Cross Roads, page 19
“Why did you run away?”
“Things at home got . . . heated. It became clear that I wouldn’t be safe there any longer.”
Rohan picked up on the stockpile of missing information in her explanation, but he’d let it go. For now. “How did you join forces?”
“We set up a stand in Pritchard Park, where we charged twenty dollars to draw caricatures of tourists in front of their favorite landmark.”
“All three of you were artists?”
“To a degree. My work generated the most word of mouth. Izzy moved into designing jewelry and Xander leaned into the business side.” The tips of her blunt nails seesawed back and forth across the plastic arm of her chair. “It all worked. We made enough money to last us through the winter when tourism died down.”
Rohan pulled out a low stool and sat down. “Impressive.” He wrapped his fingers around her fidgety hand.
“Terrifying.” Her knee started to jackhammer. “We came to the notice of Simon Garibay. After observing our enterprise for a time, he offered each of us an opportunity we couldn’t refuse.”
He rested his other hand against her knee and soon the pistoning slowed, then stopped. “Let me guess—copying artwork.”
“Nothing so legit.” The smile she sent him held no humor, only a reflection of decisions made and a life lived. No matter how flawed. “I told you once that I was one of the best.”
“The best, as I recall.”
“I earned the title by forging several hundred paintings, which sold to reputable museums and avid collectors, even through premiere auction houses. To my knowledge, no one has questioned any of their authenticity.”
“How is that possible?”
Humor lit her eyes. “Because I’m the best.” She flicked her fingers in the air. “And because Simon and Xander became expert storytellers. The provenance they wove together for each piece was a work of art in and of itself.”
“Where’s Simon now?”
“He died from an accidental overdose three years ago.”
“Accidental?”
“Simon suffered from chronic back pain and had been taking OxyContin for years, one in the morning and one in the evening, like clockwork. Toward the end, Izzy mentioned several times seeing him take the meds throughout the day. Despite his questionable business choices, he wasn’t a man of excess.”
“Who found him?”
She glanced away a moment before continuing. “The three of us. On our way to lunch, we stopped by his office to see if he wanted anything.”
Fighting the urge to comfort her, he said, “What happened to the business?”
“He left it to me.”
Rohan whistled low. “A lot of responsibility for a—”
“Twenty-two-year-old.”
“How’d the others take your anointment?”
“Let’s just say, they drowned their misery in each other’s arms.” She stared down at where his hand held hers in a loose grip. “About a year after I became the owner, the three of us agreed it was time to go our separate ways. That was two years ago and the last time I saw them until this week.”
“The three of you had survived the streets together. Their betrayal must have been painful.”
“To hear Izzy tell the story, I was the one who betrayed our friendship by getting romantically involved with Xander.”
“Because Xander had nothing to do with the change in your relationship.”
“Love is blind, right?” Lena shrugged. “I took Simon’s money, set up my own studio, and became a certified copyist.” Her attention fell on one of the blank monitors, and she grew silent.
“You missed your friends.”
“For a time. Everything turned out for the best. For all of us.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Xander said something about me not returning his calls.” She met his gaze. “This sounds farfetched, but what if he had the painting stolen in order to force me to seek him out.”
Rohan had wondered the same. “To what end?”
“A second chance.”
A steel band cinched around his chest. “Why not just show up in Steele Ridge and woo you back?”
“A fair question.” She sighed. “I can’t shake the feeling that the theft was more than a theft. Something seems calculated about it. Something Bobby Balor probably had no clue about.”
“So Byrne was the ‘friend’ who heard Palmer talking about hiring you?”
“Maybe.” She threw up her hands. “I don’t know. But it’s another angle the sheriff could question Bobby about.”
Rohan nodded, then asked a question that was burning a hole in his chest. “Would you have?”
“Would I have, what?”
“Given him a second chance?”
She studied him for a long moment before answering. “One thing you’ll learn about me, Rohan, is that when my life gets too hot, I leave it behind and start fresh somewhere else.”
She was going to run. As soon as they returned to Steele Ridge, she was going to take off and go so deep underground that no digital highway would lead him to her.
Anger and fear and something unidentifiable filled his chest. “We paid you to do a job,” he reminded her.
“Which I’ll fulfill now that we have the Catawnee back.”
Then she’d be gone and would never look back.
“Where is the Catawnee, by the way?”
“Headed back to the Friary with Cruz.” He rubbed a thumb over the back of her hand. “What bargain did you strike with Byrne?”
“Copy a Singer in exchange for the Catawnee.”
“Copy or forge?”
She stared at him. Her silence answer enough.
An image of the fierce teenaged girl standing up to two commando-like men with nothing more than paintbrushes for weapons speared through his mind. Why hadn’t Lena fought against Byrne’s manipulation? Why had she given in to the bastard?
“You’re a coward.”
She shot out of her chair, sending it crashing into the low counter. “You don’t get to fucking say that to me.”
“I already did.”
“What do you”—she jabbed a finger into his chest—“know about bravery?” Another jab. “You, with your big house and loving family and mounds of money.”
“I know I’d choke off my right testicle,” he grabbed her finger mid-jab, “before selling my soul to someone like Byrne.”
She yanked her hand away. “Because you’ve never had to choose.”
“Choose what?’
“Between surviving and dying.”
“And you have?”
“Everybody who has ever loved me is dead. Every. Single. Person. So yes, I’ve been a survivor my entire life.”
Died and left her alone. Rohan heard the painful admission even though she chose not to share it.
“How did your parents die?”
She blinked and reared back. “I told you. Car accident.”
“Bullshit.”
They lapsed into awkward silence, and a few minutes later she and Zeke swapped places.
Once they reached the Annex, Rohan handed Lena her shoulder bag from where she’d left it in the back of the van. “After I finish unloading the equipment, I’ll drive you back to the cabin.”
When he didn’t receive an acknowledgment, he turned around in time to catch Lena vanishing into the woods.
38
At the sound of an engine, Lena wiped the paint from her hands and groaned as her muscles uncoiled from their prolonged positions. Everything hurt. Her eyes, her brain, her back. Everything.
After finishing Woman Walking, she’d dedicated the rest of her day to the Caravaggio. The faster she could complete the Blackwell commission, the faster she could whitewash this page of her life.
It had taken hours for her mind to settle down last night. Every harsh word from her argument with Rohan kept replaying, over and over. Each retelling worse than the last.
Yet despite the way their conversation had ended, Lena didn’t regret sharing part of her past with Rohan. Without judgment, he’d held her hand and listened to her story. His mood had changed from supportive to combative only after she’d spoken about starting fresh someplace else.
Before she made it to the door, Sadie burst into the cabin. Big smile lighting up the room. Brodie Westcott entered more slowly, cautiously.
But it was Rohan’s broad shoulders filling the doorframe that made her heart stutter. She didn’t know what to say to him. How to feel around him.
All the fury she’d felt last night had dissipated during the wee hours of the morning. Replaced by sadness and a keening, hollow ache in her chest.
Rohan gave her a tentative smile, as if he was unsure of her welcome. She didn’t exactly smile back, but she didn’t incinerate him either. He seemed to take that as encouragement and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
“Brodie doesn’t believe I can paint,” Sadie said by way of greeting.
The brown-haired boy’s ears turned red, and Lena smiled. “It’s nice to see you again, Brodie.”
“Hello, Miss Lena.”
“Can I show him?” Sadie asked.
“Of course. It’s yours to show.” She expected the boy to take one look at his friend’s amateur effort and either make a face or outright laugh, as boys were wont to do.
But Brodie did neither. He stared at it from far away, then moved in for a closer inspection. The longer he kept quiet, the more Sadie’s smile dimmed.
The boy shook his head. “Is there anything you’re not good at, Mercedes Rios?”
She smiled. “Well, I haven’t mastered shortstop yet.”
Brodie’s eyes widened. “Crap.” He fished his phone out of his jeans and checked the time. “I gotta go. Mom’s waiting.”
“Take the UTV,” Rohan said, opening the door again. “Keys are in the ignition.”
“Thanks, Uncle Rohan!” He lifted a hand and rushed outside. “Bye.”
Sadie followed her friend’s progress through the window. “He has a baseball game.”
“At this time of the year?”
Rohan said, “Liv found him a travel team that plays tournaments in the fall.”
Sadie grew serious. “After his dad died, he wouldn’t even pick up a bat. But Uncle Zeke helped him get back in the game. I hope he stays in for as long as it makes him happy.”
“You’re a good friend, Sadie.”
The girl blushed. “Oh! You finished the eyes.” She dashed over to the Catawnee. “They look wonderful.”
“Thank you. I think being away from it for a few days allowed me some perspective.”
“Let’s celebrate. How about we take our easels outside?”
Lena glanced at the Nativity, and a cloud of sadness settled around her. Maybe a change of scenery would do her good. She’d been cooped up with nothing but tension and heartache as her companions for far too long. A studio without walls sounded glorious.
“You’ve been staring at that stuffy painting all day.” Sadie grabbed the blank canvas and its easel. “It’s time to put some paint on this, and I know the perfect spot to inspire you. Grab your supplies.”
The girl was out the door before Lena could blink. She eyed Rohan. “Did you put her up to this?”
“No, ma’am. I came across her and Brodie on my way here and gave them a lift.” His gaze shifted from the empty doorway to her. “She’s worried about you.”
A tide of emotion rose in her throat. She forced it back down. “Did you need something?”
He stared at her for a heart-thumping moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “Yes, to apologize.” He took a step closer, then checked himself. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”
“You mean about me being a coward and a liar?”
He nodded, wincing. “I lost my head a little.”
“Over what, exactly?”
He looked at the ceiling, then released a resigned breath before meeting her eyes. “Thoughts of you in Byrne’s arms, and my fear that you’d disappear the moment we got back to Steele Ridge.”
Lena’s heart kicked up its pace. “Why would either of those things upset you?”
“Byrne doesn’t—wouldn’t have deserved you.”
“And?”
“You have a commission to finish.”
“Coward.”
“Pardon?”
“Liar.”
His nostrils flared. “You think Byrne would’ve deserved a second chance?”
“No.”
“How is my statement not true?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t true. I called you a liar. Big difference.” She folded her arms across her middle. “Tell me the real reason you didn’t want me to be with Xander.”
He stepped closer, and she could feel his harsh breaths graze her cheek. “Because I don’t like the idea of another man touching you.”
“Why?”
“I care about you, dammit.”
If her life wasn’t her life, she would’ve taken the step separating them and crushed his mouth with hers. But her victory was ephemeral and hollow.
When she remained silent, he whispered, “Lena, say something.” His voice held ache and need and maybe a little fear.
She unfolded her arms. “You had something right, Rohan.” Her throat tightened at the spark of hope in his expression. “I’m leaving Steele Ridge once I’ve finished the Caravaggio. Like the Blackwells, I don’t stop until the job is done.”
Something raw passed over his features. Although she hated seeing it, she understood. Had expected it.
He’d put himself out there, and she’d cut the wire he stood on.
It was a fall few could forgive and even fewer could recover from.
“Copy loud and clear.” He strode away, paused on the porch, and jerked a chin toward Sadie and the blank canvas. “I hope you’re inspired.”
Something in Lena’s chest cracked. She thought it might have been her heart, but that organ had been destroyed long ago.
She shuffled from window to window until she found Rohan heading toward Sadie, who had set up an outdoor studio beneath a large tulip tree. Open meadow all around them. The sun-burnished mountains in the distance.
Rohan paused to place a hand on the girl’s head and say a few words before continuing on toward the Friary.
Lena closed her eyes as a great pressure bore down on her chest. Breathing became difficult and a fine sheen of sweat smothered her from head and waist. She grabbed a nearby Outside magazine and fanned herself as she fought to stop the rising tears.
Sadie glanced back at the cabin, a worried expression on her sweet face.
Guilt cramped Lena’s stomach. She dropped the magazine, wiped the sweat from her face, and snatched her work-in-progress off its easel.
She had nothing to give the blank canvas.
Nothing.
39
“Park in the first lot,” the security guard said to Lena after verifying her cargo. “Someone will come assist you with the paintings.”
Lena accelerated past Senator Palmer’s entrance gate, surprised the guard hadn’t checked her for weapons. He seemed to be more interested in whether she’d brought the paintings than if she was packing.
As it turned out, Xander had been right. She really did do her best work under pressure. When she’d stood before Woman Walking this morning, she saw the brush strokes play out in her mind as if they were musical notes flowing across a sheet of music.
Thirty minutes later, she was done.
With Palmer’s guests arriving soon, she imagined the senator had cut a deep groove in his Italian marble entryway with his pacing. Not that she’d ever seen that part of the mansion. The one other time she was here, she’d entered through a side entrance.
Parking areas occupied each side of the drive that led up to the two-story brick mansion. Its enormity reminded her of the Friary, though Palmer’s house didn’t have the same welcoming atmosphere.
Everything here, from the uniformed guards to the exotic flowers in the enormous planters lining the walkway, served a specific purpose. To impress. To project power.
There wasn’t one wild hair to be found.
As instructed, Lena chose the nearest parking area and opened the back of her Bronco. Two thick-chested men, wearing black suits and military-style haircuts approached and, without a word, they reached inside her vehicle for the two sturdy shipping boxes.
As she waited for them to retrieve the original Catawnee and her copy, she noticed another vehicle, a silver SUV, backed into a stall in the other lot.
The sight shot Lena back to the night she and Rohan had fled Blanche’s Motel. A similar vehicle had been in the motel’s parking lot. She’d thought it looked like Angler Dean’s truck.
But now, she wasn’t so sure. She hadn’t been able to see the back end well enough to say for sure if it had been a truck or a utility vehicle.
With the amount of fear-induced adrenaline rushing through her body at the time, she couldn’t be certain of anything about that night. Besides, there had to be a million silver truck-like vehicles on the road, right?
She stared at the SUV as if she could bully it into spewing its secrets out the front grate. When the suits started for the house, she nodded at the vehicle. “Looks like the senator’s guests have already started arriving.”
Suit Two shook his head. “Boss’s fiancée.”
Feeling ridiculous that she had allowed the events of the past week to play circus with her imagination, she closed up the Bronco and followed the procession of paintings inside.
Fifteen minutes later, Lena’s copy hung in a place of honor in the mansion’s enormous reception room, while the original sat propped against the wall below it.
“Exceptional work, Miss Kamber,” Senator Blaise Palmer said. “Quite worth the wait.”
Dressed in a tuxedo and shiny black shoes, the amateur art connoisseur smiled at Lena’s creation as if he had something to do with the finished product.
When Lena looked at the copy, she could see the flaws as well as the mastery. It was always so with her work and one of the myriad of reasons she’d been unable to paint an original. When copying old and modern-day masters, the imperfections lent to the piece’s authenticity. No painting was ever perfect.
