Page 63 of Caper Crush
“I’ll bike.” I clip on my helmet. “It’s a good way to work off excess energy.” I glance at him.
“From performing?”
“And other things.” I hold his glance a bit longer than comfortable. “See you Monday.”
The biking didn’t work. I am too hyped up to sleep. That flame of desire that sparked when he unbuttoned my dress is still flickering, and I need to get rid of all this excess energy. I close the door of my apartment behind me softly in case Tessa is asleep.
Kicking off my heels, I put on my slippers and pad over the worn, wooden floor to my easel. I feel the urge to paint again, and that alone makes me happy. I want to portray that feeling of possibility but also that ache of unknowing I’d felt when singing “Don’t Leave Me Now”—the song I wrote with Rex. I should write another one called “Off-Limits.” But Rex is the lyricist. I just like riffing with him for words. Those were the best moments of our relationship. He’d scribble ideas on a napkin, feeding off the energy of all of us at the bar. And I’d interpreted that creative collaboration as the foundation for something more.
Am I doing that again? William and I have formed a team to track down the paintings, and again I’m thinking it symbolizes more.
I’m going to paintOff-Limits.
From my palette, I pick cadmium yellow—joy for how William makes me feel. Add threads of violet—uncertainty, contrasted with Payne’s grey for the wall between us. Maroon for that flash of heat when we argued. Silver for the snapping electricity underneath it all. A wash of blue—regret.
Because it can’t be.
I lay the canvas on a tarp on the floor and spray-paint a light-blue background, then pour the thicker yellow oil paint on top, layering hope. Perhaps the hope should have been spray-painted—lighter, more tenuous—but the buoyant exuberance has been more like being drenched by an ocean wave, knocked over even. With a brush, I paint heavy lines of gray. I flick silver to dot the canvas.
I stand back.
Depending on how the light hits it, the silver shines. It’s unexpected—captures that spark. I dab flashes of maroon here and there—flames.
I wash my brush in the stainless-steel sink and then look at the painting again.
It still feels too hopeful, the yellow paint overcoming the gray. But it’s accurate. I’m not resigned to staying behind the walls. I’m exploring the cracks, trying to see if there is a way this relationship can work.
Chapter fourteen
Getset,Edmund.Operation Honeypot is about to commence. I wear a vintage, figure-hugging, midnight-blue dress to John’s fundraiser. We have a gig starting at 8:00 p.m., and this way I won’t have to change. As I put on my sunglasses, I feel armored.Game on.
I climb the steps up to the front door of my mother’s brownstone in the West Village, and the door opens. A man dressed in the typical catering staff uniform of white shirt and black pants welcomes me. The double French doors leading to the parlor room are open, and the swell of conversation trickles out to the foyer.
I pause on the threshold and remove my sunglasses.
The place is crowded with well-dressed, older people. The only color in Mom’s living room is white. No paintings and no personal effects disrupt the sterility. When we were growing up, we didn’t spend much time in here because it had to be kept pristine for entertaining visitors. We gathered in the TV room downstairs. That still has family photos and even some framed artwork by both Annabelle and me from high school.
I’ve given my mother paintings, but she has only hung one in her home office next to a framedWall Street Journalclipping covering Annabelle’s litigation. The rest are in a closet. Whenever I give her one, she always says, “These are your father’s genes.” John actually hung the painting I gave him in his official work office when he was borough president.
“Miranda,” a male voice exclaims near me. It’s my friend Max. We know each other from college.
He gives me a kiss on each cheek. “Full rock star mode, huh?”
“You clean up well too,” I say.
A glass bowl with floating white roses stands on the white, enamel sideboard next to me. A small bar has been set up in the corner of the room.
“At least now you’re here; there’s only so long I can do the polite thing alone with my parents’ friends,” Max says.
“I thought you had to work late,” I say.
“I finished earlier than expected. I figured I’d get bonus points for coming early, and then I’d have you to entertain me.”
I snort.
We order drinks at the bar and then retreat with our glasses to the corner by one of the floor-to-ceiling bay windows. Outside, it’s dark. Edmund is talking to an older couple in the middle of the room. I have to wait for him to approach me. He knows I would not initiate contact. But he’ll come over if I talk to Annabelle.
“Plus, now both Audrey and Eve are shacked up,” Max says. “I barely saw them before, what with their jobs, but now I’m definitely playing second fiddle to their men. And I think Jake is about to propose.” Jake is Audrey’s boyfriend.
