Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(156)

It felt like… scaffolding. But not exactly that. A bridge, but not exactly that either. The image of the giant skylight cages in the Rijksmuseum flashed through my mind.

“Suspended,” I said aloud.

“Excuse me, miss?”

“Oh nothing!” I said, all perky, excited I had figured it out. He pulled smoothly to the curb in front of the canal house and I tried to clutch all the paper-wrapped flower parcels securely to my chest. Suspended. That was it.

I held the idea in my mind like a lozenge in my mouth: carefully cradled on my tongue, letting the edges melt and suffuse my thoughts with its flavor. It was such a simple thing, so right, so clear…. I couldn’t let it go as I rushed inside and up the stairs to the attic studio, barely aware of the steps under my feet.

Submitting to the effort of concentration, I unwrapped the flowers as though I was in a dream, focusing on the thought instead of my surroundings. I knew if I let it take me over, the images would come together in some kind of sense.

Before I knew it I had four panels set on easels and a brush in my trembling hand. The flowers cascaded from the selection of vessels and jars I had scrounged from the house’s many cabinets and closets.

I held the thought clear in my mind: Suspended. Like a pendant on a chain. Like a bridge between two places. Like a hog on hooks. Like a thing that is being held up by the forces that pull it in opposite directions.

And then I began to paint.





CHAPTER 5


LATER, I DON’T KNOW how much later, I woke to footsteps in the hallway.

“Hello?” I croaked, my throat raw and unfamiliar.

The door swung inward and Jackson entered. At first I felt a wave of relief and excitement. I wanted to talk to him all about my day… the flowers… the painting… the sensation of being here in this place and how it felt to paint with such clarity and purpose…

But then I remembered I was also angry at him for reasons I didn’t really understand. I clenched my jaw as he entered the room, his eyes sweeping the perimeter, looking at all the changes. He spotted the paintings and walked toward them.

Despite myself, I slipped from the white satin duvet atop my enormous new bed and padded up to him in my bare feet. I couldn’t resist being close to him when he saw what I saw.

“What is…” he murmured. “Margot, you did this today?”

I nodded, knuckling my chin. Standing just behind him, I tried to see it afresh through his eyes. The panels were covered in drawings in diluted red paint. They dripped in dramatic sworls, with vigorous marks for placement and composition. They hardly looked like paintings at all. They looked like blood spatter. They looked like a crime scene. I cringed, wanting to drape them all with a sheet.

“It’s just the underpainting,” I said, more defensively than I meant. “This isn’t what they’ll be. It’s just the start.”

I stepped back, hoping he would turn away and follow me, but he didn’t. He stepped closer.

“They’re so raw…”

“I know,” I said quickly, fighting an urge to tug on his arm. “That’s what they are, exactly… They’re too new to be looked at, really. Can you just… Here, let’s talk over here.”

He pointed. “What is this part… This pattern?”

“Actually, you know what? I don’t really talk about in-progress things,” I admitted nervously, my voice rapid and staccato. “It’s like… unwrapping a wound too early, you know? I’m sorry… I don’t mean to be the overly sensitive arteest or anything…”

“That’s cool. You’re entitled,” he said affectionately and turned toward me. As soon as he was facing away from the paintings, I felt my stress go out like the air from a balloon.

“It’s wonderful how fast you got to work,” he said, putting his arms around my shoulders and pulling me close. I melted into his embrace, vividly aware of the tension in my muscles and bones. I felt like an over-tightened string on a guitar.

“And I see you got your new furniture.”

I nodded, saying nothing. The workmen had practically tiptoed in then assembled it in place, all while I ignored them from across the room, painting and probably talking to myself like a loon the entire time.

“Are you OK?” he asked into my hair.

I sighed, wanting to say yes, and definitely not wanting to give into the urge to lash out at him. But then, who would I be? Just the pawn?

“Actually I think I’m just hungover from painting,” I averred. “Bridget says I am not fit company until I’ve had at least two days to recover.”

There you go, Jack. That was your chance to leave.