Complementary Colors Read online

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “Okay. Makeup. Bring me another drink, but make sure it’s in a plastic cup in case Julia decides to hit me with it.”

  Just my luck, the subject of our conversation came through the elevator door. She took one look at me and said, “Why aren’t you dressed?”

  “Why don’t you stay out of my apartment? Or are you hoping to catch me fucking the doorman?”

  She drew back her lips. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Don’t worry, he doesn’t have enough dick to make it worth the effort.”

  “I’m not in the mood for your shit.” Julia jerked away. “Go upstairs and get ready. We have to leave soon.”

  I leaned against the railing. “Who says I’m going?”

  Her hands became fists.

  I often wondered why I felt the need to poke a stick in the hornets’ nest, but there was no answer except maybe I enjoyed getting stung.

  Alice stepped between us. I didn’t bother to tell her nothing short of a brick wall could stop our sister.

  “He’s on his way.” Alice turned her pleading gaze on me.

  “Fine, I’ll get dressed.”

  “And shower,” Julia said.

  “What, and miss the chance to look like a palette of paint shit all over me?"

  Alice flicked a look to me, then the top of the stairs.

  Julia’s voice chased me to my bedroom. “You better wash.”

  I threw a bird over my shoulder and slammed my door closed. The thunder in my chest echoed with a sharp stab in my skull. When Julia didn’t come crashing in, I figured it was safe for me to bathe.

  The oil paint didn’t want to come off so I was forced to scrub my hands and arms raw. When I finished skinning myself, I began the other menial tasks that were required to make myself presentable.

  “Paris?” Alice’s voice was nothing like Julia’s, but she still startled me. “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah.” I tapped the razor on the side of the sink to clear the blade.

  Alice ran a look over me. “Don’t you ever cover yourself?” She picked up a towel and handed it to me.

  “Only when I have to.” I wrapped the towel around my waist because it made her happy.

  Alice put a small carry bag on the counter, then led me to the toilet. I closed the lid and sat. She took a straight razor out of the bag.

  “I thought you were going to make me up, not slit my throat.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’d never hurt you.” No, she wouldn’t. “You missed some spots.”

  Alice angled my head and cleared away the stray hairs with measured strokes. When she finished, she wiped my face with a warm cloth.

  “Now what?” I said.

  She took out a jar of cream. “Turn your head.” Alice caught my chin. “The other way.”

  “How long will this take?”

  “Be quiet.” She dabbed my cheek with a wet finger. The cream made the cuts sting.

  “Why do you do this?” Alice said.

  “What?”

  “Torment her.”

  I petted the towel.

  Alice smoothed out the dabs of foundation. “With the stress of organizing these shows, Julia’s temper is short enough without you aggravating her.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. She never hits you.”

  “She only hits you because you purposely make her angry. I know things get mixed up in your head and sometimes you get confused and think things have happened that didn’t, but you still have to take responsibility for what you do.” She applied another drop. “You know, if you’d just apologize, she might forgive you.”

  An apology was no cure for rabies.

  Alice examined her work. “It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well, it’s important that you look nice. Especially if they take pictures.”

  “I still appreciate it.”

  She began packing everything away. “Oh, I thought of a name for the painting.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The Hand of God.” Her smile wilted. “You don’t like it?” Alice flicked her bangs out of her eyes. “I told you I wasn’t very good at this.”

  “No, no. It’s fine. It’s a very good name.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Her smile returned. “Then you’re going to call it that? I mean, when they put it up at the gallery or in the paper?”

  “Sure.” I had no intentions of letting anyone see The Kiss. I would protect it. The boy, whose name I couldn’t remember, deserved more. But the canvas was all I had to give.

  Alice knocked her hand into the makeup bag, and the contents spilled out over the counter. A few things fell off onto the floor.

  “Dang it. I’m such a butterfingers.”

  I laughed.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “No, it’s just hearing you say that. I didn’t think anyone under the age of sixty used that term anymore.”

  She rolled her eyes at me.

  I picked up a lipstick, a compact, and…

  A locket.

  The heart was woven out of strands of cheap silver. It was the kind of jewelry found in discount stores, not the high-dollar fashion boutiques my sisters shopped at.

  I opened it. The picture of me was barely more than a ghost. I must have been seven or eight? There was just enough color to give my cheeks a pink glow, and the dark suit a shadow of blue.

  “When was this taken?”

  Alice sorted the eye shadows that had broken out of their containers. “What?”

  “This? I don’t remember it.”

  “What are you…” Alice’s eyes widened. Her gaze went from the locket in my hand to me. “That’s mine.” She snatched it away and stuffed it in her pocket. Then she scraped the makeup she’d been sorting off the counter and into the bag.

  “What did I say?”

  “Nothing.” She fought with the zipper.

  “Alice?”

  “Nothing Paris, just drop it.” She slammed the door shut behind her.

  ********

  The Bransford estate, also known as the Killigans, Marshals, Potts, and located on the state border, on the coast, near downtown, or in a picturesque mountain setting, was a bloated brick monolith on a painted green lawn.

  Hedges were blocks, and rose bushes were beach balls. There was a pool—there was always a pool at houses like this—and a fountain or a pond.

  The Bransfords had both.

  The water garden crammed into the landscape was as natural looking as a temporary tattoo and the fountain a blight in the center of the driveway.

  Limos, Beamers, Mercedes, and Jaguars made a line in front of the house. There were more than I expected.

  Julia plucked a mirror from her purse, checked her makeup and fluffed her bangs. “You’d think for three hundred dollars, they could get my hair right.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your hair.” Herds of people shuffled up the steps.

  “Why Paris.” She tossed me a smile. “Was that a compliment?”

  A woman in a fur coat and a man only as tall as her shoulder walked by the window. Julia pinched my arm. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes. It was a compliment.”

  “Not that, what I said about Greg Bransford, our host.”

  “What about him?”

  “You’ll be staying the night.”

  I dug my fingers into my thigh.

  “And you will do what he says.”

  I went back to staring out the window. “What about his wife?”

  “He’s not married.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “He didn’t mention one.”

  “What did he mention?”

  “He might have a colleague with him.”

  “Is that what they’re calling fuck buddies now?”

  “Don’t be a jerk.”

  Why? Obviously, I didn’t mean anything to her. To anyone.

 
“If you impress him, he might buy more of your paintings.”

  “Is that how you rationalize this?”

  Julia pursed her lips. “What are you talking about?”

  “Whoring me out.”

  “I do not whore you out.”

  “Really? You take money for sex. I say that’s whoring me out. Which makes you my pimp.”

  She slapped me. The contact left a stinging pulse in my lip. “Be careful or you might screw up my makeup, and then all the bruises and cuts will show when they take my picture.”

  “If you don’t get your attitude in check, smeared makeup will be the least of your worries.”

  The driver pulled up to the curb, and the valet opened the door. Julia followed me out. The doorman’s muddy brown greeting floated off into the light. Inside the mansion, against the ivory walls and shining marble floors, the colors were much brighter, filling the vaulted ceiling in layers.

  Around me, conversations stuttered to a halt. Anywhere else I was no one, but among these socialites, like my paintings, I was something to be coveted.

  A man walked up. His deep skin tones, dark eyes, and hair suggested Italian descent, but when he spoke, his accent was something out of the Deep South. “Julia, Paris, how wonderful to see you.” He kissed Julia’s hand and shook mine. His touch lingered. At that point, no introductions were needed.

  “Paris, this is Paul Bransford, our host for the evening.”

  I gave him my best smile. “Pleasure.”

  “All mine, I assure you.” He swept an arm in the direction of a room in the back. “I have all three of your paintings up. They’ve been a hit.” He led the way into a windowless library.

  A Van Gogh, a Monet, and a Seurat separated my three paintings, making them all the more a boil among perfection.

  Julia beamed. “You have an impressive collection.”

  There were more. Some paintings, some sculptures. I wandered over to the bookshelf, pretending to be interested in the mass of disjointed shapes and stray wires.

  The scent of sandalwood cologne drifted around me. “What do you think?” Paul rested his hand against my lower back.

  “It’s interesting.”

  “Don’t lie, it’s horrific. Worst piece of art I ever bought.”

  “Then why did you buy it?”

  “I was drunk.”

  “At least it wasn’t a tattoo.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, I have one of those, but it’s by a far greater artist.” His touch drifted south, and his words left on a heated breath close to my ear. “You’ll have to tell me what you think.”

  “Tattoos are hardly my expertise.”

  “But you’re an artist.” Closer and his chest framed my back. “I’m sure you’ll know talent when you see it.”

  I rubbed my ass against the line of a hardening cock.

  He hissed. “Be careful or you’ll miss dinner.”

  “I’m not particularly hungry.”

  “But we have guests.”

  “Guests or voyeurs?”

  Paul growled against the back of my neck. “You are going to be very entertaining, Mr. Duvoe.”

  He stepped away, and I let go of the breath I’d been holding. A passing waiter offered me a drink. I took two, drank one in two swallows and left the empty on the tray. The other, I sipped while wading through waves of conversation.

  “…did you hear about…”

  “…pregnant?”

  “My broker said I should invest…”

  “…a new boat. Can you believe that? He bought another new boat.”

  I wandered from the library to the dining room.

  “Greg thinks we should buy…”

  “…Yale turned down their eldest…”

  “Mr. Duvoe?”

  A woman I didn’t know put her hand on my arm.

  “You’re Paris Duvoe, the artist.” Almost innocent wonder filled her eyes. She had a sweet face, minimal makeup, and a splash of freckles on her cheeks. There was nothing artificial about her full lips or flawless skin.

  I pulled out of her grasp and smoothed the wrinkles on my jacket. “Yes.”

  She fumbled with her wine glass, exchanging it from one hand to the next before setting it on one of the trays floating by on the hand of a waiter. The right shoulder strap of her dress slid down. She pushed it back, but it wouldn’t stay.

  Not that it mattered. Clothing could never enhance someone as pretty as her. “My name is Christine Kline.” She offered me her free hand.

  “I’m sorry.” We shook. “Have we met?”

  “No, sir, this is my first time at one of these…” She glanced around. “Events? I’ve only read about you in Modern Art. The feature they did on you a couple of months ago was wonderful.” She leaned closer. There was only the natural clean scent of her skin. Like the rest of her, it was very pleasing. “Is it true? Do you really paint naked?”

  I shielded my smile with a sip of champagne. “More often than not.”

  She grinned, and I wondered if I might be able to steal her away to somewhere quiet. Not because I wanted her, but because she was real and we could talk about real things.

  Roy had been real too. A wrinkle in the silk. A glorious imperfection.

  A man pushed his way through the crowd with the efficiency of a dull razor. “Sweetheart,” he took Christine by the arm. “We agreed that you wouldn’t wander off.”

  “I know, but I saw—”

  He stretched his Botoxed face into a sad example of a smile. “Please forgive us. Christine has never been to a dinner party before.” He tightened his grip enough to dimple her flesh.

  “Yes, she told me.”

  “She didn’t mean to intrude.”

  “She wasn’t.”

  His vise grip loosened. I drained my glass and held it out to the man. He gave me a surprised look but took it.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I put Christine’s hand on my arm. “I promised your lovely date a private tour around the art room.”

  Christine’s cheeks reddened. So did the man’s, but his wasn’t flattering. I tugged her into the crowd. On the other side of the room, I took a left into an empty hallway. I checked the first door I came to. It was locked.

  “Where are we going?” she said.

  “No clue.” The third door down led to a study. I slipped inside, taking her with me. There was a flask and tumblers on the desk in the back. I left her hovering at the door and went to pour myself a drink.

  “Why are we in here?” She pushed at the shoulder strap of her dress some more, then hugged herself.

  I drank down the first glass without even sniffing the stuff to see what it was. The acrid burn pushed tears from my eyes. “I didn’t bring you in here to accost you if that’s what you’re thinking.” I poured a second.

  Muffled laughter drifted through the crack left in the door.

  “If you really want to leave, you can. I won’t be offended. I just thought someone like you might want to get away from…” I gestured with the glass. “All that.”

  “Am I that out of place?” Her smile was sad.

  “Absolutely.”

  She hunched her shoulders. “I told Tom this wasn’t a good idea.”

  “Tom? He looked more like a Dick to me.”

  She put her fingers over her lips, but her smile still showed.

  “Why are you here?” I said.

  She shrugged.

  “You have to have a reason. Better yet, why is someone like you with someone like him?”

  Christine fumbled with the bracelet on her wrist. “I should probably—”

  “I didn’t say that to insult you.” I cleared the space in three strides. “I said it because you deserve better.”

  “Better, where I come from, would be a double-wide instead of a single and cable TV.” She dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

  “No. It was honest.” I kissed the back of her hand. “And in these circles, that is a gift in short supply.”

/>   “You’re not like I expected.”

  “And what did you expect?” She glanced back at the door, and I laughed. “No. I’m not like them. But I promise you I’m not any better.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  I held up the tumbler. “Would you care for a drink?”

  “No, I uh, the champagne was almost too much.” She followed me to the desk. “Should you be drinking that? I mean, it’s not yours.”

  “Probably not. But then we probably aren’t supposed to be in this room.” I poured myself a glass full and used a random piece of paper to soak up what sloshed over the edge. “So Ms. Christine Kline, where are you from, what brought you here, and what are your dreams?”

  “Kansas, desperation, and silly dreams don’t put food on the table.”

  I raised my glass. “A toast to silly dreams.” Then drank until it was empty. “And what is it you wish for at night when you’re snuggled in your bed, hiding in the darkness?” I pulled her closer, and she stumbled into my arms. “Is it Money? Fame? Love?” I swept a thumb over her cheek and tucked a lock of mousey brown hair behind her ear.

  “I dream about being a writer.” Her eyes lit up.

  “And what would you write?”

  “Children’s books. I’d also illustrate them.”

  “You’re an artist.”

  “Not like you.”

  “No one sane wants to be like me.”

  “But you’re—”

  I placed a finger over her mouth. “This isn’t about me.” I traced her lips. “Tell me, what would your stories be about?”

  She smiled. “About people who are different and how it’s more important to be you, not who people want you to be. I would write about good people who do good things. And I would give every story a happy ending.”

  “But not all stories have happy endings.”

  “No, they don’t.” She smoothed her hand across my shoulder. “But my stories would. Even when you think a character doesn’t deserve one.”

  I helped her regain her balance but continued holding her hand. “Then you should do it.”

  She laughed in a way only women who are beautiful from the soul can laugh. A sound that comes from the heart to play on the ears in a wash of pristine light. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get published? Let alone publish a children’s book?”

  “Is it impossible?”