Page 42 of Family Affair
When she got home, she went straight to her art closet. Moving aside the ridiculous yellow suitcase Lucy had yet to finish unpacking after her return from India, Coco dove in and rummaged through her older paintings and stacks of art supplies. She already knew that she didn’t own any ornate gilded frames, but she looked anyway, to make sure she didn’t forget anything. She pulled one frame out, thinking it was kind of ornate, although brown, not gold. The size, however, didn’t match. She had no choice but to buy a new one.
Coco opened her messenger bag and took out the portfolio, looking for her phone to start ordering online. Stuck to the portfolio, the sketch of Frank came out and fell on her knees.
Phone forgotten, she picked it up and looked. He really looked a lot like Cade. Well, at least in her drawing, he did.
Her encounter with Cade replayed in her mind with perfect, blinding clarity. Underneath his rough and somewhat subdued exterior, Cade possessed the same raw animal magnetism as Dan, and Ross, and Alex. For some reason, he chose to disguise it, and did so successfully, hiding his hot, energetic nature behind the veneer of calm and efficient control, the same way he hid his strong fighter’s body beneath loose jeans and shirts.
She had caught him unawares, and by doing so, she had been let in on a secret. Cade burned with fire. She had seen it in his eyes. Oh, God, those eyes… That hooded look from beneath dense curved eyebrows, both cynical and sensual at the same time…
No, she shouldn't think about Cade in such terms. She shouldn't draw his portraits, either, pretending he was Frank. She wasn’t being fair to Dan. Anyone would find it peculiar if they knew shedateda man while spending hours outlining every little hair of his brother's sleek eyebrows. Add to that her keen interest in hisotherbrother Frank, and "peculiar" became "kooky."
Yet against her better judgment, she stood up and slowly went to get the manila folder. Ruffling through the newspaper clippings, she found the obituary and stared at the grainy picture of Frank Sheffield until his rough face became her sole focus.
And she had more.
She pulled the remaining printouts from the envelope and examined them in great detail.
All in all, she possessed three photographs of Frank Sheffield copied from different newspapers. One was the obituary photo, which she liked the best for its size but detested for the content it accompanied. Reading about his death not only made her incredibly sad; it disrupted the imaginary connection she'd established with him.
I’m loony, she thought, yet the realization didn't deter her from staring at his pictures.
On another one of her copies, Frank stood with a group of several men, including his father, and the article gushed about a hefty donation their family made to an ever-needy archaeological fund. This picture was small, and people on it appeared tiny. It was, however, the only color copy in her stockpile. She could make out the exact shade of Frank’s dark hair and the contrasting blue of his shirt against the tan slacks – all important, vital details for her inflamed imagination.
I have a crush on a dead man. I’m not loony, I’m certifiably crazy.
She continued scrutinizing the pictures, especially the third one, a smudged image of Frank exiting an official looking building. The text piece ran the story about the big juicy scandal that had erupted when the author of the article, an investigative reporter by the name of Steve Stark, had outed him as an art forger. She didn’t know if Stark took that photo but figured he must have contributed to the story – the tone of it was too gloating. Animosity toward the Sheffields bled through every word.
She couldn’t say she liked how Frank looked here, mid-stride, face raised almost in surprise as if someone called out his name. There was an air of recklessness about him, a sense of urgency, and his deep eyes appeared haunted. This was a man who was running out of time and knew it.
Her heart broke for him.
Why do I care? What’s wrong with me?
The door opened to let Lucy in from the outside. Coco jumped, and her fantasy world shuttered. Chap, woken up, dashed out of the bedroom with a string of belated yaps.
“Evening, Catherine,” Lucy sang from the door and lifted a box up high to show to Coco. “Guess what mommy has for you? No, I didn’t mean you, cream puff, but I do have a special treat for my sweet boy.” She leaned down to pet Chap who expressed his happiness at her arrival by lethargically wagging his curled up tail.
“What is it?” Coco asked, eyeing the box and discreetly shoving the newspaper clippings back into the envelope.
“Cupcakes. From Laura’s Kitchen. Remember, the new bakery that Stella told us about? You should go and see for yourself the inside of that place and smell the baking goodies. Mmm…” Lucy closed her eyes, remembering the magical experience of visiting the bakery.
“Lauren’s Kitchen. Which ones did you buy? The cherry chocolate?” Coco rose and went to take the box from her mother, hoping to divert Lucy’s attention away from the envelope.
“That, too. And vanilla. And strawberry cream.” Lucy laughed and toed off her beaded sandals, one of the astonishing number of articles of Indian artisan craft that came home with Lucy in that yellow suitcase. “How did the meeting at the gallery go?”
“Okay, I guess. Rosa chose five of my works to show.”
“Five? Oh, how wonderful! I’m so happy for you.”
“I don’t know… “
“What’s the matter, Coco?” Lucy’s eyes sharpened. Her mother had a way of focusing on people with a laser precision that Coco always found incongruous with her free-spirit, homemaker style.
“I came to the conclusion that Rosa offered me representation only after she learned I am dating Dan. She now sees me as a bridge to the Sheffields, particularly Maureen. The quality of my works doesn’t matter. I could draw stick figures, and she would still accept me.”
Lucy was slow to respond. “I don’t think so, Coco. Connections are important, but she wouldn't sully her sacred gallery with subpar work. She has a reputation to maintain.”
Coco chewed on her lip. “I resent being selected because of who my boyfriend is. It’s demeaning.”
