Seductive Shadows (23 page)

The back room we stood in was dimly lit, with cement floors stained burnt orange and pale gray walls. The gallery had been a card store in a previous life; the conversion had only been completed a few weeks ago. Professor Freeman had mentioned to the new proprietors that he was helping a student with this exhibit, but I had a feeling that he was more than just a helper. I got the distinct impression that he was possibly a partner in the gallery, and that he’d paid for a large portion of the renovation. This made the event even more special. He wasn’t putting just his reputation on the line to help me find my place in the art world; he was investing his time and money as well.

This evening was opening night for the gallery; hundreds of people were on the other side of this wall. Professor Freeman had invited everyone from the art department, his colleagues from all around the city, past students, buyers, interior decorators, and collectors. The media was in attendance; reporters from the
Boston Globe
, local news channels, and even a few radio hosts had requested admittance. Dallas had been called into work at the last minute and wouldn’t be able to make it. I’d really wanted him to be there, but I was relieved when he told me…I didn’t want to take the chance of there being any jealousy on his part in the event that Cameron would actually make an appearance. And while I’d mentioned Cameron’s name in the past, I didn’t think it was appropriate for them to meet just yet. Still, I missed him.

Tonight wasn’t just a big event for Professor Freeman; it was big for the Boston art scene as well…which made it difficult to understand why my work was being featured, and why Cameron’s wasn’t being displayed instead of mine. He already had an audience, a following, hungry buyers who would spend thousands on a single piece of his work. I wanted to know what the reasoning was behind it. But this certainly wasn’t the right time to ask.

Professor Freeman turned and smiled reassuringly. “Are you ready to meet your audience?” he asked.

“I think I am,” I said. “I don’t know that it’s something I can really ready myself for, though. I don’t know how they’ll react to my voice, my work…”
My soul.
Even though I rambled, my answer had been honest. But I stopped myself before I said any more.

“I wouldn’t have chosen you if I didn’t think there was an audience for your voice.” We were facing each other; he laid his hand on my shoulder. “I know Boston’s art scene—the buyers, the collectors…I know what they want and what the market needs, and what it’s been waiting for. There’s been a hole for a while, Charlie, and your work is going to fill it. Your voice embraces a universe of darkness, revealing only the faintest suggestions of light. Nobody does what you can. You, my dear, are your own genre.” He glanced toward the wall as though he were trying to see through it, trying to glimpse the faces of those waiting on the other side. “You’re going to shock the hell out of them. And when they hear you speak, they’re going to be stunned that someone so innocent, so sweet, can create something so deep, so unnerving. So moving. But they’re going to accept it, and they’re going to love it—and more importantly, they’re going to buy it.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Not even a gasp. I was overwhelmed by his praise, but the part about me being innocent was just so glaringly impossible. My innocence had vanished long before now—long before the mansion. It had started to dim with Lilly and her inability to just
love
me; it had faded with every bottle she drained, with every stranger she brought into our home. It had waned before my youth had even begun.

And it died altogether when Emma did.

How could he think so much of me, so much of my skills, when I was still such a novice? When I was young, I’d spent any extra money I happened to have on supplies, any extra time I had on creating. But aside from high school and the courses I’d taken at Northeastern, I’d had no formal training. I couldn’t afford it. I just knew that I loved to paint, the feeling of the brush between my fingers, the way I was able to reveal my thoughts without having to speak them. The possibility of giving them more than one meaning.

My thoughts shifted to all the pieces I’d created for Lilly over the years, how I’d worked so hard for the cash to afford my paint and supplies, how much time I’d spent on each work…and how I used to find them crumpled on her floor.

“After tonight, things are going to be different for you,” he said.

There were a few others now, but for such a long time Professor Freeman had been the only person to really appreciate my work. “Thank you,” I said. It was all I could muster.

“No need for that.”

“I don’t know what else to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything, Charlie. I knew there was something special about you from the moment I watched you outline your first piece. I had the same intuition about Cameron, and it proved true.”

“I don’t know if it was your doing,” I told him, “but I’m so thankful we were partnered up in class. He’s helped me with so much.”

He nodded. “Cameron has a lot to offer, a lot to give. And since the two of you began working together, I’ve seen so many changes in your work…positive ones.”

I shifted my weight between my feet. Despite the situation, thinking about Cameron always made something inside of me start to tingle.

“He’s inspiring,” I said. “Thought-provoking, even.”

“The two of you have a lot in common…more than you’ve shared, I’m sure.” I just nodded. “I hope you’ll continue working with him; there’s a great deal more he can teach you. He’s still as unaffected as he was on his first day of school; his success hasn’t changed him a bit. And he’s handled the attention so well.”

“The attention,” I echoed.

Professor Freeman smiled “Oh yes…and I believe you’ll receive just as much as he has. If things take off like I think they will, people are going to demand a lot from you, Charlie. Your name is going to be a fixture on the Boston art scene. And if you aren’t ready for when that sort of success comes about, it can throw you.” His smile dropped. “Not everyone will want what’s best for you. Things have a way of surfacing, of being revealed.”

A knot formed in the back of my throat. My hands started to tremble. “Secrets, you mean?”

“It’s the same advice I gave to Cameron all those years ago: the media loves a good story, you just can’t give them one. He didn’t give them anything personal, and it served him well.”

Unless I’d been followed—and I certainly wasn’t important enough for something like that—no one would ever find out about what I did at night. But I started considering the things no mask could ever hide…things like my voice and my lips, my hands and my nails and my tattoos. Cameron had recognized the freckles on my shoulder; what if one of my clients did, too? What if one of them was here tonight, among the wealthy and powerful examining my art…examining
me
?

“You’ve got no reason to be alarmed, my dear. When you’re in demand, a little fame is bound to come with it.” His hand had long since dropped from my shoulder. I wished it were still there, squeezing my muscle, assuring me I really had nothing to worry about. “Enough stalling. I have no doubt that everyone out there is dying to meet the artist. Are you ready?”

I swallowed, trying to push down the lump in my throat. It wouldn’t move. I couldn’t steady my hands; my knees even felt weak. I couldn’t tell anymore if it was nerves, or if it was what Professor Freeman had said about secrets needing to remain hidden. There was no way I could turn back now.

I took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

“Then come along, my dear.” He bent his arm outward, and I looped mine through it. “I have so many people to introduce you to.”

My heels clicked on the concrete as we approached the door. I focused on the strength and stability of his arm, the warmth from his skin, the way he escorted me like a father would. I couldn’t let him down. Not just tonight, and not just where my art was concerned, but in my greater life. In my future. I needed for things to be different. I had to make changes. I had to…

His hand reached for the knob, and he slowly opened the door.

The talking on the other side dropped to a murmur as their whispers announced our entrance. And there were my canvases, hovering around the room like spirits. Each painting hung either on a side wall or on the freestanding mock walls placed throughout the room. Lights shone from the ceiling; smaller, more concentrated art lighting was mounted above each piece. The five sequential paintings that contained
the story
had been placed near the front, to be viewed first as attendees came through the door. I scanned the crowd, searching for something to focus on, something—or
someone
—familiar to anchor me. 

I felt Cameron before my eyes found him: the heat from his stare, his smell that I had memorized, his presence. He wasn’t far from the center of the room. He had a drink in his hand, and a soft smile lit his whole face. I could still taste his lips.

“Ladies and gentleman,” Professor Freeman said, “I’m thoroughly honored that you all took the time this evening to come share in our premier opening, and the introductory showing of…”

I knew it wasn’t possible, but the lights seemed to get brighter by the second. The intensity of their stares doubled.

“...Charlie Williams, the artist whose work surrounds you now…”

The only time I’d ever received this kind of attention were the hours I spent in my wing. In this gallery, though, I felt more vulnerable than when I was bent over my bed. These guests were matching the art with the artist; their judgment was mounting. Questions were being gathered, opinions already forming.

Professor Freeman continued his introduction, but his words whirred past my ears. He guarded my arm, extending his support, though I barely felt it. The only thing I focused on feeling was Cameron’s gaze. My hands longed to paint his expression—the way the lines in his face moved, how the color in his skin reddened—so I could hold on to it and keep these emotions forever. I wanted to touch them...to touch
him.
And when my arm had finally been freed and the hush in the room gave way to applause and buzzing conversation, I reached for him.

“You made it,” I whispered.

He set his drink down and wrapped his arms around me, pressing his palms into my lower back. “You look stunning.”

I stood on my tiptoes and buried my face in his neck, taking deep breaths of his scent. His lips kissed the spot just under my earlobe, and then moved to my cheek. I realized at that moment that, in Cameron, I had found a
home
. Everything within me that had become anxious and tense began to relax.

The mansion and its secrets no longer held any fascination for me.

Several hours had passed since my entrance, but people still lingered in front of the paintings. Waitresses filled empty wine and champagne glasses, and chocolate-covered strawberries were being served. I glanced around the gallery, unable to fathom that it was my work hanging on these walls, that some of these pieces would be displayed in homes other than my own. Many of the interior decorators had left the opening with my email address saved in their phone. Several of the buyers had requested duplicates of my work, and collectors had asked me to come to their houses to get a feel for their taste and colors so I could create them one-of-a-kind pieces. None of it seemed real. I’d never received accolades for anything I’d ever done before; I’d never played a sport, never placed in any state test or received academic honors of any sort. And aside from the three places I’d been employed, no one had ever interviewed me, and certainly no one had ever held a microphone to my mouth or taken my picture for publication. Until now, I hadn’t mattered. Regardless, Professor Freeman was right.

So much had changed tonight. So much more than I had expected.

For the first time all evening, no one was asking me questions, pulling me across the gallery floor, demanding something from me. I was spending the quiet moment staring at Cameron. He stood several paces away, talking to Professor Freeman; both were pointing at
The Kiss
. In the years that had followed Emma’s death, I hadn’t had anyone to support me, to encourage me and push me toward greater things. I now had the two of them, and Dallas. Each of them had showed how much they cared; each had brought out something significantly different in me. But I wanted something more with Cameron. He made me better; he made me
want
better.

He made me want…only him.

We had only kissed once, but I knew what he could give me would be enough for me to never crave anything from another man again. And I knew this because it wasn’t just his body that I desired; I wanted his words, his thoughts and his tears. I hungered for his imagination. I wanted him to nuzzle my cheek the way he rubbed the paintbrush against his. I wanted his darkness, and all the scars that covered him. I wanted his secrets, even the ones that were too painful for him to share.

I didn’t believe any of his secrets could ever touch the ones I feared to divulge.

“Charlie...there’s someone I want you to meet.”

I was startled by the sound of Professor Freeman’s voice and the touch of his hand on my arm as it dragged me back from my reverie. I wasn’t sure how he’d moved behind me, when I’d been staring at him and Cameron just seconds before. As I turned to face him and his guest, my feet halted, my legs began to wobble. He reached for my arm to steady me. “Let’s get you some water,” he said, motioning for the waitress.

“This
is
water,” I whispered. I tried to hold up my hand to show him the small tumbler, but I couldn’t move.

“She’ll have a refill,” Professor Freeman said to the waitress. The glass was pulled from my hand just as the Professor’s attention returned to the circle we’d formed. “Charlie,” he began, “I would like you to meet Marvin Luna. He’s one of the top practitioners in New England, specializing in neurology. He’s also an avid collector of fine art.” He had no mask, and no limousine. And he was in my world completely now.