Inescapable, p.12
Inescapable, page 12
“There’s more than that, but the least damaged ones are being cleaned by volunteers.”
“Volunteers?” Aimee stepped between Luis and the paintings, hands rising. “They won’t know how to—”
“They know enough,” he said wearily.
“But what if they make it worse?”
“They won’t. I’m supervising the clean-up myself.” He gave her a weak smile. “These are the ones I’m most worried about, and that’s why I’m leaving them to you.”
She ran her hands through her hair in frustration. “There are so many of them.”
Luis headed to the door. “I know that,” he said. “But we’ve got to salvage what we can.” He pushed open the door and a wave of moisture flooded the room. In the distance, the sound of high-powered fans, drying out the building, could be heard. “You’re the best, Aimee. Everyone knows that.”
“Thanks.”
He rapped his knuckles against the door frame. “You need me to find you an assistant?”
“No. They’d just be in the way. Besides, I like working alone.”
“That’s what I thought,” Luis chuckled. “Give me a shout if you change your mind.”
—
Aimee spent the morning separating the work into categories of damage. Some of the oil paintings looked far worse than they were. She set them in the deep sinks to soak. The remaining ones she prioritized by damage and value. By noon, the works of several artists awaited her attention. The first was a small painting by Georgia O’Keefe.
Aimee set about organizing her tools after clearing the mud from the bottom of the frame. With the worst of it cleaned, she began to remove the final layers of silt with a fine tip brush. Stroke by stroke she peeled back the damage, until only a mostly clean painting remained. There were a few cracks and peeling areas, likely there prior to the flooding, but Aimee took her time matching colours as afternoon stretched out into evening.
“That’s very good,” a woman said quietly.
Aimee didn’t jiggle the brush she was holding, just smiled. She’d been thinking about Georgia for some time, but the artist hadn’t appeared. Aimee wondered if she’d been waiting behind her for long.
“I’m not actually doing much,” Aimee said, “just touching up a bit of wear. The mud took the finish off.”
“Ah, but the colours are right,” the ghost said, coming around the other side of the table. “That’s difficult to do.”
O’Keefe’s ghost was dressed in a floppy-brimmed hat and long dress, a man’s jacket atop the ensemble. Aimee smiled. This wasn’t the young version of Georgia, but a woman at the end of her life, her long grey hair a rope that twisted down her back.
“Your colours are very pure,” Aimee said, adding another layer of glaze and blending away the edges. “They aren’t muddy.” She smirked. “Or at least not any longer.”
“Not muddy, that’s true,” said the ghost, “but hardly pure.”
Aimee stopped painting and looked up. “They’re not?”
“Oh no. They have layers and layers of variation to them. A tint of blue in the red, a tint of red in the yellow. Nothing real is pure. At least not that I’ve found.”
“I suppose.”
“People are more comfortable thinking of things in extremes,” O’Keefe said. “We like the clarity of black and white. Not just in painting, but in life. We think of everything this way.”
“People too?”
“Of course. We’re at our worst when we consider the failings and successes of others.”
Aimee’s expression dimmed. “I used to think George was perfect. As an artist, he certainly was.”
“But?”
“But as a person, he could be difficult.” She laughed tiredly. “I loved him with my entire being. I was his—body and soul—but there were parts of him that I ended up having to overlook.”
“The tints in the colour,” the ghost said.
“Yes, exactly.”
“Was it jealousy?”
Aimee frowned. “A bit, I suppose, back when George was my teacher and I thought that—with enough time—I could learn to paint like him.”
“Oh, not your jealousy, dear.” O’Keefe laughed. “I meant his. Weak men are always threatened by strong women.”
It was Aimee’s turn to laugh. “I’m not strong.”
The ghost tapped her cane on the floor. “That’s what he wanted you to believe.”
“But George was never jealous of me,” Aimee said. “He thought himself far superior as an artist. He was the one who suggested I move into restorations work. I was very skilled at mixing colours when I worked in his studio, you see.”
“And he advised you to put aside your artwork?”
“Well, yes,” Aimee said with reluctance. “But I’d already been thinking of going back to university. I was struggling to paint, to find a style that felt right.”
“Hmm,” O’Keefe said. “I wonder at that.”
“At my style?”
“No. That he told you to set aside your art.” She frowned. “Perhaps that’s the tint you couldn’t see in him.”
“Perhaps.” Aimee’s expression tightened. “I’ve been thinking a lot about George lately. How many things could have been different for us if he wasn’t so stubborn.” She laughed and turned back to the painting, reloading the brush with pigment. “Difficult doesn’t mean I didn’t love him. George was my everything.”
“You’re just getting better at seeing the entire picture of him, now.”
“Yes, I think I might be.”
She leaned in, adding another shade beside the first. Another twenty minutes passed. When she lifted her head again, the vision of the artist had moved to her other side. The ghost held her hat in wrinkled hands, peering forward in interest.
“You understand it,” O’Keefe murmured. “The beauty in the details. You’ve caught what I wanted to show perfectly.”
Aimee squinted at the wash of colours. “I suppose.”
The ghost laughed. “Don’t suppose. You should be sure. You’re the one restoring the painting.”
“I just try to follow the path,” Aimee said, adding another small spot of glaze. “Trying to find the exact spot where your brush went down, and came up again.” She sighed. “It’s very calming.”
“The details,” the ghost agreed. “That’s where you can find the centre point in the storm. Details are the joy, the heart of all things.”
“Details,” Aimee repeated.
“Look too far and the world is utter chaos,” the ghost said. “Happiness lies in the minutia of life.” She nodded. “That’s the secret no one knows. That’s where your joy is hidden.”
Aimee finished spreading the last spot of glaze and looked up. She could see through the ghost, but details were visible if she didn’t look too hard: the freckled age spots on the back of O’Keefe’s sinewy hands clutching the hat; the wrinkles spreading away from faded eyes; the soft wave of her hair.
“I’m not sure I know how to be happy anymore,” Aimee whispered. “I haven’t been happy since…” Aimee frowned. She knew she should say ‘since George’ but she had been almost happy the other day when she and Bear had sat and drunk tea. A flush rose up her neck at the thought. “In a long time,” she finished lamely.
The ghost nodded. “Then you’ll have to look closer,” she said. “It’s always there, under all the mess and muck. Joy. Waiting to be found.”
Someone knocked and Aimee turned to find Niha standing in the doorway, phone in hand. She wore a full length painter’s jumpsuit and gum boots, her long hair in ponytails on either side of her head.
“You were talking to yourself again,” Niha said with a grin. She pointed at Aimee with the phone. “Just then, a second ago. I told you that you do that.”
Aimee’s cheeks burned; she turned away, pretending to finish a final stroke. “Side effect of working alone.”
“Doesn’t bother me any,” Niha said. “I talk to my cats all the time. Some people think that’s weird.”
She laughed, and Aimee tried to join her, but failed.
“You have another message,” Niha said, coming forward and setting the yellow sticky note on the desk beside Georgia’s painting. “From that Barrett Cardinal guy again. Something about a second interview you agreed to do?” Niha gave her a mischievous grin. “Something you want to tell me, Aimee? Something personal, maybe?”
“There’s nothing between us, Niha. He just wants to get my perspective this time. He has more questions.”
She giggled. “Still, it’s a start. Luis told me he’s the same ‘Barrett Cardinal’ that won the Giller prize last year.” Niha pulled a stool over from the side, and settled down next to Aimee. “He’s a big celebrity, you know. You could find worse people to date. Luis said as much.”
Aimee ignored the not-so-subtle dating hint. “Luis said that, hmm?”
“Uh-huh.” Niha grinned. “Seemed really worried you were going to insult the guy or something. Don’t worry, I told him you already did an interview.”
“Thanks.”
Aimee turned back to the painting, hoping Niha would leave her alone.
“He’s determined, isn’t he?” Niha said.
Aimee glanced up. “Luis?”
“No, this Bear guy,” she laughed. “So are you going to call him back, or what? Second interview might be the pretext, but I’m thinking there’s more to it.”
“More, like what?”
Niha leaned in as if sharing a covert piece of information. “If you ask me, I think the guy likes you.”
Aimee fought the urge to smile. “Doubt it.”
“He keeps calling. Following up on things.”
“He’s researching,” Aimee said dryly. “It’s literally his job.”
“But he already talked to you. And now he wants to talk to you again.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Aimee said. “I’m not going to see him again.”
Niha’s expression fell. “But why not? He told me you’d already agreed to the second interview.”
“I did, but I’ve changed my mind.” Aimee set her brush aside, pushing back from the canvas. There was no use pretending; Niha wasn’t leaving. “He’s not interested in me. He’s interested in George. It’s a book he’s writing, not a single’s ad.”
“Pfft! You’re blind,” Niha laughed.
“And you’re young.”
Niha clucked her tongue. “I’m right. You’re just too stubborn to see it.”
“Not even going there.”
Niha opened her mouth to argue, but the phone in her hand rang. Aimee smiled in relief. She liked Niha, but the prying was exhausting. Some days it felt like managing her mother’s good intentions.
“You’ve reached the Glenbow,” Niha chirped. “How may I direct your call?” She paused, glancing over at Aimee. “Uh-huh. Yes, I did give her your message, Mr. Cardinal.” Niha smirked. “Actually, she’s sitting right here.”
Don’t! Aimee mouthed, her eyes widening in horror.
“No problem,” Niha said with a victorious smile. She held out the phone. “Aimee, there’s a Mr. Barrett Cardinal on the phone for you,” she said in a slightly-too-loud voice.
Scowling, Aimee picked up the phone. I hate you, she mouthed at Niha.
“Blind, huh?” the assistant whispered, dodging Aimee’s swat as she headed to the door. “And I want my phone back when you’re done.”
Aimee sighed, and lifted the handset. Her heart was pounding.
“Aimee Tessi—” she stumbled on the words. She no longer used her maiden name. “Aimee speaking,” she said, fighting down the urge to scream.
“Aimee, so glad I caught you,” Bear said. “Everything okay?”
“Yes…no.” She sighed. “No worse than usual.”
“You have time to chat? I know how busy you are, but I’d really like to do this second interview sooner rather than later.”
Aimee glared at the pile of damaged paintings. Several were soaking, but none were ready for repairs. Georgia O’Keefe was back over at the side, watching her with a knowing smile.
“Yeah, I suppose we could find a time to talk.”
—
Bear watched Aimee as she sat at the table, her hair a rippling curtain that hid half her face. Through the first half hour, she’d struggled to pull the words, answering him in fits and starts, but as they started another pot of tea, something changed. She didn’t look at him, just stared into her empty teacup, her lips curled in wistful smile. Bear didn’t know what had caused the change—that he’d asked the right question, or that she was just tired of hiding the truth—but either way, he was relieved that it had.
Aimee’s voice rose and fell in waves as her fingers played with the edge of the tablecloth. “The first thing I fell in love with was George’s passion,” she said. “The way a brush in his hand could transform him, the way a painting drew out the best and worst from him.”
“The worst?”
She smiled sadly down at the table, not holding his gaze. “All the things you said about him at the gallery were true. He was driven, but sometimes—”
“Sometimes?” Bear prompted.
“Sometimes when he was in the middle of a painting, he could be—” She abruptly sat taller, crossing her arms. “I mean, he always drank but there were times when—” Her gaze jerked up. Bear could feel her fear, palpable between them as if she’d suddenly realized that he was going to write about this. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean—”
Bear leaned closer. “Tell me about his painting,” he said quietly. “Tell me about the process.”
Aimee’s arms uncrossed and she reached out for her tea, taking a sip and watching him over the rim. “George painting, hmm?”
Bear nodded. “You worked in his studio,” he said. “Ms. Westerberg-Kinney—George’s daughter, that is—she told me she was never allowed in his studio at home. But you,” Bear said gently. “You were.”
A flush rose up Aimee’s neck. “Well, I had to be there,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I was his muse for many years. And then…” Her voice drained away.
“You were telling me about George’s painting,” Bear said.
Aimee set her cup on the table, nodding.
“It was exhilarating to watch George paint. He’d be consumed by the need to create; not eating or drinking, not sleeping for days. His hands moving in a blur, barely aware of me in the shadows watching.” She sighed. “Or posing.”
“Consumed by his painting,” Bear said, scribbling a note. “I like that.”
“Watching him paint was amazing. A little crazy. Scary even,” Aimee said. “That’s what I thought a true artist was supposed to be. And to see him like that, it made me want more.” She reached out tracing the handle of the cup, eyes unfocused. Bear was hesitant to break the truce between them, but knew that this was the time to ask it. The tea pot was dry, the cups half-empty. There was no more time.
“Is that why you fell in love with him? Seeing him paint?”
Aimee giggled, the sound surprisingly light. “Oh god, no,” she laughed. “I didn’t think of him like that at all in the beginning. He was much older than I was and I was in love with his talent. Jealous of him, I suppose. I wanted to learn everything from him.” She looked up at Bear, grinning mischievously. He had the sudden, irrational urge to touch her, but he tightened his fingers around his pen instead. “My infatuation with George came much, much later,” Aimee said. Her expression had changed and her gaze flitted away, warmth colouring her cheeks.
Bear wanted to know why. “But you did fall in love.”
“Yes,” she said. “And then I knew I was entirely lost. I couldn’t compete with his real passion. Couldn’t be the lover that art was for him. But I could be his muse, and like that, even my dullness could be transformed into—”
“But you aren’t dull,” Bear interrupted.
“You don’t see the world like George did.”
Bear frowned. “You’re an artist too.”
“Was,” she said. “I’m a restorer now.”
“You don’t paint for yourself anymore?”
Aimee took another sip of tea, setting the empty cup carefully down in the saucer. “Not in a long time.”
Around them the noise of the coffee shop had faded into a buzz. Bear placed his hands on the tabletop on either side of his cup. He watched her for a long moment, waiting for her to continue. Aimee’s gaze skittered nervously to him, and then away.
“Did he ask you to put your art aside?”
Aimee’s lashes flared wide, white appearing around the green. “Oh god, no! No. At least not directly.”
Bear frowned. “Then why?”
“I was his muse at first, and his painting, his process, took priority.” She went back to tracing the cup handle as she spoke. “I could have painted on my own time, or after George was done his own paintings, but we couldn’t paint in the same room.”
“Why not?”
“He found my process distracting.”
Bear frowned. “I don’t understand.”
She laughed, but it was high-pitched. More like the woman he’d met at the opening, not the woman he’d spoken with all afternoon. “I can’t, Bear.” She swallowed hard. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”
He winked. “Try me.”
Aimee peered behind her as if searching for onlookers. “I don’t just paint,” she said warily. “I sort of…channel my artwork.”
“Channel?”
“It sounds nuts, but I think of things before I create them. I can imagine them—imagine them so perfectly!—and if I’m in the moment, really in flow, sometimes I can even—” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “See them.”
Bear nodded. “And?”
She squinted at him. “And that’s crazy, right?”
