Just What I Needed(15)

I saw the moment when it clicked. “You lied to those other guys? Why?”

“There were two of them, one of me. I was in a strange bar without my wingwoman or my cell phone—so yeah, do the math.” I paused. “Look, the name thing wasn’t a blatant lie, but more like a . . . half-truth. And I felt bad about doing it.”

“Half-truth?” He made a sound of disbelief. “You do realize that’s the same as a lie?”

He sort of had me there. “Let’s not delve into an ‘Is the glass half full or partially empty?’ argument,” I said breezily. “My full name is Trinity Amelia Carlson. Professionally I go by Trinity Amelia.”

“But everyone calls you Amelia?”

I shook my head. “Just my family.” My stepmonster started calling me that because Trinity sounded too hippie-ish. Heaven knew a man of my father’s stature didn’t want the general public to be reminded of his out-of-wedlock dalliance. “I go by Trinity. And I never told you to call me Amelia. In fact, I think you said my name once.”

“Fine. Trinity. Maybe your name was a half-truth, but don’t deny the number you gave me was completely fake—and that, sweetheart, was a total dick move.”

My mouth dropped open. “What? It was not fake! Which means it was not a dick move! That was my old cell phone number.”

“Old, like from years past? Because even if you change cell phone providers, you can keep your ‘old’ number.”

“Unless the reason you change it is because of harassment,” I retorted. “Last month I got twenty-four thousand unknown calls. Twenty-four thousand. Do you have any idea what it’s like for your phone to ring every two minutes? Day and night? My provider threw out an excuse about autobot issues and refused to do anything. I’d just switched providers and got a new phone number the day we met. So when you asked for my number, the one I gave you was a reflex, okay? I had that number for four years and the new one for four hours.” I inhaled a deep breath. “Besides, you didn’t give me your number. And you did leave the bar in one helluva hurry. Maybe I took that to mean you only wanted to contact me on your terms. So I’m mostly at fault here, but not completely, and you know it.”

He stared at me for several long moments—as if his oversight hadn’t occurred to him.

“Yeah, well . . .” He jammed his hand through his thick blond hair. “Whatever.” He turned and walked off.

“Where are you going?”

“To beat the shit out of something.”

When he was out of earshot, I said to the empty room, “I seem to inspire that reaction in a lot of people.”

I returned to my safe little corner and for the rest of the morning I did what I did best: lost myself in a two-dimensional world where things were simpler and mistakes were easily fixed—by either erasing or starting over on a blank canvas.

Somehow I doubted I’d get a clean slate with Walker Lund. And that made me more than a little sad.

—

After lunch, which I ate alone in my car, I started on the first set, a forest scene. It wasn’t a happy bright blue sky, but an ominous gray. The pine trees were dark, angry slashes of green. I began to add layers, smaller trees, bushes and a rock-strewn path. These layers were softer, with feathery-looking pine needles, and a faint hint of light glowed beneath the lowest boughs.

I stepped back to gauge the image as a whole. It needed more distinct branches in the trees in the middle. Add a few dabs of yellow-green to balance the gray shadows and then this one was done. I snatched my bottle of water off the table and drained it.

“I hate to admit it, but you are one amazingly talented artist.”

Startled by the deep voice, I dropped the bottle on the floor and whirled around. “God. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Walker had his hands in the pockets of his well-worn jeans. “Sneak up on you? I’ve been right here watching you for the last half hour.” He paused. “You didn’t know I was here?”

I shook my head. “People have said bombs could go off around me when I’m working and I wouldn’t notice.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever experienced that level of concentration—to say nothing of harnessing it repeatedly on cue to create something like that.”

Usually I let compliments—and criticisms—roll off me. Yet his praise struck a chord since it wasn’t about the finished product, but his appreciation of the process. “Thank you.” Feeling self-conscious, I grabbed a smaller round brush and returned to painting.

I twisted the brush as I moved down the image. After the third pass, when I still felt him watching me, I said, “I’m sorry.”