7. Sienna
7
SIENNA
There must be something unnatural in the water. Either that or the universe has decided it’s time to throw some more curveballs my way. I can picture the stars huddled together up there, murmuring, “ Sienna Walker has had it too easy for a while. Let’s liven things up a bit .”
After Nick’s phone call yesterday evening, I didn’t even finish my coffee. I had to get away from Kyle. I needed the time and the space and the oxygen to think.
He knew something was wrong. Maybe it was the way I couldn’t meet his eyes, or how I grabbed my purse, coat, and boots, and finished dressing in the elevator as if we were running through an emergency fire drill. He still insisted on his driver taking me home, so I sat in the back of the car, my purse clutched to my chest like a lifebelt.
Outside my apartment building, I waited for the black car to merge back into the traffic before I started walking.
Head down. One foot in front of the other. Nick’s words replaying inside my head like captions on a social media video.
Don’t you think it’s a coincidence that Kyle comes back from Ireland and then your father is on the scene again?
It would never have occurred to me. Maybe my brain doesn’t think about things logically or laterally or whatever. I’m an artist, not a problem solver. I look for beauty not ugliness. But now I can’t unsee it.
This morning, Central Park is decorated with a fine film of sparkling frost. I walk to work—I wasn’t lying when I told Kyle that I like to walk—my breath forming delicate white clouds in front of my face. I let myself into the gallery and lock the door behind me. I don’t have any appointments until this afternoon, so I’m going to drink coffee, eat croissants, and paint. On repeat.
I’ve barely shrugged my vintage Afghan coat over my shoulders when my phone vibrates inside my purse. I don’t need to open it to know that it’s from my father. He hasn’t stopped messaging me since I walked out of the Rinse with Kyle yesterday.
The anticipation of picking up a paintbrush and transferring my emotions onto canvas seeps through my pores, leaving me feeling bone-weary and wooly-brained from lack of sleep. I read the messages. Plural.
I have a surprise for you, sweetheart.
I’ll swing by the gallery later to tell you all about it.
I know this is hard for you. It’s hard for me too. But I told you I’ve changed, and I’m determined to prove it to you.
He’s fucking persistent, I’ll give him that.
I know what he’s doing. He’s bombarding me with messages so that I can’t forget about him. He’ll wait an hour and message me again. Regular as clockwork. Allowing me no time between contact to resume normal life without him in it.
I don’t respond.
I haven’t replied to any of his messages, I haven’t even added his number to my contact list, he’s still sitting there in my inbox as UNKNOWN.
“Unknown, just the way I liked it,” I mutter to myself.
But the thing that’s niggling away at me, and the reason I need to spend the morning painting, is my father’s non-reaction to Kyle’s announcement that his brother owns the Rinse. Like he already knew this. Or another way to look at it is that he already knew who Kyle was .
I press my fingertips to my eyebrows as if I can push the brewing headache back inside my skull.
What reason would Kyle have to find my father and then reintroduce him into my life? None. Victoria would’ve told him that we’re estranged and that I had no desire to reach out to him. But I can’t ignore the timing.
Or can I?
My father will get bored when he realizes that I’m not interested in putting things right or getting to know him. He’ll only put in so much effort with zero return, and then, if the universe is listening to me, he’ll crawl back inside his rathole and forget all about me.
Yes. Boredom is the best I can hope for.
Or death. Maybe he’ll get run over by a yellow taxi, or assassinated in his bed, or pushed off the top of the Empire State Building.
I’m still smiling to myself when I open my tablet and check my emails.
My pulse gathers speed as I read the most recent correspondence from an art collector. He wants to buy a painting. No, scratch that; he wants to buy my favorite piece. Apparently, he saw images attached to the article in the New Yorker magazine after the launch and would like to come and view it in person later today.
I don’t respond immediately. Instead, I wander through to the gallery and stand in front of my aura-portrait, soaking up the vibrancy.
I guess, when I painted it, I never expected to sell it. Selling my artwork was a pipe dream, a fantasy, something that only ever happened to established artists, not part-time middle school teachers. I want people to see my art, of course I do. But the idea of this piece hanging on someone else’s wall… I’m not sure how I feel about it.
What if they’re purchasing it for all the wrong reasons?
What if … they want it because it matches their color scheme, or reminds them of Great-Aunt Mabel, or fits a space on a wall that they’ve been trying to fill for a while?
Maybe I’m overreacting. But I’m emotionally attached to my art the way authors are emotionally attached to their books and actors are emotionally attached to their movies.
Besides, I need the money. If I don’t sell my work, I’ll never be able to pay Caleb back for the money he put into the gallery.
I’m so lost in thought that my heart pounds when the doorbell rings. I turn around and instantly recognize the face peering through the window at me.
It’s Bash. Kyle’s brother.
I unlock the door and let him in. He has Kyle’s eyes and the same smile, but his hair and neatly trimmed beard are darker with flecks of copper when they catch the light.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.” He surveys the gallery, lips stretched into a permanent smile. “Wow. Victoria was right. This is exactly what I’m looking for.”
“Victoria sent you?”
“Not exactly. We talked about your artwork, and she suggested I come and check it out before I shop elsewhere.” It takes him a couple of beats to realize what he said. “That sounds worse than it is. I only meant?—”
“It’s fine.” My gaze lingers over my favorite piece briefly. “Do you want coffee? I’ve not had anywhere near enough caffeine today.”
“And it’s only—” he checks the Rolex on his wrist “—nine-twenty-three.”
“Yep. Don’t ask.”
He follows me through to the office, and my cheeks grow hot when I think of what Kyle and I did on the desk. He takes a seat, leans back, one leg crossed casually over the other, and helps himself to a croissant.
“I’m opening a new nightclub. Are you open to new commissions?”
Am I ever!
It feels good to discuss art with someone who knows what he wants. I don’t know Bash or Cash that well, but it’s like talking to Kyle without the sexual chemistry bouncing around between us.
When we’ve agreed on four pieces, to begin with, and my brain is still trying to process the zeroes this will add to my practically empty bank account, he throws in: “Have you seen Kyle since he got back?”
My heart jumps on the bandwagon, prodding my ribs like I might’ve missed the name. “Yes.” What does he know? Has Kyle told his brothers about us? “Why?”
Jeez, that’s one way to draw attention to the heat in my face.
“No reason.” Bash stands up. “He’s been quiet.”
“Maybe he’s been busy.” Digging for information on my cosmetic surgeon.
“Maybe.” His eyes flicker back to his watch.
“Has he said anything to you about…” I leave the sentence hanging.
What am I doing? Bash is a member of the same mafia family as Kyle. It’s bad enough having one brother on Nick’s case without alerting the rest of the family to his existence as well.
“About?” His expression is unreadable.
“Did Kyle ask you to come here and check up on me?”
“Nope. Kyle stopped telling me what to do a long while ago when he realized that I would automatically do the opposite.”
I think about it. “So, he told you to stay away?”
Bash laughs, the kind of laughter that would be infectious in a crowded room, easy and charming and loud. “I’m not saying a word.”
I walk with him through the gallery and open the door.
Bash hesitates on the threshold and turns to face me. His expression is so like Kyle’s when he’s being serious, that it takes my breath away momentarily.
“Kyle’s one of the good guys,” he says. “Would it be such a bad thing if he had people looking out for you?” Before I can answer, he shrugs and walks away.
A black car is waiting for him, the engine idling, and hazard lights on. The Murrays must have a fleet of expensive black cars complete with chauffeurs at their beck and call. Fancy a McDonald’s? No sweat. Send the chauffeur to pick it up.
But I bet they’ve never even tried McDonald’s classic Big Mac Meal.
I watch the car drive off. I’m about to go back inside and close the door, when a man dressed all in black standing outside a store on the opposite side of the road, turns his face away from me and studies the window. Neither of us moves.
Was he watching me?
I linger outside, but it’s cold, and my teeth are chattering, so I go back inside and close the door as gently as I can, holding my breath until I hear the faint click. Within moments, the guy turns around, checks out the gallery, and then walks away.
Anger bursts inside my chest.
What the actual fuck does Kyle think he’s doing?
Back in the office, I type a message—it takes three attempts to get it right because my fingers are trembling—and send it to Kyle.
Get your man away from my gallery or I’ll call the police.
I refill my coffee cup. It’s too late to get my paints out before my afternoon appointment, and I’m not sure that I’d produce the kind of piece I could sell right now anyway.
A message comes back before my first mouthful of coffee has gone down.
Sienna? What’s happened? Can I call you?
I suck in a deep breath and type, my fingers jabbing so hard at the keys I’m surprised I haven’t punched a hole in the screen.
Bash was here, but you already know that don’t you? I don’t want your men following me. I don’t want your protection.
My phone rings, and I pick it up. I don’t wait for him to speak.
“Why are you having me followed?”
“Hey, sweetheart.”
The voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I didn’t check the caller ID. Fuck!
“Who’s following my baby girl?”
“No one. And I’m not your baby girl.”
A chuckle reaches me through the handset, and I instinctively hold the phone away from my ear, as if his fingernails will appear at any moment and scratch the side of my face.
“You’ll always be my baby girl, Sienna.”
Why is he still talking?
“I’m busy. Can I call you later?”
I could just hang up, but he’ll only call me back. Best to just get the conversation over and done with, finish my coffee, maybe put my earbuds in, close my eyes, and listen to some meditational rainfall on Spotify. Cleanse the rest of the world from my system.
“Too busy to open the door and let me in?”
Fuck!
“You’re here?”
“Didn’t you get my message?”
He knows I did. He can see that it’s been read even if I didn’t reply.
“Yeah…” I’m trying to find an excuse not to open the door, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he watched Bash leave too. Resigned, I say, “I’m coming.”
He’s standing outside blowing exaggeratedly into his cupped hands to keep himself warm when I open the door. He’s wearing a beaten-up brown leather coat that looks as if he bought it in the 70s, and square-toed lace-up shoes that have probably never been polished. I notice for the first time, his shiny, liver-spotted scalp peering through his thinning gray hair.
“Thought you’d never open the door.” He steps inside without waiting to be invited, and peers around at my artwork, rubbing his hands together like a miser from an old fairy tale. “This is classy, sweetheart.”
I close the door, shutting me in with him.
I don’t want him here. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t touched anything. But the thought of him breathing on my paintings sets my teeth on edge like he’s swallowed something noxious and has come here to destroy everything he sees. I find myself studying his mouth, waiting for a puff of dirty green gas to appear.
Deep breath.
I’ve let him get to me, and that’s exactly what he wanted. Any attention is better than none, right?
“Is this the piece?” He steps closer to my self-portrait, and I’m jolted into action.
I scurry across the room, heart pounding. “I think that painting is sold.”
Did it sound like I was saying: Touch that canvas at your own peril ? I fucking hope so.
Maybe he picks up on the threat in my voice.
He stops a couple of paces away from the painting and turns to me with a smug smile, still rubbing his hands together. “I know.”
Wait. What?
“What do you mean?”
“Someone is coming to look at it this afternoon, right?”
I swallow. The last coffee I drank with Bash is buzzing through my veins. “How do you know about that?”
He grins at me, revealing large front teeth. “I found the buyer for you. He’s a friend of mine. When I told him about your gallery, he said he’d buy a piece or two. You know. To help you find your feet.”
I’m trying to process this. My father. A friend of his. My favorite painting .
“Why?” I shake my head. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you’re my baby girl, and I’ll do anything to help you.”
His bottom lip rolls out again, and I realize that this must be his go-to expression of hurt. The sympathy-call. Next, he’ll say: I was only trying to help .
“I was only trying to help, sweetheart.”
Ugh! I forgot the sweetheart.
“I don’t need your help.”
He glances around the gallery, his eyes settling pointedly on every painting before returning to me. “That’s not how it looks from where I’m standing. How many pictures have you sold?”
“A couple.” Why am I even telling him this? “I’ve only been open a few days.”
I’m still justifying myself to the man who tried to kill my mom and walked out on me when I was six years old. I don’t need his validation. I don’t need anything from him.
“Which is why I’m trying to give you a head start.” He steps closer to me, and I move backwards. “Hey, there’s no crime in getting some help from your family.”
You’re not my family .
It’s on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say it out loud. I’m acutely aware that no one knows he’s here, and I left my cell phone on my desk in the office. If he tries to hurt me, I’d never get to it in time to call for help. I don’t like that this is how I feel when I’m around him, but he’s never given me a reason to trust him.
“So, this guy, your friend … he’s not an art collector?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?” I’m already working myself into a rage of I’m-never-letting-this-piece-go levels, and he isn’t doing anything to salvage the situation.
“He collects beautiful things.”
“Beautiful things?” I’m repeating his words like a fucking parrot, my voice growing shrill. “Come on, give me something I can work with here. Are we talking statues, Faberge eggs, women?”
He wrinkles his nose from side to side like I’m the one out of place in my beautiful gallery. “Sweetheart, something is wrong. You shouldn’t be this stressed over a painting.”
He’s still talking to me the way he did in the Rinse, slowly, his voice low and measured as though he recognizes that a word out of place will send me careening over the edge and into an abyss.
“That’s just it.” I match his tone—two can play at this game, and if he wants to treat me like a kid, I’ll react accordingly. “It isn’t only a painting. It’s my painting. No one else on this planet will ever be able to recreate it because only I know what went into it. And it isn’t the painting that’s stressing me out. It’s you.”
He blinks, fluttering his eyelashes like a cartoon character. “Me? What have I done?”
“Why are you interfering? Why are you even here?” I throw both arms up into the air as though posing the question to a higher being.
“You know why I’m here, Sienna, and I didn’t think I was interfering. I thought I could help you make some money. That’s why you opened the gallery, isn’t it? To sell your work.” He furrows his brow like he’s having a hard time understanding his new-found daughter.
I shut my eyes briefly. It makes no difference what I say, he’ll always turn this around to him being the loving father trying to make amends.
“I want to sell it on merit. I want people to look at my work and feel compelled to buy it because it reaches out to them. I don’t want a friend of a friend handing over some cash as a favor.”
“Sure, I get it.” He nods, and his head keeps right on nodding like it has somehow worked loose from his neck. “I’ll speak to him. Tell him the piece is no longer for sale.”
Relief floods my chest. “You will?” Maybe he is trying.
“Anything for my baby girl.” He licks his lips. “On one condition.”
There it is: the hidden clause.
“Tell me who’s been following you.”
“What?” It takes several beats for me to work out what he’s talking about. My shoulders slump. “It’s nothing. I was just being paranoid.”
“People don’t get paranoid for no reason. You sounded pretty adamant on the phone.”
“It’s fine. Nothing I can’t handle.”
He watches me for a long time, and it’s obvious that he doesn’t believe me. Finally, he says, “Have it your way. But I want you to promise me that you’ll let me know if it gets out of hand.”
“Okay.” I’m not promising him anything. An awkward silence settles between us, and I glance at the door. “I’m busy…”
“I know.” He walks to the door, the coat flapping around his legs. “If I find out someone is hurting my little girl, I’ll?—”
“They’re not. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
“That’s a lot of fines for someone who looks as if she’s about to cry.”
He reaches out a hand to touch my face, and I back away, tears stinging my eyes right on cue.
“Please go.”
I want him to leave so that I can lock myself in my studio and breathe again. My chest feels tight, and my head is spinning, and I don’t think I’ve taken a deep breath since he walked through the door.
“I’ll call you, sweetheart. I’m never going to stop trying.”
He walks away, and I follow his retreating back with my eyes. He’s almost at the corner of the block when another man walks towards him in a beige coat with a red woolen scarf around his neck. They exchange a few words, and I head back inside, checking that the man in black has gone.
I don’t even make it to my office before the doorbell rings again.
Sucking in a deep breath, I go back and open the door expecting to find my father standing there looking apologetic. But instead, I’m peering into the cool gray eyes of Nick Morris.
He smiles and steps inside, unwinding the red woolen scarf from around his neck. “I was passing by and thought I’d take you for lunch.”