Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(99)
“And Declan?” I stammered, trying to find something stable to talk about as my mind reeled. “What does he collect?”
Please don’t say human skins, I begged her silently. Please don’t say the hearts of his enemies.
“Oh, this and that,” she replied unhelpfully. “Companies… investments… talent…”
Her words trailed away as she cocked her head in concentration and began to walk toward the far side where Jackson had set my uncrated paintings against the wall. I bit the inside of my cheek as I realized they were directly underneath an early Rothko and what looked like a Courbet. The colors sang together with my smaller, detailed still lifes and I hoped she thought the same.
I walked carefully behind her, trying not to interrupt but aching to hear her thoughts. As I tried to see what she saw, I was satisfied: the frames were perfect for each piece and seemed to coordinate with the frames around them. The glossy, lush varnish corresponded to the rock-candy-hard surface of the small Dutch still lifes nearby. My lemons, orange blossoms, and humble silver vessels seemed to fit perfectly with various paintings around this section of wall as though they were the repetition of a musical phrase in a song.
She slowly advanced from painting to painting, her right hand knuckling her chin in concentration as she took them in for longer and longer periods of time. I waited eagerly at the other end of the line of them, giving her a respectful amount of space as my blood rushed like a tidal wave in my ears.
Finally she turned back to me, a triumphant smile playing at her lips.
“This one, I think, don’t you agree?”
My breath caught in my throat. Slowly I walked to stand beside her and looked at the painting: a collection of purple-black plums and tangerines spilling from a silver charger on a white tablecloth.
“Thank you,” I said, unsure what else to say. She looked up at me and I realized I was a good five inches taller.
“That’s wonderful,” she said eagerly, bouncing up a little on her toes. I could see her pulse fluttering in the space between her collarbones. Her excitement was palpable, but…
“And… the others?” I choked out, trying to control my voice.
She looked at me, confused, as though my question didn’t make any sense.
“Well they don’t fit at all, do they,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“They don’t?”
She shrugged, her gesture laced with something like impatience. I had the feeling my time here was done and she did not appreciate the extension I was asking for.
“You’re a fine painter, of course,” she explained. “But this painting is all I need. It says everything about you. The others would be… superfluous.”
“Oh,” I said, commanding my voice to sound controlled. I tried to smile but only managed a jerky twitch of one corner of my mouth.
“Oh, don’t be disappointed, please,” she said, clearly conveying that I was supposed to be honored to be included at all.
“You’re just like your mother, really. Did anyone ever tell you that?”
My breath caught in my throat all ragged and I barely stopped my jaw from going slack.
“I-- I didn’t know you knew my mother too.”
“Not for very long,” she said vaguely, beginning to walk away. I followed, trying not to look too far in any direction. The walls felt like they were closing in on me just a little, and I could feel the panic rising again. A whole montage of catastrophes flickered through my brain in fast-forward: floods, bridges collapsing, brushfires, tidal waves.
“You’re her spitting image. Beautiful girl. Brilliant, like you. But a little… reserved, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“No of course not,” I muttered as she led me toward the staircase again. Our time was apparently done.
“I saw her play many, many times. She was simply ravishing. Technically unmatched… Unassailable in her musical choices… Yet, somehow cold.”
“I’m sorry?” I choked as we reached the library again. I could hardly command my lungs to breathe. Though I barely remembered her, the mother in my memory did not match up at all with the woman Edna described. She was warm, eager, excitable…
“No, what am I saying?” she said quickly, her hand reaching out sympathetically to my arm. I saw myself reflected in her eyes. I probably looked like a shock victim.
“She was a beautiful woman, your mother,” she continued, her posture softening. “I’m sorry, I can be a bit of a brash speaker at times. I only mean that she was so controlled, so unwilling to show us her heart… Everything had to be perfect. And in that perfection, some kind of, oh I don’t know… Some kind of connection was left out. Do you know what I mean?”