Chapter Five
I n a small northern Montana town, a woman known at various times and by various people as Heather Hudson, Honey Hudson, and Heather Scott sat at an ordinary reception desk in a nondescript house in a middle-class neighborhood. She was medium height and weight, had medium brown hair cut in a smooth, unremarkable bob and now went by the name Heather Malone. Her purported boss called her Hetty and she didn’t argue. She found it rather endearing.
She made no attempt to hide the gray streaks; in fact, she welcomed them as a badge of honor. She wore well-made, classic garments in neutral shades of clay, sand, snow, and charcoal. She had a weakness for Italian leather shoes that she purchased online, in similar earthy tones.
She’d carefully curated the look of a person who could play the part of an extra in a low-budget art film. Middle Manager Number Four. Shopper Number Two. Tourist Eight. This brought her comfort. This persona was safe. This ordinary, slightly boring woman could slide through the rest of her life without drama, without the brilliant agony she’d once found so seductive.
She did, however, drink her coffee from a mug that had been fired with iron oxide shot through with cobalt, a dazzling, one-of-a-kind explosion of color and light.
Once upon a brief period of time, when she had been the girl called Honey, she’d had glossy, dark blonde hair, wore tight jeans and shirts of alizarin crimson and cadmium yellow, with sparkly cerulean-blue piping. For two summers, maybe even three, she’d believed that love conquered all, and had lived for that brilliant agony, had lived for the moment when the mail would contain an envelope from JP Malone, telling her of the next time they could meet. Her world glowed from blinding sunrise to vivid sunset with no hint of the impending dazzling explosion that would almost destroy her.
Almost , a sliver of a word that split her in two. Once she’d finally turned the corner onto a new life, once she’d decided to live, she cast off the broken shell of Heather Scott and emerged shaky and uncertain, as someone new.
She wasn’t a Scott anymore and refused to go back to Hudson, so she chose the surname that she’d once doodled on scrap paper, surrounded by hearts.
Heather Malone seldom thought about that brilliant sliver of life, sandwiched as it was between a constrained childhood of before and the broken-hearted emptiness of after. It had taken her a long time and a lot of work to escape the straitjacket of grief and she wasn’t interested in slipping into it again. Even if his name had been a lie, even if his desertion had been by choice rather than circumstance, taking it for her own empowered her. She didn’t know the truth, but she hadn’t imagined the joy. She wanted to honor it.
Malcolm Black poked his tousled head in from the back room where he conducted his business and played Words with Friends. He knew little about Heather’s slivered past, only that she had left a bad marriage, and—after he’d noticed the semicolon tattooed on the back of her neck—that she’d spent time in a psychiatric institution.
“Don’t even bother,” she told him. “My decision is final.”
He wanted her to attend a promotional event, to consider going public as the talent behind Mel Brezo. She refused. But he was getting more and more persistent.
“Good afternoon to you, too.” He leaned his bulk against the doorframe and surveyed her. They’d been together for a long time, so she knew he wouldn’t take offense. It had taken her many years before she’d trusted him enough to allow him to sell her work. Even longer before she let him introduce her to his family. Anonymity was key to her emotional survival, and until recently, he’d respected that completely.
That’s what happened when you got close to your colleagues.
Malcolm was more comfortable than she was with silence, so she broke it, as she usually did.
“I don’t need the money,” she went on. “I don’t want the publicity. What other reason is there?”
She’d only allowed Malcolm to bring her work to the public on the strict condition that she work under a pseudonym, and that she make zero personal appearances. No one must know the true identity of Mel Brezo, the Montana colorist with the incredible eye for light and movement. On one end of her fandom spectrum were those who recognized the subtle celebration of ancient pagan goddess power held within the images. On the other were those who thought they were nice landscapes, if slightly weird.
“Recognition, Hetty.”
“It’s exactly what I don’t want.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I mean professional recognition. You can keep the Mel Brezo name, just let yourself be associated with the work. People love you.”
He had no idea. Heather Malone was nobody. Nobody really loved her, but nobody hated her, either. She was safe. She depended on Mel Brezo to stay safe.
“I have enough love.” She gestured to the paintings on the wall. “I have my work.”
“This isn’t your work.”
The only reason she sat behind the desk twice a week was because she liked Malcolm and enjoyed this vicarious connection with the world. It was fun to pretend to be the anonymous, boring receptionist when in fact, she was the powerhouse engine that kept the agency going. Sometimes people asked if she’d met Mel Brezo. They always said the name in hushed reverent tones, as if asking if she’d seen the face of God. She always laughed and said of course, and they weren’t missing much. She’d created an alter ego with severe social anxiety, describing him as “physically unfortunate.”
Rumors abounded, to her delight. Mel Brezo had a harelip. Mel Brezo was an albino. Mel Brezo was an ex-con, a close talker, a hairy hunchback with halitosis. She’d even seen a few social media posts by people who insisted that Mel Brezo was a Spanish aristocrat who’d be disowned by his family if his work was made public.
Ironically, the rumors created by others came closest to the truth.
But Malcolm had no idea about her strange floating memories of that awful gray time, memories she’d set aside as false, since there’d been nothing to corroborate them. Art was tied into both the best and the worst times of her life. Her former husband, Weldon Scott, had been patient, if mystified, with her “dabbling,” and she’d left behind her first true work when she’d fled. She always hoped Diana would find it and remember something good about her.
Diana. The best and purest thing in her life. The sweet baby who deserved everything yet got a mother who could give her nothing.
When she’d happened onto the wedding announcement for Diana Scott and Randall O’Sullivan several years ago, it had sent her to bed for a week, stunned with relief, flattened by grief. Her baby was all grown up and happy. Weldon had raised her on his own and she’d turned out just fine.
Heather had made the right decision to leave. But oh, how she wished she could claim that beautiful young woman as her own.
She got to her feet. “You’re right. I’m going home. Emmet is coming for supper. We’re making pizza.”
Malcolm’s gruff expression softened at the mention of her daughter, and she knew her own face did too. Emmet had that effect on people.
Heather had once planned to go into social work, to help struggling families, but quickly recognized that it would be too triggering for her. But volunteer work led her into the foster care system. Once again, accidentally, almost against her will, she became a mother.
A foster mother.
Malcolm wasn’t ready to give up. “In the last few years, your painting has exploded, Hetty. People see it. They want to know more about you.”
Caring for other children soothed her own soul and as pieces of her began to knit together, colors she’d almost forgotten came back to her. Over the years, as she healed, her work grew stronger, gained clarity and sharpness. There was a moody subtext to her images that stirred viewers in unexpected ways.
“You want me to create a story for them? I can do that.” She made typing motions with her fingers. “Mysterious artist—”
She stopped. All the clichéd storylines—secret babies, long-lost love, stolen identities—were too close to the truth.
“Mysterious artist,” she began again, “is actually a middle-aged cat lady who watches reruns of cable sitcoms for fun. My sales would plummet. People want romance, Malcolm. Let them keep the fantasy.”
“You only have two cats. You need at least four to qualify as a cat lady.” He exhaled loudly. “But it’s your fantasy, so you’re going to have to start answering the fan mail yourself, then. We got three this week, including one that insisted she was Mel Brezo’s love child.”
She shuddered. “You deleted it, I hope.”
“Of course. But the secrecy you’ve created brings out the crazies.”
“The price of my success.”
“It’s your life.” Malcolm sighed and pushed off the doorframe, which gave a creak. He needed to lay off the baked goods. He had a kind ex-wife, well-adjusted children who visited frequently, and happy grandchildren. What did he know of a life like hers?
“Yes,” she said. “It is.”