Three
THREE
Aria
Years Later
If anyone had told me that I’d go from the depths of despair from the moment we learned about my mom’s diagnosis until about a year after it to this, I never would have believed them.
Even now, after having lived in this new reality for several years, I still had a difficult time coming to grips with how much things had changed.
And it had happened in such a big way.
To put it plainly, things took off.
Almost immediately after my dad had taken those four original paintings that I’d done for each of my family members as we went through the most difficult time in our lives, there was an interest in more.
Apparently, the paintings sold quickly. They’d barely had any time on display in the New York City gallery before someone snagged them. According to what the art dealer told my father, a single individual bought all four of them. If nothing else, at least I could be happy that a set of paintings, which held such tremendous meaning to me, had remained together.
I had suspected what happened with those pieces was a fluke. Even though I worked on another set—four more paintings had been commissioned—I was a bit skeptical. My belief was that I’d gotten lucky, and the next batch would surely remain for sale for quite some time before anyone purchased even one of them.
Suffice it to say, I’d been wrong.
Because within a week, those paintings were sold.
My mind was blown.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have much time to sit in my disbelief. I figured the best thing I could do for myself and my family was to continue painting with every ounce of spare time I had.
After the third batch of paintings sold and the fourth requested, my father urged me to leave my other job. He wanted me to have the time to focus on painting. And considering I was pulling in substantially more money from my art, it made sense.
My art was a hit.
Now, three years after those first four paintings were bought, I hadn’t quite managed to let that little nugget sink in. I didn’t know what it was—perhaps it was the constant state of forward movement and work—that made it impossible for me to sit back and relish the success in a way I think I might have if life had been different.
Unfortunately, life wasn’t different.
My mom had cancer, we’d been on the verge of losing our home, and the store that had sustained my family’s lifestyle since before I was even born was failing. So, I focused my attention on where it needed to be.
And it worked.
For a long while, the success of my artwork had allowed us to keep our heads afloat. We were able to maintain some semblance of our lives before Mom’s diagnosis, but we weren’t filthy rich, not by any means.
There was a mountain of medical debt to dig out of on top of the months of missed mortgage payments to get caught up on. That took time, and for a long while, we had just enough left over after each of those first few art purchases to put food on the table and the keep the lights on.
Over time, it improved.
Just like my mom’s health. Before I knew it, Mom’s cancer was in remission. It had been a long and hard-fought battle, but she’d done it. We were all so proud of her.
Once we’d gotten that news, it seemed we were all able to breathe just a little bit easier. Of course, while I felt the relief just as much as anyone else in the family when it came to my mom’s health, I didn’t feel it when it came to anything else.
My parents and my sister continued to push me to paint. The store had never recovered from its downturn years ago, but my father kept it open. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to let it go. And with the success of my art, there didn’t seem to be a sense of urgency to try to improve that situation.
Since I loved what I was doing so much, I didn’t necessarily mind that my family needed me to continue to paint. I did what I had to do to be able to provide for them. Fortunately, I wasn’t doing everything on my own. Even though my dad’s store couldn’t support the family—or even just him and Mom—any longer, he did step up to assist me with the art. He handled the logistics of it—he’d essentially become like a manager of my work—and the only real worry I had was the part of it I enjoyed, which was painting.
Plus, once Mom was in the clear, we’d been able to start redirecting funds away from medical bills and start putting them toward other things.
Jazzy was back in school, working to finish up her degree. I was finally able to get myself a used car again and had moved into my own apartment. I’d even gotten myself a cat. Though I’d reached the point where I wanted to be out on my own, I didn’t like feeling as though I was completely alone.
Sasha filled that void. She made life interesting, and I found myself laughing more often. As I stood in the kitchen now, finishing my cup of tea, I could tell she was unhappy with me.
“I’m sorry, Sasha, but I have to run out this morning,” I said.
She meowed her irritated response.
“Look, I know you hate it, but I if I don’t go, you won’t have anything to eat after today,” I explained. “I promise to make it a quick trip. I’ll be back before you can even miss me.”
The thing about my cat was that she enjoyed having me around. She wasn’t particularly needy, but she also wasn’t interested in being left alone all day, either. Sasha enjoyed my company as much as I enjoyed hers. And sadly, since she hated going in the car, regardless of the destination, bringing her along for the ride just wasn’t ideal. We’d both wind up being more stressed than if I’d just gone out on my own this morning like I intended and came back as quickly as I could.
When Sasha offered no reply that she understood the severity of her food situation, I promised, “I’ll pick up some extra treats.”
She wound her way through my legs and around my ankles, meowing relentlessly. This had become her thing whenever she had something important to say. In this case, I took it to be more evidence of her displeasure.
But once I crouched down and stroked my hand over the length of her body several times, she seemed to lose the attitude and leaned in for extra cuddles. Eventually, Sasha took a few steps in the opposite direction, an indication I was free to leave.
It wasn’t all that I would have hoped for, but it was the best I could expect from her.
“I’ll be back soon with cat food and treats,” I told her. “And to be sure we don’t get interrupted later today, I’ll drop the paintings off at the store this morning.”
Sasha stopped in her tracks, looked up at me with her adorable face, and meowed again.
Okay, so perhaps I shouldn’t have shared that tidbit of information with her. Clearly, she knew I wasn’t coming back as quickly as I had originally led her to believe.
Deciding it was best not to exacerbate the problem by sharing anything more and realizing I’d likely have to beg for forgiveness when I returned, I’d grabbed my purse, keys, and paintings before scurrying out the front door.
I ran to the grocery store first, but I didn’t waste any time. Sasha’s food and treats were the priority, and I picked up a few essentials for myself once I had her things safely in my cart. I spent no more than twenty-five minutes in the store and was back in my car on the way to drop off the paintings to my dad.
Typically, my dad stopped over at my place to pick up the paintings. The way he saw it, I was the one who’d made it possible for our family to survive and live comfortably for the last three years, so he was willing to do what he could to make my life easier. It was only ever in very rare instances when I needed to take the paintings to him, and in those cases, I usually stopped by the house to drop them off. I figured I could visit with both of my parents and deliver the paintings at the same time.
It had been months since I’d been in the store, and the moment I walked through the front door, a wave of gratitude had washed over me. The store looked nothing like I remembered it looking years ago. We used to have the shelves stocked, and customers were walking up and down the aisles.
Now, only a few items remained in substantial quantities, but even if they all sold today, the profits would be negligible.
The likelihood of that happening was slim. Because unlike things had been years ago, the aisles weren’t lined with patrons. There wasn’t a single customer in the store.
In fact, nobody was in the front part of the store. I could only assume my dad had gone into the back room for something, so I made my way in that direction. And as I did, I realized he wasn’t the only one in the store. There was a conversation being held between at least two people, my father being one of them, and I was instantly aware something wasn’t right .
“She’s doing as much as she can,” my dad said.
“It’s not enough,” the other voice clipped angrily. “We need to move more, and this pace isn’t working any longer. Alfonso isn’t happy, and he’s losing patience.”
My brows drew together as I attempted to work out what this was about.
My dad’s voice didn’t sound right when he replied, “I know, Vic. I’ll be picking up three more pieces from my daughter today. I’ll talk to her and see what we can do.”
The man I now knew was called Vic didn’t hesitate to respond. “Good. If we can’t get this next shipment distributed in a timely manner, Alfonso is going to want someone to face consequences.”
“I understand,” my dad returned, his voice strained.
“Don’t forget that this is what you signed up for,” Vic declared. “You wanted in, we let you in. Now, it’s on you to hold up your end of the deal.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Dad promised.
Though his words indicated a sense of confidence, his voice was meek. He was terrified, and my stomach trembled as at least half a dozen thoughts moved through my mind.
“I want an update in an hour,” Vic demanded.
“An hour? But I’ve got?—”
“You’ve got one job to do, Melvin. Do it, or face the consequences,” Vic spat.
Not fully understanding the scope of what was going on, but completely aware it wasn’t good, I didn’t think it was wise to be seen. As quickly as I could, I moved away from the door and quietly slipped inside the bathroom. I kept the light off and the door cracked just enough to be able to hear as they walked past .
I waited there for a few beats, and when I thought the coast was clear, I came out of the bathroom and moved toward the front of the store. Once I’d verified that the man named Vic had already left, I walked in my dad’s direction.
We were the only two people left in the store, and if I didn’t say something, it was obvious I would be the only one. Because my dad was panicking as he fumbled with something behind the register. It was a strange sight—Melvin Todd never panicked. But the closer and closer I got, I could see his hands trembling. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and fear was etched into every line on his face.
For a moment, it kept me silent. Seeing him in such a state, I couldn’t find my voice. And that was the moment he looked up and saw me there.
“Aria? Jesus, you scared me,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
I clutched the paintings in my hands and countered, “I think the better question is, what are you doing here? Who was that guy?”
“What?”
“I heard it, Dad. I walked into the store, didn’t find anyone here in the front, and went to the back. Who’s Vic? And Alfonso? What’s going on?”
Dad’s panic turned to something else. The expression on his face was a mix of fear and embarrassment. “Was anyone else in here when you came in?”
“No. I just told you that.”
“Are you sure?” he pressed, worry dripping from every word.
God, I’d never seen him so distraught. “Positive. ”
When I said not another word but shot him an expectant look, my dad crumbled. “I’m so sorry, Aria.”
“What did I just walk into? What was that all about?”
He swallowed hard and begged, “You have to promise me you aren’t going to say anything. Not to your mom or your sister. Nobody can know.”
“Know what?”
The silence stretched between us, the tension building. Never, not once in my life, had I ever experienced such unease between us. Whatever was going on, I didn’t doubt I wasn’t going to like it. Whatever it was, my dad had obviously been carrying this on his shoulders for a while.
“Dad, you need to tell me what’s going on,” I demanded.
He sucked in a deep breath and looked away. When he looked back at me, I could see the unshed tears that had filled his eyes. “I couldn’t lose her,” he croaked. “Your mom. I was desperate, Aria. And when everything happened with the store and we were going to lose the house, I had to do something.”
“What did you do?” I pressed, feeling the strain in my own throat.
“There was never an art dealer,” he confessed.
My eyes narrowed with confusion. “What?”
“I lied to you. I lied to the whole family. Your paintings were never in a New York City art gallery. There aren’t any art collectors across the nation that are gobbling up your paintings the way I’ve led you to believe for the last three years.”
My stomach twisted. Dad never lied. Not to me, not to anyone. He was always honest. Although I had a sneaking suspicion as to what the answer would be, I asked, “Where are my paintings, then? Who have you sold them to?”
He hung his head in shame. “They were just a means to an end.”
“What end?” Holding up the paintings I brought with me today, I asked, “Who’s going to buy these?”
Following a long beat of silence, he revealed, “It’s how the drugs are being moved.”
My brows shot up in surprise. “Drugs?”
He jerked his chin down to confirm I’d heard him correctly.
“You need to explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain, Aria,” he returned. “Everything happened with the store, and your mom was sick. The bills were piling up, creditors were calling, and I knew we were going to lose the house. I had to find a way. So, I did something I’m not proud of, but it’s something I’d do all over again if it meant being able to keep your mom in that house while she battled cancer.”
“She doesn’t know?” I questioned him, tears filling my own eyes.
“No.”
“Jasmine?”
“She doesn’t have the slightest clue,” he admitted.
“Were you ever going to tell me the truth? Or were you going to let me believe for the rest of my life that I was successful, that I was actually talented?”
Hurt, the likes I’d never felt before, washed over me. My father had lied to me about everything, and in the process, he made me think I was some gifted artist. If only I’d taken a trip to New York for nostalgia, to see my art in a gallery, I might have learned the truth sooner .
“You are brilliant,” he insisted.
I shot him an incredulous look. “It’s kind of difficult to believe that now. Where are the paintings?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“So, you lied to me? You lied to all of us and fabricated some story about an art dealer having car trouble just to get involved in some illegal activity? And now what? What’s happening now? Because from the very little that I just heard, something isn’t good.”
Dad squared his shoulders. “They need more paintings. There’s too much volume to move with only a handful of pieces. I was going to come to your place today to pick these up and find a way to convince you to do a large batch of them.”
I stared at him in disbelief.
Maybe it was a good thing I hadn’t allowed this reality to sink in over these last few years. Because it wasn’t real. It was all just a scheme. Maybe he believed in his reasoning—I can’t say I didn’t understand that feeling of desperation and despair we’d all been living in—but I’d never have gone to these lengths.
It was wrong.
It was dishonest.
And it felt like the biggest betrayal in the world.
How could my own father have done this to me?
“I’m not doing it,” I told him. “I can’t do this. Not knowingly, not willingly. Not only could we face some serious legal ramifications if this is ever found out, but it’s wrong. Morally. This isn’t who I am. This isn’t who you are.”
Or, at least, it wasn’t anywhere close to the image I’d had in my mind of him .
His shoulders fell. “Aria, this is never going to come back on you. I promise, I’ll make sure that happens. But we can’t just stop and walk away. That’s not how this works.”
“So, you think I can just continue? I feel like nothing but a fraud. How could I even dream of painting anything good?”
“Don’t you understand? It doesn’t need to be good. It just needs to exist for this to work. They don’t care what you paint as long as it can be passed off as an original.”
It was like a knife had been lodged in my heart. How could he be so callous about it? How could he not understand the hurt he’d just inflicted?
I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. It was obvious we weren’t going to see eye to eye on this.
He must have realized I was struggling, because he said, “I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear. I wish you could just stop, but we can’t. There’s a process, and I need to find a way to get us out of it. Plus, I need to figure out another source of income in the meantime. You have to give me time, Aria. Please, I’m begging you.”
I held his pleading stare for several long moments.
Why did I feel an obligation to continue? Was it for my mom? My sister? Hell, was it for my dad?
I’d heard that conversation in the back. I didn’t think these people messed around or made idle threats. Maybe I needed to give my dad the time he needed to get us out of this.
I stepped forward, placed the paintings on the counter between us. “Get us out of this,” I demanded. “I will not continue this forever.”
“I will, Aria. I promise. ”
Without another word, I turned and walked out of the shop. My body was tense, my heart broken as I made my way back to my car.
If I thought I felt despair before, I’d been wrong. That didn’t compare to this.
All I could do was vow to never step foot in that store again and give this a deadline. One year. My dad had one year to get us out of this.
But he never did.
And I wished I would have known when I left the store that morning that Vic had never left the parking lot. He was still there, watching to see what my dad was going to do, and he wasn’t alone.