eight months were spent on the road, traveling the highway from Albuquerque, New Mexico to Portland, Maine in Peggy’s red Kenilworth where Evie emerged as Rita Sinclaire, a bleached blond with spiky bangs, gigantic hoop earrings, extra tight jeans and no bra. With Peggy’s help, she learned to smoke cigarettes, drink bourbon, and shed her old life.

Evie traveled from state to state, searching, hiding, wondering where she belonged. Her savior was a small town in New York, a dream site she’d shared with her mother. One fall morning, the ninth month after Evie Burnes’s disappearance, she said goodbye to Peggy at the intersection of Niagara Street and Freemont and walked the half mile to Niagara on the Lake, carrying only a small suitcase and a satchel stuffed with the paint and brushes Peggy had given her on her birthday. She rented a room from an elderly couple who were advertising reduced rent and free board in exchange for light housekeeping and errand running.

Frans and Gerta Hevenshiemer became Evie’s family. Frans was a sculptor who was slowly going blind. Gerta painted portraits for subjects who journeyed cross country for an opportunity to sit for the great artist. There was truth in Gerta’s painting, an innate ability to capture souls on canvas, depths of sorrow, joy, hopefulness, or hope
less
ness.
It’s in the eyes
, Gerta said in her heavy German accent,
life is lived and told through the eyes.

Evie lived as their surrogate daughter for six years, until the couple died, Frans of a massive heart attack while finishing a bust of Evie, and three months later, Gerta, drifting off in her sleep. Evie tried to finish Gerta’s commissioned pieces but she couldn’t pull the light from her subjects’ eyes and after a few aborted attempts, she gave up, refunded clients’ money, and packed her belongings, taking with her a few of Frans’s chisels and Gerta’s favorite brushes.

She’d been in Ogunquit, Maine almost twelve years, tucked away in a bungalow among the outcropping of ocean rock. Her home was one large studio with a bed tucked in a corner for sleep or lovemaking, depending on mood and desire. The
need
for a man had long since disappeared. But the desire, oh, yes, that remained, brighter than ever. Her current lover, Henre’, was a French artist, fifteen years her junior who played the violin and painted fabulous abstracts in the nude. She selected her lovers with care and confidence, ensuring each possessed the right degree of narcissism to prevent them from loving her, and in turn, her from loving them.

Of course, there had been small pockets of loneliness in her life, but they were separate, not the same as being alone. She cherished solitude, time to think, to create, to just breathe. The air was fresh, accessible, abundant, or was it the life that made it so? She painted in her bungalow at midnight, on the patio at dawn, amidst the outcroppings of craggy ocean rock with the salty mist spraying her cheeks. She held shows at the local gallery, had even visited Niagara on the Lake twice for a show. She’d made a respectable living, gleaned a decent following, and finally, found happiness.

But there was irony in this loose definition of happiness found in and through the painting. It was
what
she painted that sometimes caused her to stop and stare at the images on a half finished canvas and wonder what part of her subconscious brain they’d been cocooned in and how they’d chosen that exact moment to burst forth.

There were never faces, only silhouettes; a man, a young man, a little girl, always the same shape of shoulder, chin, nose, multiplying themselves over and over on hundreds of canvases. They became the backdrop, though they might be in the center of the canvas. There were no colors to them, no textures, no dimension. It was the rest of the canvas that took on life. Vivid bursts of fluidity and design, intricately woven, yet brilliantly complex in its simplicity; a patch of lavender, a porch step, a backyard swing, a field of baled hay. In each of these pictures, there was a presence, whether it be the man, the young man, the little girl or a combination of the three, they were there.

The first piece she sold was of the young man walking down a country road toward a blood red sunset, fields of grass on either side of him, moats of dust kicked up from his sneakered feet. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his back and shoulders too large for his young body. The couple who bought the picture wanted to know all about it.
Who is the young man? Where is he headed? Did you know him?
And then, from the woman,
I wonder what color his eyes are. What do you think?