Summer In Iron Springs (6 page)

             
“It was nothing, just a phone call I overheard between Anna and my dad.”

“Let’s go inside,
” Billy said, opening the door to the art gallery.              

Phoebe followed Billy through the glass doors of the gallery. Once inside, she took a closer look at the painting. In this piece, she saw sadness in the lady’s face, longing in her eyes, and hope in her heart.

“What did you hear?” Billy asked, while Phoebe studied the painting. “What were they talking about that made you so upset?”

“I’m not exactly sure. I could only hear
Anna’s side of the conversation but, from what I could gather, I think my dad is lying to me about something.”

“What do you think it is?”

Phoebe shrugged. “I don’t know but Anna sounded really upset that my dad was asking her to keep up the lie and she said everyone in town knows about it so I guess I’ll figure it out soon.” She moved closer to the painting. “Do you know what that’s called?” Phoebe pointed to the sofa the lady in the painting was lying on.

“Umm . . . a couch?” Billy said, shrugging his shoulders.

Phoebe giggled quietly. “It’s called a fainting couch. I did a report on them in my art history class. Back then, the women wore corsets so tight they made them light-headed. So, people would put these couches around to provide a place for them to rest if they started feeling faint.”

“You’re kidding
,” Billy said. “That’s not true is it?”

Phoebe glanced at the painting again. “I’m not sure but that’s what I read online.”

“So, aren’t you curious?” Billy asked.

“About what?”

“About the phone call—about what Anna and your dad were talking about.”

“Kinda. I’m more mad that he would lecture me about telling the truth when he’s lying to me.”

Billy shook his head. “Yeah, I wouldn’t like that either.”

From a close distance, a snooty-looking salesman watched the pair. A minute later, another salesman appeared
from a back room and, with a practiced eye, he glanced around the gallery nodding every so often. His gaze settled on Phoebe and, without taking his beady eyes off of her, he whispered something to the other man before turning on the heel of his highly polished shoe and disappearing into a back room. Phoebe hoped she was just being paranoid, but it sure seemed that everyone in the town seemed to know her—and most of them didn’t seem very happy she was there.

             
“That’s a nice one,” Billy said, pointing to a painting of an elderly woman sitting at her kitchen table.

             
“I bet she’s waiting for her husband to get home. Look at the beautiful table.” Phoebe pointed to the table in the center of the painting. “If you look at the candles from this angle, the flames seem to flicker.” She glanced at Billy and smiled, comfortable to be talking about art. “She looks happy. I think it’s wonderful that even though they have probably been married for fifty years or longer, she still takes the time to set a nice table.”

             
Billy’s eyes examined Phoebe’s face. “How do you see all that?” Billy asked. “I mean, your mind must be so . . .” he paused and glanced at the painting. “Your mind must be so full of beauty. What else do you see?”

             
“Well . . .” she hesitated and considered her words for a moment. “. . . I think it’s their anniversary and I bet she is planning to surprise him when he gets home.”

             
“I hope he didn’t forget.” Billy joked.

             
“Yeah, that would be bad.” Phoebe laughed as she imagined the man walking in, at that very moment, with a lovely bouquet of flowers for his wife.

             
“So, is that your goal in life? To be an artist?” Billy asked. “You sure seem to know a lot about this stuff.” He motioned his hand through the air.

             
“Sort of. I mean, I want to study art but my dad is so weird about it—he sent me here instead of letting me go to New York.” She studied the old woman in the painting. “That’s where I’m supposed to be—at NYU’s summer art program.             

“Why aren’t you there, then?”

              Phoebe thought about how to answer Billy’s question. She had no idea what, if anything, he knew. “I did something stupid and coming here is my punishment. He wouldn’t even let me bring my art supplies.”

             
Billy studied her face for a moment. “What did you do?” He held his hands up with his palms facing her. “I promise not to judge.”

“Look at her face,” Phoebe said, pointing to the painting. “The detail is amazing.”

“That’s not gonna work.” Billy let out a chuckle. “You can’t change the subject and think you’re gonna get away with it. Now . . .” He moved so his body blocked her view of the painting. “Tell me what you did. I bet it’s not all that bad. I’ve probably done a lot worse.”

“I doubt it.” Phoebe could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. How could she tell Billy she’d gotten arrested for graffiti? He would think she was a complete loser.

“Now I have to know,” Billy laughed and added sarcastically, “What did you do that got you banished to this horrible place?”

“Well, part of it was a misunderstanding. There’s this guy Jaxon . . .”

“Jaxon? Is he your boyfriend?”

“Sort of,” Phoebe said. She glanced at the salesman
across the room. He was talking on the phone and doing some kind of tip-toe calf exercises at the same time. She giggled at the man before returning to the story.

“Well, he and his friends wanted to get high. Even though I don’t smoke pot, I let him pressure me into coming along.”

              “Uh-huh.” Billy nodded his head.

             
“I had some spray paint that I borrowed from the cabinet in the auto shop building. The pot heads at my school go behind the auto shop to get high.”

             
“At my high school they hide out behind the auditorium,” Billy said.

             
“I guess every school’s got their dedicated place for the pot heads.” Phoebe shook her head and laughed. “Well, anyway, while I was waiting for Jaxon to finish, I decided to spray paint a picture of Vincent van Gogh smoking a pipe on the auto shop wall.”

             
Billy gave a loud snicker that earned him a horrified glance for the sour-faced salesman. “You did what?” He said, lowering his voice. “Tell me you did not actually paint Vincent van Gogh on the wall of your school.”

             
“I did. And, in my defense, it turned out pretty good. Anyway they got caught—and so did I.” Phoebe said over Billy’s laughter. “Then everyone assumed I was smoking pot too. So, I got in double trouble for the graffiti and the pot. But I was not smoking pot, Billy. I never have. I think it’s stupid.”

             
“I believe you Feebs.” Billy reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “But did they nail you for stealing the paint?” He covered his mouth with his hand to try and control the sounds of laughter that seemed determined to escape.

             
“Be quiet.” Phoebe scolded. “Are you trying to get us kicked out of here?” She chuckled quietly as she nodded her head toward the salesman who had gone back to his funny tip toe exercises.

             
“Okay, okay,” Billy said, struggling to control his laughter. “But, you have to tell me, did you get off on the B and E charge?”

             
“The what?” Phoebe gave Billy a sideways glance.

             
“Breaking and entering. You broke in and stole the spray paint. Did they nail you on that charge?”

             
Phoebe tried not to laugh but it was impossible. “You really think you’re funny don’t you? For your information, the cabinet where they keep the spray paint wasn’t locked—and it’s supposed to be. You know, to keep out those idiots who huff the paint to get high.”

             
Billy’s laughter was out of control. “Yeah, not to mention the budding graffiti artists who just can’t resist a free can of spray paint.”

“I was just pointing out that
I didn’t break and enter. I borrowed the spray paint. I didn’t steal it. I was going to return it.”

             
“Oh, I see. So, were you going to scrape van Gogh’s face off the wall and shove it back into the can before you returned it?” Billy’s loud laughter prompted the salesman to give him a stern look.

Bi
lly stifled his laughter and Mr. Sour Face returned to his phone call and his strange exercises.

             
“For your information Billy, the painting only improved the look of the school,” Phoebe said. “So, in reality, I actually did the school a favor.”

             
That was more than Billy could take. “Well that was very thoughtful of you.” He said as he clutched at his side. “Why Vincent van Gogh?”

             
“I’m not telling you anymore until you stop laughing.”

“Okay. Okay. It’s just that I haven’t laughed that hard since—since ever.” Billy wiped a tear from his eye. “Okay, so, tell me, why van Gogh?”
             

“Well. . .” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you done laughing?”

Billy held up a finger. “Just a second.” He gave another long giggle. “Okay. Okay. I’m done, I promise. You were saying—van Gogh?”

“I like him. I mean, I have always liked his work. But, did you know that he painted over nine hundred paintings in less than ten years? Nine hundred! And then he only sold one painting in his lifetime.”

              Billy shook his head. “I didn’t know that but it doesn’t surprise me. Most artists are kind of kooky. Present company excluded of course.” He started laughing again but stopped himself when Phoebe gave him the evil eye.

             
“Be careful Billy. You might just find out that I have a couple crazy bones myself.”

             
“Wait a minute.” Billy thought for a second. “Isn’t he that insane guy who cut off his own ear?”

             
“He wasn’t insane. And it wasn’t his whole ear, just a small piece of his earlobe.”

             
“Oh, well that’s different. He’s completely normal then.”

             
Even Phoebe couldn’t help laughing at that. “I didn’t say that.” She and Billy moved around the perimeter of the gallery as they talked. “I just wanted to clarify. Most people think he cut off his whole ear but he didn’t.”

             
“Okay, so you’re infatuated with Vinnie and you paint his picture on the wall and you get caught and what? Did they throw the cuffs on you?”

             
Phoebe rolled her eyes. “No, I’m not infatuated with him. And, no, they didn’t handcuff me. They just held me until my dad came. Then he took me home and made arrangements for me to come here. But get this.” She gave Billy a serious stare. “My principal and the cop both thought the painting was good.”

             
“That’s great, Feebs. Maybe you and Vinnie can get married and smoke pipes together.”

             
“Whatever. You’re a weirdo.” She gave Billy a playful shove.

             
“Hey, I’m not the one getting arrested for graffiti,” he teased. “But seriously, you are really talented. I’d love to see something you’ve painted. I bet you’re as good as . . .” he pointed to the signature on a painting of a meadow, “. . . as Frederick Dubois.”

             
Phoebe laughed at the way Billy pronounced the artist’s name. “I think you say it,
Doo-bwa
, it’s French. And, no I’m not even close to that good. But I’d like to be someday.” She glanced at her watch and moved slowly toward the exit. “We better start heading to meet Jenna.”

             
Billy followed behind her as she made her way to the gallery’s exit. “So, because of that, he wouldn’t let you bring your paints?”              

Phoebe
shook her head. “That’s what he said but the truth is that he has never wanted me to paint. He’s an attorney and I think he would rather I show interest in something more serious. But he won’t come out and admit that so he used the graffiti as an excuse to take away my art supplies.”              

             
“Your dad sounds a lot like my dad. See, I told you, we’re two peas in a pod.”

Phoebe shook her head and was about to repeat the same lecture she’d given him earlier about using the weird phrase when a cameo
brooch on display in a glass case caught her eye. The case held hand-crafted pieces of jewelry. Phoebe loved jewelry almost as much as she loved art. For her, the jewelry she chose to wear
was
art. She liked unique pieces that every other girl in school wouldn’t be wearing. She especially liked jewelry that showed a lot of detail.

             
She was certain that the brooch’s unique design was one of a kind. It was oval with beautiful lace, forged from white gold, looping around the entire outer edge. Each loop was decorated in its center with a marquis diamond. At the top, a delicate bow was beautifully adorned with sparkling emeralds. The cameo was of a young woman gazing thoughtfully into the distance. Carved into her long wavy hair was an island flower. Phoebe guessed that the cameo was opal. It was milky white with pink, blue, and yellow undertones. As Phoebe studied the brooch, she felt that there was something familiar about it. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but somewhere, somehow, she had seen that brooch before. But where? It simply wasn’t possible.