Jennifer Crusie - Faking It

“I buy the food from restaurants,” Thomas said, a little shamefaced. “It gives me time to investigate the case.”

“Oh, excellent,” Gwen said, brightening. “Restaurants.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Not a soul,” Gwen said.

“And keep your eyes open for those paintings,” Thomas said as he opened the door to the gallery.

“Story of my life,” Gwen said, and went back to the gallery as the first customer opened the door.

HALF AN HOUR later, Tilda watched the gallery from the office, feeling odd, as if she were watching an old movie. She’d stared at a hundred previews like this, some so long ago she’d had to stand on a footstool to see through the window in the door. There was something wrong this time, and it took her a minute to realize that there was nobody out there being a ringleader, nobody standing in the middle of the room laughing and directing the show.

Then Mason made his entrance wearing a brocade vest, Clea on his arm looking magnificent in a black halter dress cut to her waist and huge gold hoop earrings. Mason moved to the center of the room, laughing and gesturing like a parody of Tilda’s father, and she thought, Poor guy. He just doesn‘t get it.

Davy came in from the hall. “And Vilma’s wearing her Chinese jacket. Must be time to steal something and neck in a closet.”

“Mason and Clea are here,” she told him.

“Then we’re gone.” Davy picked up Jeff’s keys, glanced through the office door, and said, “Whoa.”

“What?” Tilda followed his eyes back into the gallery.

Clea had turned around. Her dress had no back. As they watched, she turned to smile up at Mason, her perfect profile overshadowed only by her equally perfect bustline.

“Oh,” Tilda said, trying to keep the snarl out of her voice.

“Back off, Veronica.” Davy grinned down at her. “I’m just enjoying the scenery. I know she’s a hag from hell.”

“Yes, but she was good in bed, wasn’t she?” Tilda said, watching Clea walk across the floor, every movement liquid with grace. I don’t like you. “Better than me.”

“Yes,” Davy said. “Can we go?”

“Lots better than me?” Tilda said.

Davy closed his eyes. “Why do you ask this stuff? You know it’s going to be bad.”

“Tell me,” Tilda said.

Davy sighed and looked out at the gallery. “You see the stuff you painted? How every move you made painting it was just right because you worked really hard at it and because you have a genius for it?”

“Thank you,” Tilda said, touched in spite of herself.

“Clea fucks like you paint.”

“Oh,” Tilda said.

“If it’s any consolation, she probably paints like you-”

“You’re never touching me again,” Tilda said.

“Oh, and there was a chance I was going to before I said that?” Davy said. “Can we go now?”

“Absolutely,” Tilda said, trying to remember what was important. She was getting the painting back. Davy would get his money back. Then the show would be over and he’d go to Australia and she’d go back to her nice, calm mural-painting life.

“Now what’s wrong?” Davy said.

“You know, I was happy before you came here,” Tilda said and headed for the door.

“No you weren’t,” Davy said, following her. “You-”

Ethan came in carrying Steve, who was wearing a brocade vest and a black bowtie and looking a little perturbed about the whole thing. “Nadine made the vest,” he said. “She said it was a gallery-opening tradition.”

“That should perk Mason right up,” Tilda said. “Don’t bite anybody, Steve.”

“You leaving now?” Ethan said.

“Yes,” Davy said. “We’re-”

“Well, ‘have fun stormin’ da castle,’” Ethan said and carried Steve out into the gallery.

Davy looked at Tilda. “Does everyone know we’re committing a crime tonight?”

“Jeff doesn’t,” Tilda said. “We try to keep him pure for the defense.”

“Good to know,” Davy said and went out to the parking lot. “You should have lights out here,” he told her when they were in the car.

“We should have the money to put in lights out here,” Tilda said. “Let me get Simon paid off for the gallery paint first. And, oh yeah, the mortgage.”

“Right,” Davy said. “This is the perfect life I screwed up?”

“I know.” Tilda let her head fall back on the seat. “Not your fault. Except it is.”

“I did not-”

“Before you came, I didn’t know I was unhappy,” Tilda said. “I just put my head down and kept moving. And then you grab me in a closet and, all of a sudden, I notice that I’m miserable painting murals and lousy in bed.”

“ ‘Lousy’ was your word, not mine,” Davy said. “And I’m willing to coach you on that.”

She rolled her head to look at him. “I was not happy about you fixing up the gallery.”

“I know,” Davy said.

“I am now. It’s beautiful, it’s actually more beautiful than I remember it. And seeing all that stuff I painted in there makes me want to paint again, for real. It makes me happy. And when you’re gone, that’ll be gone, too, because we can’t keep it going, we don’t have the time and we don’t have the…” She waved her hand. “The razzle-dazzle. That was my dad. And Gwennie’ll go back to the Double-Crostics, and Nadine’ll go back to dating careers, and I’ll go back to painting murals. So thank you for giving me back the gallery, but you’re ruining my life.”

“I know,” Davy said.

She frowned at him. “You do not know.”

“Yeah, I do,” Davy said. “I know you’re a great painter, I know you hate painting the murals, I know you love your family, I know you’re really mad at your dad for something, and I know that the gallery is where you belong. I know you.”

Tilda lost her breath. “Not as much as you think,” she said, looking out the window. “Shouldn’t we be moving or something?”

“Yes.” Davy started the car. “There will be closets, Vilma. Control yourself.”

“There is one thing,” Tilda said.

“What now?” Davy said, sounding wary.

“If something goes wrong tonight,” Tilda said, “I’m staying. No more me leaving you to carry the can, no more you shoving me out the door. Tonight, we’re in this together.”

Davy was quiet for a minute. “Okay.”

“I don’t want to do this,” Tilda said. “But I don’t want you doing it, either.”

“I know,” Davy said. “But tonight is the last time. It’s all over tonight.”

“I know.” Tilda looked out the window again. “Let’s go.”

BACK AT the gallery, Gwen was watching Mason and thinking, He’s such a sweet man. Maybe I can have Ford kill him. No, that wasn’t funny, but it would have been nice if somebody knocked him cold because he was single-handedly screwing up her gallery preview. And as much as she hadn’t wanted it, if she had to have it, she wanted it to be a success.

She watched him now, telling some bewildered woman that buying a chest of drawers painted with tangerine-colored zebras was a good investment. “Art appreciates,” he said, and Gwen went around the counter and took his arm.

“Mason, honey,” she said.

“I think I’ll wait on that,” the woman said, backing away. “Can I pet the dog?”

“Of course!” Gwen said cheerfully.

Mason shook his head. “That dog is going to ruin the whole thing,” he whispered to Gwen. “Can’t we get it out of here? Nobody will take us seriously with it around.”

We’re selling furniture with orange zebras on it, Gwen thought. “The thing is,” she told him, “this furniture is not an investment. You buy this kind of art because you love it, not because it appreciates.”

He looked at her fondly and patted her arm. “You leave this to me, Gwennie. I know what I’m doing.”

No you don’t, Gwen thought, but he wasn’t harassing that poor woman about the zebras anymore, so she went back to the counter.

At the back of the gallery, Michael was laughing with a woman who was holding a Finster but looking at Michael. Miraculously, the man had sold three Finsters since the doors had opened. Maybe we should keep him around to run the place, Gwen thought, and then thought,

No. Michael would sell everything they had including Steve and then leave with the money. Sweet man, but completely immoral.

Across the room, Nadine was smiling and laughing, too, and selling furniture, and for a moment, Gwen could see Tony in her, or at least his charm. Then the woman Nadine was laughing with came over and paid a hundred dollars for a footstool painted with dancing cats and Gwen thought, She got his gift for selling damn near anything, too.

She smiled at the woman and took her money and looked around for Mason. He was talking to a graying man in a suit about a table covered in red beagles. Gwen could have sworn she heard him say “investment” clear across the room.

It was going to be a long night. My gallery for a piña colada, she thought, and went to rescue another customer.

THE BASEMENT window was still broken so Tilda and Davy got in without a problem, and it was like old times, climbing the stair to Clea’s closet in the dark.

“Very nostalgic,” Davy said, echoing Tilda’s thoughts. “Go on upstairs to the room with the paintings and find your Scarlet. I’ll hit Clea’s bedroom for the laptop.”

“Okay.” Tilda looked up the next dark staircase with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

“Unless you want to search the closet with me,” Davy said. “That’s always interesting for us.”

“Upstairs it is,” Tilda said, and spent the next hour on the next floor with a penlight, flipping through dozens of wrapped paintings looking for eighteen-inch-square paintings or something that might be an eighteen-inch square framed. Some of the paintings had been clumsily unwrapped, and she gave in to curiosity and looked.

There were some nice pieces, but nothing startling. As a collector, Mason didn’t have much flair, which was pretty much in line with the rest of Mason, poor man. Maybe Gwennie could liven him up some.

She found the last square painting, carefully unwrapped a corner of it, and saw a checkered night sky, but not one of hers. What the hell? she thought and unwrapped it completely. It was eighteen inches square with a blue checked sky, but it was a forest scene, and she’d never painted a forest. She moved the penlight to the corner to make out the name, printed in block letters in the lower right corner: Hodge.

Huh, she thought. Homer. I never saw this one. She’d forgotten that she’d copied the checkerboard skies from Homer, maybe because she’d liked doing them. Well, that made sense. She was a forger. She moved the penlight over the painting to see what else she might have copied. The trees certainly weren’t anything she’d have done, but in between the trunks were little animals, and she’d always liked painting animals, although not like these, they were too small and they had…

Tiny sharp white teeth.

“OH, GOD,” TILDA SAID, and sat down on the floor. It couldn’t be. It was a coincidence. Maybe Gwennie had gotten the idea for the teeth from Homer. Except that Gwennie had been embroidering teeth long before Homer showed up. Now we’re going to have to steal back all the Homers, she thought and then realized the impossibility of it. Homer had painted dozens and dozens of paintings. No, Gwennie had painted dozens and dozens. Some were in museums. There was no way she could get them all back.

Gwennie was Homer. That was enough of a mind-bender right there, even without the museums. Tilda shoved herself up off the floor and rewrapped the painting to take it with her. One floor down, she found Davy waiting for her. “I couldn’t find-” she began and then she saw what he was holding, a package about twenty inches square.

“This it?” he whispered, handing it to her. “Believe it or not, it was actually in her closet this time.”

She pulled the painting out of the frame-store package by its cheap new frame and saw the Goodnight building. “This is it,” she said, sadness seeping into her bones. The first Scarlet, the start of the whole mess. Except not, because there was Gwennie.

“Are you okay?” Davy whispered.

She stuffed the painting back into the box before Davy noticed that Scarlet had painted the gallery building. “Boy, what a relief,” she whispered, trying to fake happiness. “I can’t thank you enough. And now you’ve got your money and you can go.” When he didn’t say anything, she said, “You did get your money, didn’t you?”