7. A Person I Knew
Chapter seven
A Person I Knew
Kira
“ I don’t know how you’re able to sell so much.” Magda, the elderly lady who sold her knitted wares across the way, shook her head as she fluffed a fuzzy lavender beanie knitted to look like cat ears.
Surrounded by her display of colorful hats, scarves, and gloves, looking like tiny animal paws and big monster eyes, she always made a killing during this time of year.
“Your paintings are beautiful, but my gosh. The way you talk to the customers…” She chuckled to herself, smiling at me from above a smile-wrinkled face. “It’s like you cast them under your spell.”
Magda placed her hand on her heart and smiled at me, her colorful crocheted wears dangling in the hooks around her. Her most recent work was half-created on her check-out counter, with the knitting needles pierced into a large ball of purple yarn.
“Pure salesmanship. You know that’s all it is,” I said, as I re-organized my paintings in a way that showcased the more expensive ones for the passerby.
Since coming to this small mountain town, my paintings had made a little splash. I’d achieved far more success now than when I'd painted under the name Kira Kekoa. People came for commissions and originals. A proud father even came to have me paint a portrait of his daughter on her wedding day as a Christmas present.
Instead of forgeries, I was making my own art, as inept as I was. But they were selling, and there was a small victory in that. Of course, because I had not cultivated my own style, I was doing a poor imitation of someone else - of a man I had left behind but who still had his finger prints in every part of my existence.
I’d fallen far from my old life, and become one of those purple-haired painters, running a sidewalk kiosk on a quaint New England main street, complete with a gazebo in the square, and a white stone church with high steeple. It was the kind of place where a single mom could raise her son. The kind of place that mobsters and criminals wouldn’t bother to go.
I created what I knew these sleepy towns wanted - landscapes full of evergreens and stone cottages, and bucolic little barns with farm animals and happy families.
A bit of nostalgia and a lot of romance. A little of that old traditional flare, made with love. Perfect to place above a mantle or home office.
The more I painted, the more of myself fell onto the canvas. I didn’t like it. Signs of Kira Kekoa kept creeping into the life of Anna Jones.
“There was a violinist, Joshua Bell,” I said idly, remembering the old story that had informed the tales I wove at Gallery Four. “He was the best violinist in the world, playing an instrument that cost 3.5 million dollars.”
Magda’s eyes lit up, her hand coming to her chest to clutch non-existent pearls.
“He’d get paid thousands for a 45 minute performance in Carnegie Hall, the Vienna Musikverein, and every great concert hall in the world. He did an experiment where he went busking in a subway, and made no more than forty dollars, doing the exact same pieces, on the exact same priceless instrument.”
Magda’s eyes became curious, wrinkling in the corners. “I understand all the words you’re saying, sweetheart, but I’m afraid your point is just going over my head.”
Magda was the epitome of helpful and humble. A God-fearing woman in the best possible way.
“It means that the setting and the story that sells a piece of art is part of the price.” The grandeur of Gallery Four had been half of the appeal.
The enigmatic dark-haired man who had lorded over the priceless images was part of that price tag as well. He made everything seem decadent - the flick of his hand, the sound of his voice. The way he made a woman feel cherished.
“The story I’m telling is one of the idealistic small town life,” I finally said, shaking away the mists of a different life.
I looked down at my paintings.
“Family. Home. Serenity.” I smiled at Magda, even as sorrow grew in my chest. “The reason people go shopping under a historic covered bridge is because they’re looking for that old, traditional charm.”
A charm that never existed out of the pages of a book.
I never said that part out loud though.
I painted what I thought Eoghan would, if he weren’t full of the rage his father beat into him. If his fate wasn’t to be the King of the Underground. If he could have had a calm life, a tranquil home and a sweet family.
I would have loved that version of him.
Some days, I could see him here in a rough wool scarf and peacoat, with a smile and a boy riding over his shoulders. My mind always went to such silly things as the sunset, and the blue sky turned black. As reality became murky, in the land of dreams.
“My paintings aren’t extraordinary,” I finally said, shrugging. “My paintings were made to market.”
I was a sell-out, and that was fine by me.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit, sweety.” Magda fretted, as she placed her things away, locking them behind her little stand, hiding her knitted wares for the afternoon, until we came back tomorrow morning. “Your paintings really are stunning. They sell themselves. But my gosh, you are just a born saleswoman.”
I wasn’t a born saleswoman. I was a trained one. So many things that were attributed to talent were really just the product of a thorough education.
“I’m having dinner at my house! Family only.” Magda smiled at me, the familiar invitation floating in the air between us. “I think you and little Cillian would be a great addition. We love kids! We could even give you a small break from that beautiful little handful.”
Small towns loved small kids. And grandmothers like Magda wanted more children around, all the time.
Magda, who had occupied the kiosk across from mine, had insinuated herself into my life the moment she saw me with Cillian in a tight bundle of a sling across my chest the first day I opened. If I needed a babysitter, she was there. If I had to leave early when Cillian got sick at daycare, she locked up for me. Once, when I couldn’t get out of bed, she came to my house and drove Cillian to and from daycare so that I could get some sleep.
I didn’t like to over use her. Cillian was my job. Motherhood was my burden and I did not want to share it. There were too many terrible stories of mothers who allowed harm to come to their babies because they were careless. I refused to be that. Not after everything we had fought for.
“One of my nephews just got out of a bad relationship!” She tried to sound casual, but I could see the matchmaking glee in her green eyes. “He loves kids…”
She said the last bit with a tone heavy with implication.
“I’ll think about it,” I said with a smile. Hoping that she wouldn’t ask again, and I could avoid the subject entirely.
I wasn't supposed to get involved. I wasn’t supposed to get close.
And I was still a legally married woman.
I had to be ready to leave in a moment's notice, if Blink ever got word that I’d been burned. I religiously scoured the news and online gossip columns for signs of my estranged husband, just to stay one step ahead.
There had been plenty of coverage: his father’s funeral, and Aoibhean’s wedding to the notorious Bratva kingpin. The galleries and galas, where he’d graced the red carpet, and sometimes had women standing beside him that I didn’t know. Jealousy had burned me then, but I tried to comfort myself with the reminder that if he was with another woman, then he wouldn’t be looking for me.
But that was no comfort at all. It kept me up at night with an aching heart that I couldn’t attribute to a bad burrito.
“Are you closing up?” A slight southern drawl called out from behind me. “Pity, I was just coming over to do some window shopping.”
“Oh, most of us are closed!” Magda’s face lit up. “But she’s going to be open for a few more minutes, aren’t you, Anna?”
I turned to see what had her so excited and when I did… well, let’s just say that the man was a tall drink of water.
Long, chestnut hair grazed the top of his ears in a roguish, unruly way. His beard had a slight red tint to it, and the bridge of his nose was crooked, like it had been broken a time or too. His deep, brown eyes looked amused as he smirked at me, like a joke had just run through his head and he was quietly enjoying it.
He tilted his head, and lifted a single brow. It would have been charming if not for the lightning quick thought that entered my mind - he’s not as handsome as Eoghan.
No one was as handsome as the monster of my past life.
I sighed, almost disheartened that any flutter I had felt was quashed with the memory of onyx black eyes, and a voice that would weaken my knees.
“I really should close up,” I said, reaching down to grab the nearest canvas, ready to stack and lock them up in the kiosk.
“Anna!” Magda chided, giving me a reprimanding glare.
There was that matchmaking glint again.
Magda, who had loved her late husband with all of her being, truly thought that the key to happiness was finding the right person to share it with. It was her job to help young women find the satisfaction she’d had in life. It was practically her raison d’être .
“Anna?” The man asked, his head tilting to the side as he smirked at me.
“Anna Jones,” I said, nodding my head, saying my fake name with the irritation I had when Blink bestowed it on me.
He really was shit at giving me names. First, Picasso. Now… Anna.
It was a fine name, but fit me like a too-tight dress. It felt wrong.
“Anna Jones,” he said with a slight nod. “I’m Aaron Jackson. Our initials match.”
“Oh, yeah…” I said, politely smiling. “Crazy.”
It wasn’t crazy. If anything, it was the most statistically common set of initials in the United States. But that wasn’t important right now.
“Are these your paintings?” he said, gesturing to the canvases.
Of course they were my paintings.
The guy wasn’t exactly the sharpest razor, was he? Or maybe I just despised small talk.
I gave him a tight-lipped smile and nodded.
“That’s charming!” he said, with a smile, bending down at his slender waist to look at them, his hands in his jeans. “You sure are talented. These paintings are…” He let out a low whistle. “Really amazing.”
They all said that.
The word my husband would have used for these people was… dilettante.
“This one’s nice.” He took a knee by a canvas that I had leaned against the table. “How much?”
I felt a chill run down my spine.
“That’s not for sale.” I don’t know why I said it.
The idea of this man having this painting was… offensive. Which was ridiculous because I had put it out here to sell! I painted it in a daze, trying to channel something that Eoghan would make, and Hayez’s The Kiss was apparently what I came up with. Just as he had drawn me as Titania, I drew us as a medieval couple, surrounded by danger and sadness.
Me and my monster, as he forced a kiss on my eager lips.
“Isn’t it?” he said, tapping on a small price tag sticker that was on the corner. “Says it’s going for $150. I’d pay that.”
What? To put in the library you obviously don’t own?
Maybe I was being too harsh and judging a book by its cover, but there was nothing about his flannel and jeans that made me think that he was into classical art, so he couldn’t even begin to understand what I was trying to do with this Hayez knock-off. And on the off chance he did… then that was entirely too personal.
The idea of this man putting it in his home seemed almost pornographic.
“Sorry, that’s a mistake.” I reached down for the tag and ripped it off. “Not for sale.”
“That’s too bad.” Aaron Jackson stood up, and looked at me with a lopsided grin. “I really like that painting.”
I took it off the easel, but my gloves slipped and it fell. I gasped, as I knew it would fall into the snow outside my kiosk, and the water and salt would damage the paint, and…
“There you go.” Aaron Jackson smiled, catching it in mid-air before it touched the ground. “Wouldn’t want something as good as that to get damaged.”
He held it in front of him with a grin on his face.
“You sure I can’t convince you to part with it?” he asked, as he handed it back to me, the large thing almost using up his whole wingspan.
I shook my head as I took it back from him, my heart beating out of my chest.
“Are you sure?” he asked, when I said nothing, my mouth open as I stared.
There was nothing in the world I wanted to do more than to give this man what he wanted.
What the hell was I thinking?
That was the charm of handsome men, wasn’t it? They can make you do things with a wink and a smile that you wouldn’t do for anyone else at gunpoint?
Maybe I wasn’t as indifferent to romance as I had thought.
But even as the pull of this man tugged at my skin, something else held me back.
I stared down at the image. The one of a kiss that was made to last through the centuries. Jesus, I had even painted scars on the man’s palm…
“I’m sorry, I can’t let this go.”
“That’s a pity,” he said with a gentle shrug. “Does the guy in the painting mean something to you?”
Ice went up my spine. I turned around, wide-eyed, as I clutched the painting against me, trying to hide it from his gaze. But he wasn’t looking at it now. He was looking at me, that fucking smile never leaving his lips.
“I mean, the woman in the painting is you, right? It looks like you.” He gestured to the canvas, and I pulled it away from me to look down at the figures I had drawn.
I don’t know why I did it. I already knew the answer. I had painted myself into it. My dark skin, and long, curling hair.
“The guy someone you know?” His voice seemed very far away now, as I stared at the faces locked in an eternal kiss.
The familiar blond hair and scarred hand, the beautiful chiseled jaw… yes I had known him. I had known him briefly, but intensely. Like getting hit by a lightning bolt, charring my flesh until I would never be the same.
And this stranger had seen it.
I had to get the fuck away from this Aaron Jackson. I ran back to behind my kiosk, started slamming things closed, and grabbed easels from behind my barrier, putting it away to be locked up.
“I think I will close up now,” I said in a rush. “I want to grab my son before it starts to snow.”
Yes, Aaron Jackson. I’m a single mum. Let that baggage sink in.
I wanted him to pull away from me. I wouldn't repeat the mistakes of the past. I wouldn’t put myself into the orbit of a magnetic man. I wouldn’t… I couldn’t…
“My son is my whole world,” I said, proudly. “I hate being away from him, ever. Heck, I barely let him go to school, I love him so much. I’m a proud boy mom, you know?”
That would make any sane prospective paramour run for the hills.
But instead, Aaron Jackson, in the warm smelling flannel, just smiled bigger.
“Gosh, that’s great to hear. I love kids.” He pointed down to another painting that was, indeed, of my son. “Is that him?”
His golden hair and pale skin, his regal looking face and deep, black eyes. My stunningly handsome boy was a chip off the old block.
I smiled, looking down at his image. I couldn’t help it. What mother could?
There was nothing in the world more perfect than the face of one’s own child. I would never create anything as good, or as perfect as him.
Even in a tantrum, when I was exhausted and crying from fear, stress, and loneliness, it didn’t matter. When my son crawled onto my lap, and wrapped his arms around my neck, I realized what life was really about.
I’m not an idiot that thinks one has to have children to have a purpose in life.
No, it ran so much deeper. It was family. A thing I had been missing since I lost my father. A thing that had made me embrace Eoghan in the first place. A sense of belonging to someone.
It was that warm, overwhelming feeling of needing to be better because you had someone to care for.
Cillian was the reason I got up in the morning. He was the reason I endured the lonely nights.
“Yeah,” I finally said, “that’s him.”
The pride I felt each time I looked at my boy, and remembered that I had made him far surpassed the pride I could feel over any painting, any art work. Even if I became a master painter as talented as his father… no work would ever be better than the living thing we had made.
I had done the right thing, running from the mob, but I still hurt. I hurt for the husband who would never know his son, who would have been a great father, were he not made to inherit the underworld, and become its tyrant.
Maybe I remembered him too fondly, when I should have remembered the reason I left. They were torturing people. Not just prisoners, but Aoibheann as well. Sinead, who had helped me escape, had been raped while under their protection. So many others were harmed beneath the boot of “the life”.
Poverty was better than the poverty of spirit and character that our son would inherit, if he lived in that world.
“See you around, Anna Jones,” the handsome Aaron said, giving me a smile and a wink. He walked away, down to the end of the bridge, perusing the other kiosks on his way. With him went any hope of a romantic cure to my loneliness. How could I possibly move on when I had Eoghan on the mind?
This life had to be good enough. Cillian was enough. The way I had been enough for my father.
Right?
Magda and I followed his retreating back, leering at the rounded posterior that teased us from beneath the hem of his winter jacket.
Even if I was resigned to my fate, I was still a straight woman…
“Sweetheart, if you won’t give him your number, I will.” I didn’t need to look at Magda to know that she was smiling.
“You’ll give him your number?” I asked, purposely misunderstanding her.
She slapped my arm. “No, silly. I’ll give him yours.”
“I barely have enough time for me and Cillian, much less anyone else.” It was my ready excuse. “Anyway, you don’t know if he’s a serial killer or… I don’t know.” I tried to think of the most reprehensible thing. “He could be a debt collector, loan shark or a health insurance claims adjustor.”
Allwere as bad as the mafia in my book. They were the ones who had killed my father.
“I don’t have time,” I said again, just to scatter the thoughts in my head.
I felt like I hadn’t slept in over two years. The best sleep of my life was when I was at the hospital, unconscious as they cut my son from my belly.
Life was swinging from caffeine rush to caffeine crash, day after day.
Magda looked at me, and quietly snorted her judgment. “With a man as handsome as that? There’s no such thing as too tired.”
Oh, she did not mean that in a wholesome way.
Magda was of the age where she could say anything, and no matter how off-color, we had to accept it. Mr. Magda must have had very healthy hips to have kept up with her in her prime.
“If he knew me, he wouldn’t be interested,” I said with a small laugh.
More truth. I had spoken more truth as Anna Jones than I ever did as Kira Kekoa. That was the irony of leading a double life. The small leaks of honesty came out in the strangest moments. I wanted to lock them away. To keep them hidden for myself, alone. Too much truth felt naked.
I hated it.
A familiar, slightly menthol scent filled the air. I turned my head, feeling the familiar sensuality of the aroma. A cigarette. It wasn’t quite the menthol Dunhill that had been so familiar, but it was close, stirring up an old feeling that I associated with the love of someone else. Someone far away.
It was the scent that had marked my afterglow each time I had been in my husband's arms.
My knees felt weak as I looked around, searching for the source.
Was he here? Had he found me? Was he here to bring me back?
Did I… want that?