Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
Raffo hadn’t cried in days, which was a relief. The news about the Dolores Flemming Gallery show had sparked her mojo back to life, and her painting of Dylan was progressing well. While it was still a topless image of her best friend’s mother, for Raffo, it had transformed into something else. Even though she’d only painted in about ten percent of the colors, she could already see, in her mind’s eye, what it might look like finished—when she’d applied all the colors that were bursting on her eyelids every time she closed her eyes.
Raffo got her drawing talent—her artistry—from her father, not that he’d ever told her that. The only reason she knew was because she’d found some of his drawings—beautifully refined portraits of her mother—between her mom’s belongings after she’d died. Her sense of color, however, Raffo owed completely to her mother. Most people with a bit of flair for it could learn to draw and paint, but the way color worked inside of Raffo’s brain was inherited. Color was in Raffo’s DNA—as it had been in her mother’s. She’d seen it in Rishi too when he was little, but now, probably as a way to protect himself, he only dressed in black and white. As though denying himself color could take away his truest desires.
Raffo, on the other hand, cherished her love of color. Her use of it was a tribute to her mother. It made her feel connected to her in a way that would otherwise not be possible. It was yet another reason why, without the ability to paint, Raffo only felt like half a person. Because her mother felt too dead to her when she wasn’t working, whereas when she was painting, for brief moments, Raffo felt like her mother was somehow still alive inside her.
Just because Raffo could see what the painting might look like when it was done didn’t mean that getting there was an easy process. Mixing the exact colors that she wanted, and applying them in the right spot, with the desired consistency and brush stroke on the canvas, was a slow undertaking with lots of trial and error. But it was all part of what she did. Besides, if it was easy, it wouldn’t be special. Raffo didn’t think of herself as special—ever—but it was impossible to be unaware of what her work meant to some people. Her work was special to certain people. She had accepted that. And now it was going to be on display in the best art gallery in Chicago. The news still made her stomach flutter.
A knock came from behind, pulling her from the reverie her mind drifted into when she was in the zone.
“Hey.” Dylan was barely wearing any clothes again—just a spaghetti-strap tank top and the shortest pair of jeans shorts Raffo had ever seen. Raffo had been here over a week now and she didn’t try as hard to look away anymore. Moreover, she couldn’t shake the feeling that Dylan enjoyed it when Raffo’s gaze lingered. “Dinner in about half an hour. Does that work?”
“Absolutely.” Raffo shot Dylan a big smile—she deserved every last sprinkle of it. “Thank you.”
As the days had passed, and Raffo had been spending more hours in her painting nook in the corner of the porch, Dylan had grown less hesitant about disturbing her.
As Raffo’s gaze traveled down Dylan’s smooth, tan thighs, Dylan studied Raffo’s painting—not something Raffo could hold against her. Dylan never commented, though. She didn’t nod or react, keeping her thoughts carefully hidden.
“I’m grilling some chicken and I want to time it right.” Dylan’s blue eyes glinted in the early evening sun that bathed everything, Raffo’s work most of all, in a flattering, honeyed hue.
Goodness. This woman. Raffo wasn’t sure she would ever want to leave Big Bear. What would she even be going back to? A life in ruins and no one to grill her the perfect piece of chicken, that’s what.
“I’ll put my stuff away and get cleaned up,” Raffo said.
“Great. I’ve opened that bottle of white you bought, if you want some.” With that, Dylan turned on her heel and, barefoot, her jeans shorts seemingly shrinking by the minute, sauntered off. Raffo couldn’t look away if she tried.
“As promised,” Dylan said after dinner. “I’ll show you some of my work now.”
Raffo knotted her eyebrows together. Had Dylan secretly been painting? Or taken up a craft like crocheting?
“Let me just get my laptop. It took a while for me to cobble it together.” Dylan shot up, a wild kind of energy about her all of a sudden.
As Raffo cleared the dishes, it slowly came back to her. That long conversation they’d had a few days ago, when she’d basically told Dylan all about her past and present traumas. Dylan’s work. Advertising campaigns.
When Raffo looked at Dylan, she didn’t see a woman ready for retirement, although lounging in her Big Bear house seemed to agree with her. But for how long could a person, realistically, do that? It was probably different for everyone.
Raffo grabbed the bottle of wine from the fridge on her way back to the deck and generously refilled their glasses.
She enjoyed the silence of her surroundings as she waited, the lowering sun across the lake, and the general sense of peace that was impossible to find in Los Angeles. Unwittingly, her mind drifted to Mia. What was she doing? Making her divine tamales for Ophelia? Luckily, Dylan waltzed onto the deck, laptop in hand.
“We did a lot of movie promotion work, as you can imagine. My second agency had an exclusivity contract with one of the big studios. There were a few years when all I worked on were movies.”
“Sounds thrilling.” Raffo meant it. She’d grown up in Los Angeles and it was easy enough to be jaded about the movie business, and all it entailed, but Raffo had always thought it special. After her mother died, Raffo often fled to their neighborhood theater just to get away from the house and her demanding father and useless brothers.
“Especially when working on this.” Dylan flipped open her laptop and showed Raffo the screen. On it was a poster for Sweet Tomorrow starring Ida Burton.
“Oh my god.” This movie had been made long before Ida came out of the closet—when she’d still been fake-married to a gay male movie star—but Raffo had seen it many times nonetheless. “Did the ad agency people get to go to the premiere? Did you meet Ida?”
“I was in my late twenties when we did this. Maybe my boss got some perks, I don’t remember, but I certainly didn’t.” Dylan sat there beaming, obviously proud of the work she’d once done.
She showed Raffo some more of the campaigns she’d worked on, some of which Raffo remembered seeing at the time of launch—especially a few of the queer-oriented ones.
They made Raffo think of the Rainbow Shelter. One day, if the weather in Big Bear turned, and they weren’t subjected to this glorious—and, admittedly, somewhat sensuous—sunshine every day, they should watch Gimme Shelter together—the movie about Justine Blackburn and the Rainbow Shelter.
“I’m impressed,” Raffo said, after Dylan’s slideshow.
“Thank you.” Unlike Raffo, Dylan had no problem accepting a compliment.
“I can’t read your thoughts, obviously, but from where I’m sitting, and from what I can see, you’re so not ready to retire.”
“I’m not,” Dylan confirmed. “I wasn’t planning to, either. I just wanted to make a change. Be creative again instead of talking about business and pitches and financial projections all the time. Seeing my old work again only reinforces that.”
“Maybe selling this place is a small price to pay for that.” Raffo could say this with confidence because nothing was worth more to her than being creative—no material possession, no matter how lovely the house and the lake attached to it—could ever be.
“Maybe,” Dylan said on a sigh.
“Alternatively, you could get a business loan,” Raffo offered. “Or refinance your properties.”
“No,” Dylan stated firmly. “Either I finance my new agency with my own money or I don’t do it. I’m not going into debt. Not after what happened.”
Or I could give you a loan, Raffo thought, but quickly quashed the idea. Dylan hadn’t even told her son about her bad investment, which probably didn’t make her the type of person to accept a loan from her son’s best friend. Besides, Raffo had to buy a house for herself— by herself —in LA’s lethal real estate market.
“You’ll figure it out, Raffo said instead. “Despite what happened, you’re a smart woman.”
“I don’t feel so smart right now.” Dylan’s earlier confidence seemed to plummet.
“Smart people do dumb things all the time. It’s called being human.”
“What’s the last dumb thing you did?” Dylan asked before taking a large sip of wine.
“Me?” Raffo shook her head. “Agree to an open relationship.”
“No.” Dylan’s tone was firm. “That doesn’t count. Mia broke up with you. That’s not on you.”
“That’s not on me?” Raffo’s eyes widened. “My girlfriend stopped loving me and that’s not on me?”
“It’s on her. It’s got nothing to do with doing something really stupid. With getting so carried away with something you lose all common sense.”
If only Raffo knew why Mia had stopped loving her—although what good would it do? She wouldn’t be able to make Mia love her again, unless she changed into slender, blonde Ophelia, and that was impossible.
“Okay.” Raffo easily acquiesced. “That was not a good example. But it doesn’t matter, because we’re not going down this route. You made a mistake and I understand it’s a difficult thing to accept about yourself.”
“For what it’s worth…” Dylan leaned back in her chair and drew up one shapely leg. “I have no idea why Mia would stop loving you. You’re so… talented and down-to-earth at the same time. You’re extremely easy to be around and so incredibly interesting. Frankly, I can’t get enough of your company.”
The only response Raffo had to that was a slackening jaw.
“I don’t mean in a romantic way, obviously,” Dylan quickly added.
“In an amorous way, you mean?” Raffo quipped, now that she was able again.
“That’s right.” Dylan had no trouble meeting Raffo’s gaze. Raffo was unable to look into Dylan’s eyes for longer than a split second, though. “You know that’s not what I mean, don’t you?”
Did she? Raffo wasn’t so sure, but maybe she was projecting. Although there wasn’t anything amorous—her heart wasn’t free for anything like that—about how she felt about Dylan, it was undeniable that Raffo found her attractive.
“Of course,” Raffo said. For the first time, she felt a little uncomfortable in Dylan’s company—not because of what Dylan had just said, but because of Raffo’s own thoughts. “And thank you for saying those lovely things about me. That feels so nice after being dumped like that.”
For a moment, Raffo considered what might happen if she continued down this road their conversation had taken—if she flirted with Dylan a little—but she soon thought better of it. Dylan was Connor’s mother and that was the end of that.
She feigned a yawn. “I’m sorry. I seem to be rather tired. I got a lot of painting done today. So much for being on vacation.” Once she’d got going, Raffo hadn’t been able to stop. Because she’d felt like her full self again. “I might have an early night.”
“I can imagine it’s exhausting, being a genius and all that.” Dylan rested her chin on her knee and gazed at Raffo.
Someone using the word genius to describe her always raised Raffo’s hackles all the way up, but Dylan had a different effect on her when it came to many things. Raffo just made a mental note to address that wrong assumption about her—she didn’t consider herself a genius in the least—later, and rose from her chair.
“Thank you so much for dinner, for the excellent company, and another lovely day in your house.” As she walked past Dylan’s chair, Raffo briefly touched a hand against Dylan’s shoulder, before heading inside.