Painting for Keeps

Chapter 13

“You’re finished with the last one?” Patrick’s voice droned in Murph’s ear.

“Yes, just come and get it.”

“And the image release form.”

“It’s signed.” Not a lie, but he wouldn’t tell Patrick the form wasn’t in his possession. Hell, she could’ve torn it up and thrown it away. Yet, even at the risk of a lawsuit, he refused to stop the show. Any ounce of caring disappeared when Aggie walked out his door. It had been pulling teeth to finish the last three paintings. Forcing himself to bother with the effort. The depression hit, and it hit hard.

The worst days being the ones where he couldn’t find things—paintbrushes went missing, his entire bottle of olifa varnish vanished into thin air. Thankfully, he had an extra bottle tucked away in a nook. Otherwise, he’d never seal the paintings. The idea he was in the middle of a delusion-episode occurred once or twice, but he refused to even contemplate going to the hospital until the paintings were finished.

Then there was Trix. She’d come by the next day with dinner and continued to stop by ever since. She never commented on the paintings, and sometimes he’d never even hear her coming or going. In fact, he didn’t care what the hell she was up to as long as she left him alone and locked in his personal hell.

When Aggie moved her stuff, as promised, he stayed in the apartment and stopped putting the security code in, in case she needed anything. With several finished paintings in the foyer, he secured the system now, not wanting to take the risk.

“I’ll be by in the morning to pick it up.”

“The door will be unlocked for you,” he mumbled in response before hanging on up on his friend. Talking was overrated, anyway. Now, he’d get lost in his thoughts and let the pain overtake him. Nothing mattered. Nothing at all. In fact, since he shellacked the final coat on the last picture, he planned to stay in bed until the show. He lay there in yesterday’s clothes. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed and the bedroom was close to dark, thanks to the disappearing sun.

He’d let himself wander the existence of his pain, his mind still replaying how Aggie left. She’d never said goodbye. Not a single word from her since she made her exit his first night of hell, as he referred to it now. Two weeks turned into an endless mess of wake up, coffee, try to paint, maybe a sandwich, more paint, dinner of whatever, paint, and bed.

He stopped shaving and had grown some scraggy start to a beard. He changed his clothes when they started to smell, and maybe dragged himself into the shower if he happened to notice Trix giving him a weird look.

No matter the respective routine, the funk, the loss, and the need for a woman too scared to commit remained. Coupled with the wiggling, niggling thought in his mind she’d been right. He existed as a needy, dependent, crappy human who’d dragged her down with him, unless he got his issues fixed. If he wanted her, he needed to own his own problems, not expect someone else to save him.

His cell phone buzzed on the nightstand, and he chose to ignore it. Then he heard a noise upstairs, the floor creaking under feet, in Aggie’s room. Reaching over, he grabbed the phone and answered the call.

“Hello.”

“Mr. O’Shea, we wanted to confirm everything is all right in your home. We received an alert the security system has been activated.”

The rustling and creaking of the floor above him happened again. “We’re fine. Accidental set off.”

“Thank you, sir. Have a good night.”

He hung up and stood to tuck the phone into his pocket. For a moment, he let himself live in a dream moment. Aggie coming back to him, wanting to stay, and looking at the final painting with pure happiness radiating in her eyes. A look he’d seen only once before the ex knocked at their door. Before their perfect little existence got ruined.

Who am I kidding? Their arrangement screwed him from the moment he confessed his feelings. Damn horrible words he should’ve kept to himself. The creaking of the floorboards came again, and then something dropped heavy, right above him.

The painting. He’d left it up there due to better circulation of air for drying. The ceiling fans were on throughout, and if someone ruined it… No!

Launching himself out of bed, he bolted for the door, not caring about the cold floor against his bare feet. Then a dash up the stairs. He really needed to turn on the damn heater. October had turned chilly in the last week or so. There were no lights on upstairs, but the door to Aggie’s apartment stood wide open. He slowed as he neared the top step. Empty hands meant nothing to bash an intruder with. Fuck.

No matter, he’d use his fists. He wanted to use them if the painting sat ruined, and with his luck, it would be. Another part of his life destroyed by his lack of focus and reluctance to get help of the medicinal variety.

A new noise this time, what sounded like paint squeezing out of a tube, followed by a whispered, “Crap.”

Murph moved into the apartment and made his way back to Aggie’s bedroom. She’d taken everything already. No furniture impeded his ability to get across the living room and down the small hall. He knew the creaks in the wood better than anyone and stepped in all the right places.

As he reached the doorway, he snaked his hand around the corner and flipped the switch.

Trix, her newly dyed green hair and wearing black attire, froze. The painting palette in her hand fell to the floor, splattering five different colors across the wood, her booted feet, and his bare ones.

“What the hell are you doing up here?”

She had a cat-caught-with-the-canary look. “I’m decorating the room.”

“Really? Then why were you inches away from my painting with a brush in your hand? You better drop it, too, if you know what’s good for you.”

She gripped the brush tighter and then started moved toward him. “I thought you’d appreciate a little added color to this room. The same room she stayed in, the room you slept in with her.”

The words sounded vengeful, mean, and she offered him the brush.

“You should do it, not me. Paint over her, get her out.”

“How did you know we slept together?”

She smiled at him, a sad, malicious look. “Rick’s apartment. I clean for him once a week. Sundays. I saw you two with a pair of binoculars. You were both naked. She took advantage of you, sleeping with you for a place to stay. We have to get rid of her.”

“No, Trix. She’s gone.”

Pointing at the painting, she crouched and scooped up a glob of paint onto the brush. “Not true. The canvas, her image, means she’s still here. We have to get rid of her.”

She launched herself toward the canvas and then Murphy shot into action, grabbing her by the shoulders before sliding his hands down to lock her in place. He turned them both away from the painting and pushed her into the hallway.

She fell to the floor sobbing, “Oh, Murphy, I’m so sorry. It’s just…she ruined you. She made you a mess, and I wanted to get rid of her for us. This painting, her nearly naked, it’s an abomination. I can’t even imagine how painful it was to finish, but I’m here to make it right. To save you. It’s what I do.”

He sighed, trying to calm himself. “How will destroying this work of art save me?”

“It will purge her from our lives. Once and for all. The other paintings are all gone. This is the only one left, and I can get rid of it. Then you can move on, and we can be together.”

“I thought we talked about that.” He crouched next to her, in case she decided to move toward the room again.

“Yes, but you never saw how much you needed me. Now, you do. You lose things when I’m not around, and you don’t eat if I’m not cooking for you. I can take care of things.”

He used a thumb to wipe away one of her tears. “How about we talk some more downstairs?”

“All right, but once I explain, you’ll let me back up here to take care of this awful thing, won’t you?”

He refused to lie to her about anything. “Let’s talk first.”

They made their way downstairs, and she seemed to be calm as long as he kept a hand on her. The moment he pulled away, she started to breathe heavy and panicky. Once in his living room, he sat her down on the couch and took up residence on the coffee table, cradling her hands between his.

“First, Trix, where’s Seth?”

“He’s asleep.”

Good. The boy didn’t need to be submitted to this kind of behavior. Plus, the next steps would be difficult. “Now, what were you talking about upstairs, the part about needing you?”

“Well, you do need me. You’re getting worse and you need someone to take care of you all the time. Your condition can be very volatile. Losing your varnish and misplacing those brushes. It’s like before Aggie moved in, and shortly after—burning your casserole dinner, and the shakers disappearing.” She gave a sad smile. “I can fix all those things. I know where everything is and how to take care of you.”

The problem with her little confession was he’d never told her about the things missing. “How did you know I misplaced those things?”

He feared the answer, worried Aggie accurately predicted Trix’s obsession, but much worse.

“I took them, of course. You needed to see how bad it can get and the best way to prove something is by taking action. Like when you got busy moving things around in your spare bedroom, you forgot the alarm system and I walked right in. The oven, such an easy way to cause a mess, it could have been worse.”

He tried to school his expressions, to not look horrified at her confession. “Anything else I should know?”

“I tried to keep Agatha out of our lives before when I thought she wasn’t real. The break-in, all me, and I got those paintings out of our lives. Only you brought the real woman in. I realized you were under her spell, but I knew she’d be bad from the moment I met her. We get rid of the final painting and everything will be back to normal.”

“I don’t think it will change anything, Trix.” He pulled her forward and hugged her. She may not believe anyone, but she needed help. “I’m going to make a phone call real quick, and then I’ll be back. Can you promise me you’ll stay here?”

She nodded in agreement and then as he started to move away, she spoke, “I haven’t seen you look at me like that since before Seth was born. It’s taken over six years to get that look back in your eyes.”

“Stay there.”

#

The new place still didn’t feel like home or smell like it, either. Aggie missed the old apartment with its gas stove and creaky, cold-in-the-morning floors. Yet, she refused to give in. No, her strength and determination were never stronger. She’d overcome her lustful thoughts and started working on getting better, which included signing up for one-on-one therapy.

No more keeping the problems to herself. She was getting her emotions under control. A few sessions in, she figured out she hadn’t been in the healthiest of places. Not when it came to her past, her present, and everything she’d dealt with.

Yet, no matter how many days passed, how many healthy meals she made, or the number of clients she took on, she still dreamt of Murph. Moments of happiness and sexual bliss replaced with his pleading words and then the look, the destroyed, fall-apart facial expression. He’d cried and begged her to stay, to give them a chance. But she needed to save herself, and he’d have to do the same. Strong women rely on themselves. Her new mantra, one to battle her mother’s poison.

Her cell phone buzzed next to her. Speak of the devil. “Hi, Edith.”

“Agatha, I haven’t heard from you in weeks. Just some random text to not give out your personal information. What is going on?”

A tiny twinge of guilt lodged itself in her chest for not being very communicative, but Aggie still held some anger at her mother for getting involved in her relationships and giving Jordan her address at Murph’s. Where did she begin?

“I’ve needed some time to take care of things. After you gave Jordan my address, life got complicated.”

“You didn’t go back to him, did you?”

“No, Edith. I informed him I wanted my money back and kicked him to the curb, not before I lost control and had to start my recount over again.”

“Agatha.” The tone her mother used, she could picture the woman in her head, blonde hair perfectly curled. Those same curls bouncing as she gave Aggie a shake of her head in disappointment. “You have to possess better control. Strong women don’t let men dictate their actions. We dictate theirs. I still have no clue how you can even eat so much—”

“Because of you.”

“Excuse me?”

Her therapist had suggested confronting the fears she faced due to her mother, the abuse she’d suffered. Mentally, the woman who birthed her helped manifest the disorder Aggie wrestled with.

“You heard me. I’m partially this way because of you and your twisted words. The poison of having to be a strong woman, of looking pretty, but being so hungry I needed to stuff my face. To never being skinny enough to get a man and getting lost in how good a slice of angel food cake tasted because food never made me feel like I wasn’t good enough for it.”

“A woman owns her own issues, Agatha.”

“Really? Have you ever owned yours? You’d never admit to being wrong, to treating me poorly and mentally jacking me up to the point where I’d do anything to be needed, wanted, loved, and only one person in my life has ever given me that!” She clicked the endbutton before a response could be formulated.

Breathing heavily, she grabbed a spoon and stirred the Greek lemon and chicken soup in the pot on the stove before turning it off and covering with a lid. Mission accomplished but not completely resolved. There’d be plenty more rough conversations ahead of her, especially when it came to expressing her feelings without exploding.

She’d just turned her phone off completely when a knock came at her door. For a moment, her heart pounded in her chest, and a little anxiety rose, buoyed by the idea Murph finally decided to show up to talk. No phone call or warning, just to tempt her, and she didn’t want to answer.

Another knock, this one louder, followed with a male voice, not Murph’s, “Ms. Kakos? I saw your car out front. I really need to speak with you, if you have a moment.”

Getting out of her chair, she tried to place the voice. It hovered on the periphery of her memory, and then she peeked through the peephole. Patrick, the gallery owner, stood on her stoop, bundled against the chilly night and looking like he was on some mission of mercy.

She left the chain and opened the top lock, cracking the door open enough to communicate without muffling. “If this is a ploy to get me to come see Murphy, you’re talking to the wrong woman.”

He held up both hands in surrender. “Not in the least. I come in peace for a piece of paper.”

“What paper?” She opened the door a little farther now, the chain prohibiting any additional movement.

“The image release you signed and then held hostage. We need it before the show this Wednesday.”

She remembered the paper, folded up and tucked into her purse. The goal had been to mail it, and she’d put the task off, due to a subconscious hope Murph would show up himself for it. “Hold on.”

Shutting the door, she removed the chain and then welcomed him inside.

“It will take me a minute to dig in my purse for it. No sense in you freezing out there while you wait.”

“Thank you.” Patrick stepped in, shut the door, but stayed in the entryway.

“I can’t believe it’s already time for the show.”

“Is that really what you want to ask me? Why don’t you just ask me how Murph is doing?”

No. “It’s polite conversation.” She opened her purse, positioned on a table across from the door, and started moving things around. “I’m trained in polite conversation.”

“Yes, well, I can tell you, he’ll ask me much more invasive questions when I tell him I got the paper from you.”

The damn man should get an award for piquing a person’s curiosity. “What kind of questions?”

“How she had her hair and what was she wearing will probably be starters.” Of course, he’d want to know, so he could picture it. Probably, he’d paint a picture to put a visual to the mind’s conjure.

She found several papers and pulled them all out. Going through each would be a pain, but the faster she got this done, the faster the torture would end. Unfortunately, she couldn’t put off her questions any longer. “Are all the paintings ready then?”

Patrick’s single nod was visible from her peripheral vision. “There’s a lot of interest, and I’d bet this is the biggest show I’ve had since the gallery opened. It will be tough convincing him to do another.”

“Why?” Almost done, three papers left.

“Because his muse is gone. He’s barely talking about painting. In fact, he’s more focused on his apartments than anything right now.”

The paper was in her hand, and yet she’d heard an awful thing. “Murph, not painting? I can’t imagine him not creating art.”

“He’s not really the same guy since you left. A lot of things have happened. Anyway.” He held out his hand for the release, and she forked it over. “Not your problem. He’s doing good, in my opinion. Just sucks if he gives up his talent, his dream.”

“I’d agree.”

“You should come to the show.”

“He already showed me some of the paintings.” In fact, thinking about them reminded her of her last night with him. So many horrible things happened in front of those beautiful canvases. “They were gorgeous.”

“Did he show you the last one?”

“I don’t think so. He was still working on it.”

Patrick chuckled, folding the release and placing it inside his coat pocket. “Then I really think you should come.”

“Is there something I should know?” Dread filled her like there was some sort of inside joke she’d been left out of.

“He never told me you were real. He said he’d found a muse and the muse gave him the paintings. I believed you to be a figment of his imagination until the day you moved in. Then all the paintings made sense, but most of them missed some essence of you. These last ones have blown all the ruined ones out of the water.”

She gasped. “You mean all the paintings…”

No, he’d been joking before. “I thought he meant the style.”

“What?”

“He’d asked me when I saw the picture in the bedroom what I’d think about a show full of paintings like that. I thought he talked about the style of paintings he did. He was talking about a show with paintings of me.”

How typical of her not to put things together. Damn, if she didn’t feel odd with this revelation, too.

“Let me guess, you want the release back?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t. I want him to have his show, and the canvases he showed me are amazing. If all of them, or even half of them look like those, then I can see why he’s getting attention. He’s really good.”

“Really? And you…”

“Took some courses in Art History.” She didn’t brag about that bit since she’d taken them in an attempt to garner affection from her mother, a futile effort.

“Huh, aren’t you full of surprises. I won’t stick around and take up any more of your time. The show starts at seven in the evening and runs until ten. A lot of my buyers like to go out before coming by. It’s bad luck if they don’t.” Patrick opened the door and stepped into the cold. “Hope to see you tomorrow.

Then he left, leaving her to think about Murph and his art. The man functioned fine without her, obviously. Sure, Patrick said he’d lost the will to paint. Tell no lies. You left him without a muse.

A guilt trip wouldn’t work, and yet she wanted to ask him herself. Would he really let her stop him and his genius? She’d tell him off if that were the case. If they could survive without one another, then they could still do the things they were best at.

Then she realized that going to the show would be a temptation and the exact opposite of everything she’d promised herself. Things like the fact they needed to save themselves. They needed to own their problems, hold themselves responsible for fixing them. Patrick never mentioned if Murph had done that.

Risking everything to go back, even for the show, would serve no purpose except to destroy any hope she had.